“Lucy?”
“She seems alright. Becky’s trying to keep her out of their bedroom. I told her to stay away from her brothers, but she’s five, takes after me more than Ruth.”
“What’s the doctor say?”
“Doc Hodgdon’ll be here in about an hour.”
Doc Hodgdon was eighty, retired, and working on a book. Phil had met him through me. We played handball regularly at the Downtown Y. The doc was slow, steady, straight-backed, and sure of hand. I rarely beat him.
I put the Crosley in gear and Phil said, “Stop.”
I stopped. He opened the door.
“Call me later,” he said getting out. “I’ll meet you. I’ll make some calls.”
He closed the door and started back toward the house without looking back at me. I shifted into first and made a U-turn.
Chapter 15
Show your victim three cards: a 6 of clubs, 8 of diamonds, and a 10 of spades. Ask them to pick one and not tell you which one they have chosen. Put the cards in your pocket, close your eyes and concentrate, and then pull out two cards and place them facedown on the table. Ask your victim to tell which card he or she had chosen. Reach into your pocket and pull out that card. Announce that you’ll gladly do the trick again. Solution: Arrange the three cards in order 6, 8, 10. You can use any three cards as long as they are numerical and increase in number. Put the three cards in your pocket where you already have two other cards. Pull out those two other cards and place them on the table facedown. When the victim tells you what card was chosen, simply reach into your pocket and pull it out knowing that the 10 is on top, the 8 in the middle, and the six on the bottom. You can do the trick again because you still have two extra cards in your pocket.
“Rand, Rand, Rand, Rand,” said the young woman in the serious suit and large glasses.
Her name was Miss Sanford. It said so on the pin over her right jacket pocket. Her hair was dark and pinned back. She was, young, pretty, and all business. She pointed her sharpened pencil at a name on the sheet of paper on the clipboard in her hand.
We were standing in the lobby of the Roosevelt. The only reason she was talking to me was that I had worked from time to time filling in for the regular night house detective when he was on vacation or got sick.
“Here he is,” she said. “I remember him. Mr. Ott insisted that we use him, told us we wouldn’t have to pay him. Carlos, the head-waiter, didn’t much like the idea but Mr. Ott was paying the bill for the evening and …”
“Did Ott say why he wanted Rand working last night?”
“Said it was part of a surprise for Blackstone’s party,” she said.
“The surprise was Ott skewered on a platter,” I said.
“That’s not really funny,” she said.
“Guess not,” I agreed. “Got an address for Rand?”
“Of course,” she said. “We wouldn’t let him work, even for one meal, if we didn’t have his address and full identification. Board of Health.”
She gave me the address. I wrote it in my notebook.
“Thanks,” I said. “You related to Tony Sanford?”
“My father,” she said.
Tony was the regular night house detective I filled in for. Tony and I were about the same age. No, I was a few years older. I looked at his daughter and felt old, very old.
“Anything else I can help you with?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You’re working for Mr. Blackstone, right?” she asked.
“Right,” I said.
“He and his brother are in the ballroom now,” she said, looking toward the ballroom door.
I tapped my notebook on the back of my hand, pocketed it, said “thanks” and headed for the ballroom, almost bumping into a laughing young couple.
“Sorry, sir,” the girl said.
They moved on. So did I.
Inside the ballroom, Blackstone stood on the platform. The table and podium were just where they had been the night before. Blackstone had his right hand on his chin and was saying “Once more” as I stepped in.
The lights went out.
Blackstone counted “One, two, three, and then said”, “Now.”
The lights came back on. Peter Bouton came out from behind the drapes to my left, nodded at me, and looked across the room at his brother.
“Door,” called Blackstone.
Peter moved past me, opened the door I had come through. On the platform, Blackstone began counting again as he strode toward me, nodded, and went out the door closing it behind him. A beat later the door opened and the brothers Bouton came back in.
“I was the last one out of here,” Harry said, looking at me with his arms crossed. “I saw no one behind me but Ott facedown. It took no more than twenty seconds to clear the room. We’ve timed the whole thing eight times.”
“Which means?” I asked.
“We think we’re close,” said Pete.
“There’s no event in here tonight,” said Blackstone. “I’ve reserved the room for a reenactment that we’ll conduct after our show at the Panfages. We’ve got the guest list, and everyone on it is being called now and urged to return for the event.”
I told them about what Jimmy Clark had seen, about Rand the waiter.
He told me that Gwen was out of the hospital and ready to do the show that night.
“We told her ‘no,’” said Blackstone, “but I did ask her to come here tonight.”
“If we’re ready,” said Pete.
“If we’re ready,” Harry agreed.
“We have to reenact it?” I asked.
“An impossible murder,” Harry said. “The police are baffled. An audience of magicians expecting a solution from Blackstone. I’ll never have another moment like this. I’ve invited that policeman with the red face and hair.”
“Cawelti,” I said. “You think you’ll be able to tell us who killed Ott?”
“We’ll be able to show you how it was done,” Harry said. “As for who did it, I think we can guarantee the revelation of at least one guilty party.”
The Bouton brothers looked at each other with satisfaction.
“No formal wear required tonight,” said Blackstone.
“Good,” I said.
“Back to work,” said Harry, heading back to the platform.
“Back to work,” I agreed and went through the door and back across the lobby.
I made what I thought was going to be a quick stop at our office, which was only a few blocks from the hotel.
Mistake.
Alice Pallas Butler was sitting at the conference table with her arms folded across her more than ample chest. Jeremy was a very big man. Alice was a match for him. Before they were married, Alice had run a very soft-core pornographic printing operation out of her office in the Farraday. In moments of trouble-meaning a possible visit from the police-Alice had been known to pick up the small printing press, which weighed something in the vicinity of two hundred plus pounds and take it out the window and up the fire escape to the roof.
Jeremy had won her over to the beauty of poetry instead of pornography and she had taken to it, printing Jeremy’s poems for about a year before taking to Jeremy, as well, and marrying him.
They had a daughter, Natasha, who was just starting to walk and was definitely talking. Natasha looked nothing like either parent. She had a beautiful round face with big brown eyes, a great smile, and no sign that she was going to grow into someone with the size and strength of either of her parents.
“Where’s Natasha?” I asked.
“Upstairs with her father,” Alice said. “She’s taking a nap. I think she’s going to start reading soon.”
I didn’t sit.
“She’s not even two,” I said.
“Her father is a genius,” Alice said seriously.
I could have contested that having been subject to Jeremy’s poetry for a lot longer than Alice, but I just nodded in agreement.
“I have something to say,” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“No, you don’t.”