“Tickets for what?”
“For the Arena tonight, and stop yelling. It’s the last night of the Shriners’ Charity Carnival.”
The gigantic oval bowl that had been the Biscayne Arena on South Miami Avenue and Fourth Street was now a dazzling, boisterous, carnival midway, with monster trimmings. Through the tawdry splendor spun the song of Sweet Charity, notably at the bar — probably the most unlikely, and preposterously formidable structure of its kind ever assembled at short notice, even in the state of Florida. It ran the entire length of the Arena, and it was jammed.
High bosoms and stuffed shirts, red-fezzed Shriners and TV celebrities, Broadway columnists and multi-married millionaires and heiresses — the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker — jostled one another on the sand-barked floor, agape and agog, as eager to be clipped as the ripest hayseed.
Mammoth banners hanging from the top row of tiers luridly proclaimed sword-swallowers, fire-eaters, freaks and hula girls, and a merry-go-round whirled giddily to the thump of a wheezy music machine over which a brass band stubbornly refused not to be heard.
At the far end, directly opposite the bandstand, stood a wide stage with center steps leading down to the foot of an aisle dividing roped-off rows of wooden benches. The red plush curtains were closed, and overhead, lengthwise, a banner gloated: THE GREAT VOLTANE
It was the first thing that caught Michael Shayne’s eye when he and Lucy entered the Arena a little after eight, following an exhausting, mad and, to Lucy at least, heavenly childish day. She had squealed with delight at the redhead’s account of the Gypsy’s warning that morning, and how she had flimflammed him with her tricks of magic. Both agreed that whatever the gypsy’s angle had been in wanting him present at the show tonight, Lucy had given her more than an even break in just happening to buy the tickets as a last-minute whim.
By the time they fought their way to the bar and downed two brandies they were hungry again. They elbowed over to the nearest hot dog stand, close to the main entrance, and ordered both frankfurters and salt water taffy. Suddenly Lucy lifted her little-girl, mustard-smeared face from a pink cloud of candy floss, and yipped.
Shayne turned. Mr. Witch-doctor, all right, fearsome in hideous horned mask and tattered burlap, a glistening python draped over his huge shoulders.
It was exactly nine o’clock. The music stopped, and over the loudspeakers a voice announced that the world famous Master of Mystery was ready for their approval; those who did not have reserved seats could see by facing the stage.
The houselights dimmed, drums rolled, and Voltane’s red curtains flamed in the glare of a battery of powerful overhead spotlights. The snake served amply as a motorcycle escort, and in no time Mr. Witch-doctor had the redhead and his secretary seated on the aisle, second row center.
Sleek, white-haired, impeccable, Voltane cavorted back and forth across the stage like a ballet dancer. Applause greeted his appearance in a puff of smoke. Clusters of doves burst in midair at the snap of his fingers, showers of playing cards descended from everywhere; then, from nowhere, with the whipping away of a large oriental cloth which he had held for an instant over a small stool, sultry, smouldering, Kara the Gypsy.
Time moved breathlessly as miracle topped miracle, and such was the artistry of Voltane that, despite his allergy to magic, the redhead unknowingly had joined his secretary in the paradise of childhood. He squeezed her hand, and she snuggled close.
Now came the Master’s Masterpiece, the Ultimate in the Impossible, with which he had been astounding the world for more than thirty years, the feat which even Houdini had been too terrified to attempt.
Voltane gripped the microphone, and smiled satanically down at the front row. “Corporal, are you ready?” he asked.
A good-looking young man in marine uniform arose, sprang up the steps leading to the stage and shook hands with the magician. He had intelligent blue eyes, close-cropped blond hair, and as he spoke through the microphone, his voice rang firm and clear, “Corporal Burton Adams, United States Marines, MAG-Thirty-one, Miami.”
Applause.
“Also,” beamed Voltane, pointing to the glitter of medals over the left pocket of his snug-fitting tan shirt, “are you not the champion marksman of your outfit?”
Blushingly the young man conceded that he was.
There was more applause, followed by an expectant silence.
“Here is a standard thirty-caliber rifle. Will you inspect it, please?”
The marine caught it from a turbaned male assistant. He balanced it in his hand, twirled it expertly, opened the chamber, peered down the barrel, sighted it. He nodded. “Good enough for me, sir,” he said.
“And you have brought your own bullet?”
The young marine produced one from his shirt pocket.
“You will notice,” emphasized the magician as Adams dropped it into a plate held out by Kara, “that at no time do I or any of my assistants ever touch that bullet. Now, would someone in the audience kindly mark it for identification?”
Kara glided down the steps. A man, far to her right, his features indistinguishable to Shayne, dug into the nub with a small knife. Then he nodded and dropped the bullet back into the plate.
Returning to the stage, Kara was elaborately careful to keep the bullet in view as she took her place by the marine’s side. He plucked it from the plate, inspected the mark, inserted it into the chamber of the rifle, locked the chamber, then port-armed smartly.
“You have your instructions,” said Voltane ominously, whereupon the youth dove off the stage into the dazzling pool of light that suddenly beamed from sharp, monster spotlights. He charged down the long, narrow, surging aisle held open by struggling uniformed Arena guards until he reached a tall, tower-like structure directly in front of the bandstand.
He climbed nimbly to the top, and over the roll of drums his voice came tensely, “Ready!”
All eyes darted back to Voltane, who was now mopping his face with a white-silk handkerchief handed him by Kara. “The corporal will now aim at my mouth. I shall release this handkerchief. When it reaches the floor he will fire. His own bullet, marked by a total stranger, I propose... to catch in my teeth!”
Even the bar was as still as a tomb. The drum roll became louder and more menacing, and the audience shifted uneasily. The Turbaned One whisked away the microphone, and Kara slithered to the side of the stage opposite Shayne and Lucy.
“Corporal Adams... take aim!”
Head high, shoulders back, the magician dropped the handkerchief which he had been holding at arm’s length, and Lucy Hamilton’s fingernails dug deep into the redhead’s arm.
But in this split-second Shayne was aware only of Kara’s eyes. As the handkerchief billowed to the floor they were spitting hate at him, and her body seemed to be swaying.
The report blasted the Arena. Shayne saw the Great Voltane suddenly a grotesque heap on the floor, blood spouting from his mouth and from a hole where his Adam’s Apple should have been. Nearby, Kara lay slumped in a dead faint, her face ashen.
III
The curtains closed in quickly behind Shane as he vaulted to the stage, dragging Lucy after him. The band, with futile heroism, was trying to down the roar of panic. He bolted to the prostrate magician’s side as stagehands, firemen, assistants, rushed from the wings.
The Turbaned One was hovering over Voltane’s body. Shayne slammed him back, fell to his knees and ripped open the blood-drenched evening collar and shirt. He searched desperately for some sign of life... then noticed something lumpish — it was too large for a clot — oozing from the dead man’s gaping mouth.