I was taken for an intimate tour of the lot, and Leon let me in on some of the secret illusions still in the works. “I’m not in Gerald’s league, yet,” he said, “but I’m gonna get there, you wait and see.”
“Do you know how the stunt worked that killed Gerald?”
“I already told the police I didn’t.”
“That was the police, and there’s no sense making a good stunt public, right? But you must have some inkling as to how it was pulled off. Good apprentice like you.”
“No sir, I sure don’t. Some things Gerald held real close to his vest and didn’t let on about at all. He worked all kinds of crazy hours, just so no one would be around while he was testing stuff. That included me too.”
I got the feeling he was lying.
It’s amazing what you can do with a few innocent words taken out of context. By the time my conversation with Leon was over I had enough info to do a great piece for next week’s supermarket edition of The Inquiring National Globe. You see, I really did write that piece about Clinton and a blonde Martian, based on fact, and a very innovative interpretation (my own) of the actual statements made (the interviewee’s own). Please note that the statements used were all attributable, but not necessarily made on the same day, at the same place, or about the same subject matter, or to the same interviewer. Anthony Nucase was real, sort of, and possessed enough clout to publish any time he wanted. Truth be known his… my… sister Angelica owns the paper. She also made up my pseudonym. Sis used to call me a nutcase, then Mr. A. Nutcase. Mr. A. Nutcase became Anthony Nucase, my byline.
That evening back at Kam’s, I said, “What time are you through with your last show?”
“My last stunning appearance is at 2 a.m. Why?”
“Let’s take a hard, close look at Gerald’s compound, unannounced and unexpected. I believe we can figure out how that stunt worked ourselves, and Howie needs to be there too.”
“Meet me in the hotel lounge at 2:15,” Kam said. “I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up my lipstick.”
“Cute,” I replied.
“Dazzling, actually,” he said, and walked off. He turned dramatically in the doorway. In his best Mae West, he said, “Oh, by the way, some old friends of yours will be there tonight. You might want to come early and have a few dances.”
I did! It was a great crowd.
At 2:45 Howie, Kam, and I parked about a mile from our destination and walked in. The three of us were damn near ready for anything. Kam had provided night-vision head gear and ultraviolet search equipment. He had his Glock; I had Golda, my gold-plated.357, and Howie was armed with a brace of throwing knives in a quick-draw rig, the likes of which I had never seen.
After a quick look-around, I asked Howie, “Exactly where was Gerald standing when you zipped him into the body bag?” He looked around to get his bearings. “Someone done moved the crane, but I believe it was right there. So he musta been standin’… about there.” He walked over to a spot and pointed down. “Yup, there’s the crane tracks, and with the boom a’leanin’ forward, it had to of been within a few feet of right here.”
“How in the hell could you cause something to disappear from this spot?”
“On stage you’d have a trap door,” Kam answered. “Out here, well, I guess you could have a trap door.”
The three of us were a sight, down on all fours, scratching the dirt and examining the ground with ultraviolet, crawling around in an ever-widening radius. Kam hit pay dirt, no pun intended. “Look at this,” he said.
It was the outline of a square something, the outline highlighted by two different color sands under the UV, not visible to the naked eye.
“What do we do now, dig?” asked Howie.
Kam, still down on his knees, looked up. “If this is a way in, there’s got to be a way out.”
“This here place covers ’bout twenty acres, so where do we look fer t’other end?” Howie answered his own question: “Starting where no one could see you when you come out,” he offered. “Behind, or inside, one of these structures, in order for Gerald to reach his car unseen while we watched the stunt.”
Twenty minutes more of intense searching turned up the entrance, which led down to a tunnel. Another twenty minutes underground, and we discovered twelve more entrances, a labyrinth of tunnels connecting them, and a large (twenty-foot by thirty-foot) workshop, with a twelve-foot ceiling. Lying under the main trapdoor was the dummy, two more intact body bags, and a thirteen-channel remote control, each channel controlling one of the trap doors.
“Damnation!” came from Howie when we sat down at the desk in the underground workshop. “I been comin’ here for years, and never had nary a clue this stuff was here.”
Viewed together, the dummy, the body bag, and the trapdoor yielded the trick’s mechanics, and although we were now aware of the how, they shed no light on whether the murder had taken place on or off the crane. One thing for certain, the murderer knew of this underground labyrinth, and I believed Leon knew more than he was letting on. How much more was anyone’s guess.
After a little shut-eye, we went to the Peppermill for breakfast and discussion. I said, “Put the compound under surveillance. That murdering joker is bound to be egotist enough to return.”
“Better idea,” Kam rebutted. “I take leave from my show for a few days and plant myself in the tunnel system. Besides being present if the creep shows, I can examine what’s down there. Whoever it was more than likely left traces of the visit.”
“How in the hayell do we figger out if Gerald was up there all the time, or planted after he was dead?”
“That will fall into place when we have all of the pieces,” I answered.
“I kin get a bootleg copy of that there po-leece report,” Howie said.
“Go for it. And while you’re at it, get all the info you can on the deceased: His family, heirs, business dealings, friends, enemies, and the like. And Kam, do as you suggested and visit the labyrinth. If you find something, call. If not, we’ll meet at your place in forty-eight hours. Meantime, I’ve got an article to write.”
Murdered Magician Communicates With Apprentice by Anthony Nucase
“It was as if his voice came to me from inside a tunnel,” Leon Hastings told this reporter. “It happened after hoisting him up with the crane. The noose was tied around his neck, I shut off the engine, and started climbing down from the cab when I heard it. ‘It’s as plain as the dirt beneath your feet,’ it said. I also saw something in the dark over by the office, but I didn’t pay attention to any of it, thought my mind was just playing tricks. But…”
There was enough innuendo in the article to let anyone who had knowledge of the labyrinth know that I had knowledge of it too.
I telephoned my sister as soon as the article was finished and asked for its inclusion in this week’s edition, which was due out on the stands in three days. Knowing full well the magazine was ready to go to press, but that it could be done, I expected a playful hard time from Sis and was not disappointed: “Why certainly, Mister Nutcase, for you, anything. Stop the presses and all that jazz, just like Claudette Colbert and Clark Gable in whatever movie that was. Well, this is no movie. What makes you think you can call out of the clear blue and get anything you want? Just because you’re my favorite only brother, is that it? Well… okay! Now, you owe me one. No, make that another one. Ta-ta for now, Peter darling.”
At this point it became a waiting game for me: for Kam to call, for Howie to get back, and for the article to come out. Speaking of which, when Howie came back that afternoon, he invited me out for dinner and dancing. Quite an incredible night. Vegas is one hell of a place to wait.