me. In fact I leaned back from the front of the box so that my face was in shadow. I sat perfectly still while Summer apparently hypnotized Kitty/Lily and then removed the table that supported her so that she lay unmoving in midair. It was a wonderfully convincing illusion but I didn’t really appreciate it because my head was trying to make sense of what I had deduced.
If the “accident” during the sawing-the-lady-in-half trick was an illusion, what had they hoped to accomplish with it? What if Scarpelli was in on it? Maybe the forged money was all part of the same plot. Maybe all three were German agents. But he had seemed so genuinely upset and stunned by what had happened. He was a performer after all, so perhaps he was simply a good actor.
So what had the accident achieved? Well, to begin with it had taken Lily out of the picture so she could no longer be a suspect in any subsequent crime. But if she was supposedly dead, she couldn’t have risked coming back to the theater to kidnap Houdini. She would surely have been spotted by one of the stagehands—
As the word “stagehands” went through my mind I leaned forward again, digesting what I had just seen. The man who whisked away the cabinet and brought out the table was one of the stagehands called Ernest. And now I remembered that he was the one who helped me bring out the trunk and who placed it for me on the stage, exactly over the trapdoor, as it turned out. So Ernest was in on the plot too. He was the one who had gone for the ambulance to whisk Lily away. All beautifully orchestrated to fool us.
A stirring round of applause announced the end of the act onstage. They came forward to take a bow and I ducked down, just in case they looked in my direction. The moment the curtains closed I slipped from my seat, down the side corridor, and out of the theater. It is always a shock to come out of a theater and find it is broad daylight outside, but it’s also a shock to emerge to find the weather completely changed. Whereas I had entered the theater to sultry, merciless sunlight, I came out to find heavy clouds had gathered overhead and odd breezes swirled to herald the arrival of a thunderstorm. I glanced nervously at the heavens. I hadn’t brought a brolly with me and quickened my pace toward the closest El station.
Now all I had to do was make my way back to Harlem and wait for Mr. Wilkie to come to me. But as I threaded my way through the busy crowd on the Bowery I realized that I was about to expound a preposterous theory and wondered if he’d believe me. What proof did I have, apart from a strong hunch? Surely many magicians’ assistants were willowy with long elegant fingers and I couldn’t really see her face because of the mask that covered her eyes.
Then suddenly I changed direction and darted across the street between a trolley car and a delivery cart. I did have proof. At my house, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, was a bloody cloth I had retrieved from the rubbish bin at the theater. I made up my mind to go home and to take the cloth to Daniel. He would probably be angry with me but I couldn’t afford to waste another minute before having that cloth tested. If it revealed that the substance wasn’t human blood at all but some kind of theatrical paint, then they’d take me seriously.
Patchin Place seemed so delightfully normal and safe as I left the bustle of Jefferson Market and made my way over the cobbles. Flowers were blooming in window boxes. A window was open and someone was playing the violin. How I longed to shut myself in my own house and stay there, not be involved any longer in this dangerous business, but I couldn’t back out now. And in truth I was feeling rather pleased with myself at my great discovery that had eluded everyone else. A triumph for Molly Murphy, I said to myself in the way that Houdini had penned similar sayings under his newspaper clippings. I took the cloth from the drawer in the scullery where I had kept it. It looked remarkably unappealing and extremely like blood, not paint. It smelled like old blood too, I thought,