He shook his head slowly to say, No deal.
„I’ve got rules, Malakhai. Nothing is free. Tell me which one you were aiming at – or I destroy Louisa’s letter.“
„So be it.“ There was no hesitation. He was not bluffing.
Mallory stood up and walked over to the wardrobe trunk. „I know she wrote it the night she died.“ She pulled out the white tuxedo and draped it over one arm. „Louisa mentioned the confession in the park.“ She turned back to him. „Last chance. Was it Nick Prado? Was he standing near the float when you fired that rifle?“
He looked down at the case of wine, head shaking from side to side. No deal.
Mallory reached into the pocket of her blazer and drew out the single page. It was a fragile thing, yellowed and creased – such delicate paper. The ink was a faint flourish of violet lines, almost illegible. She walked back to him and put it in his hand as an offering – for free.
He looked down at the aged paper, not quite believing in it yet.
She turned toward the partition. Malakhai’s head was bowed as he read the faded lines of his letter. It was written by a woman who did not know how the night would end, if she would escape or be captured – live or die. ‘Dear Malakhai,’ it began, and the long goodbye followed after.
Mallory had received a similar letter from her prescient foster father, written before his own violent death and delivered on the day of his funeral. Three generations of Markowitzes, all police officers, had written these letters to their families. The cop’s daughter understood the importance of the farewell.
Walking close to the accordion wall, she headed for the side exit, never turning back for the chance to catch him crying.
She had rules.
Chapter 16
Franny Futura listened for a noise to tell him that he was not alone. At last, he was satisfied that all the chorus boys and stagehands had left for their lunch break.
He laughed out loud and did a little dance across the floorboards, tapping his feet and whirling in his own arms, hugging himself tightly, as if this might contain his joy. It did not. His grin was wide as he paused and bowed to the empty theater seats.
„Broadway.“ He spoke this name, holy of holies, as he was rising on his toes. Then, soft as a prayer, „Thank you, Oliver.“
True, this patch of the road was far uptown, but he had never expected to come so close to an old dream, the Great White Way. Franny knew his place among magicians. They had dubbed him a living museum, a compendium of tired old tricks that amazed no one. However, come Friday night, he would perform a Max Candle illusion to a sold-out crowd. In this theater, he would be the headliner. On the marquee outside, his name was writ larger than all the other magic men on the bill.
He walked over to the long black table supporting his glass coffin. The transparent panels were edged in dark lines of lead. And lead molding marked the midsection where the two halves of the coffin joined together.
Holding on to the pewter handles, he separated these independent boxes, and they slid back easily along metal tracks embedded in the table. He patted the large pumpkin at the center of the bed. It was held in place by a metal brace so the razor would not knock it to the floor with the first swing. He had chosen this seasonal fruit over Max’s burlap dummy because it would bleed. Though the juice was pale in comparison to blood, it was miles better than sawdust.
Four feet behind the table, a narrow rectangle of black wood rose from the floorboards to the catwalk. It was decorated with functional springs and toothy wheels that resembled bright clockworks strung out along a giant velvet jeweler’s box. At the top of this mechanical base, two metal arms reached out to support the pendulum, a thin stalk of steel ending in a crescent razor.
He tap-danced toward the wings with a soft-shoe shuffle and climbed the ladder to the catwalk. When he walked across the narrow wood planks of the suspension bridge, it even swayed the same way Faustine’s had done. He gripped the rails and smiled. Just like the old days.
This theater was no mere re-creation; it was Faustine’s revisited. He had come full circle – home again.
Franny looked down and imagined Max Candle lying in the glass coffin, bound hand and foot, screaming well-rehearsed lines to tell the audience that something had gone wrong with the pendulum, that the machine was going to kill him – night after night.
From the dark of the wings stage right, smoke was curling forward into the footlights. „Emile?“
The only reply was a knock on wood, and now he knew his visitor. How many years must he put behind him before that sound would cease to make him afraid?
Nick Prado said, in a badly disguised sotto voce, „Suddenly there came a tapping.“
Franny’s hands tightened on the rail as the man walked into the light of center stage. Nick stood beneath the catwalk and looked up as he slaughtered the poet’s line. „Who’s that rapping at my door? Franny, you must try to work something of Poe into the act.“ Nick’s gaze traveled down the long stalk of the pendulum to the razor-sharp crescent. „I heard a rumor that you hired six chorus boys.“ He looked up again. „Say it isn’t so.“
Franny leaned over the rail. He could hear a shrill note in his voice, too high, too loud. „It’s a slow buildup. I didn’t think the act would hold the attention of a modern audience. The dance routine is really very good.“
Nick made a stagy shiver of distaste. „Are you coming down? Or must I keep shouting?“
It was an effort for Franny to loosen his grip on the rails. He felt safe on the catwalk, but what reason could he give for remaining here?
None.
He dragged his feet to the end of the suspension bridge and slowly descended the ladder. Perhaps there were no safe places. He had not found one yet, not in all the years of a lifelong quest.
Nick ran his hand along the top of the coffin. „A pity you can’t do it Max Candle’s way. You’re competing with big spectacles downtown. Lots of high-tech acts. Now if the public thought there was a chance to see you die – “ He walked over to the base and pressed the lever to set the pendulum in motion. „It was such a beautiful illusion.“
Now the men stood side by side and watched the gears mesh, wheels spinning wheels, setting springs in motion, ticking, ticking. Nick flashed him an evil grin. „I hope this isn’t the apparatus Oliver made.“
„No,“ said Franny. „I was afraid he might’ve botched that one too. Charles loaned me Max’s old props.“
Nick watched the pendulum swing in a small arc. „Any problems calibrating the mechanism? It would be a crime to shatter the original coffin. It belongs in a museum.“
„No, Emile helped me. Well, he did it all, really. It swings between the boxes, very precise. Never varies more than half an inch.“
Nick looked up again as the pendulum gathered momentum and its razor described a wider arc. „Lovely machine. All Swiss gears and balance, you know. Only millionaires like Max and Oliver could’ve built them. I can’t persuade you to do it Max’s way?“
Franny said nothing. He only watched the pendulum. It was dropping lower, swinging over the divided glass coffin.
Nick clapped him on the back. „Forget I mentioned it, old man. The original machinery would make it too chancy. It’s so old. Do you really trust it?“
„Emile says it’s in perfect condition.“ Franny watched the razor drop a little lower to slice through the partitions of the box. „What on earth is that doing there?“ Nick pointed to the bright orange fruit inside the coffin.