Death From a Top Hat

Chapter 6 The Great Merlini

Inspector Gavigan was phoning headquarters and still throwing out intermittent bursts of lava when Malloy came back and reported that Tarot had last been seen in a taxi headed north, Detective Janssen in his wake.

Gavigan barked into the phone, “Send a couple of men to NBC at once and pick up a guy named Eugene Tarot. He’s on the ten o’clock program, and I don’t care how many million people are waiting to hear him. I want him at once! Bring him directly here and hurry it!”

He banged the receiver. “Malloy, Headquarters is sending more men. You can put them to work collecting data on those people in the next room. Quinn, you nose through the desk and filing cabinets. I want to know lots more about the cadaver.”

Malloy went out followed by Dr. Hesse, and Gavigan, motioning Brady to follow, moved toward the kitchen. “I want to see that other door for myself,” he said as they disappeared.

I lit a cigarette and stood for a moment or two by the window, listening to the foghorns and watching the lighted outline of a ferry boat that moved slowly across the dark nothingness of the river. I heard a step behind me and turned to see a tall figure come through the door and move toward me around the end of the davenport. Then, as at some stage manager’s cue, the ceiling lights and the green shaded desk lamp flicked on, chasing the darkness at last from the corners of the room and with bright accommodation giving Merlini a good entrance. As he stood there, blinking a bit in the light, I half expected him to take a bow and proceed with his opener, in which one of his white gloves, tossed into the air, became a dove that circled and disappeared into the wings.

Merlini’s off-stage appearance is, for a magician, oddly lacking in peculiarity. Those rubber stamp stigmata of the conjurer, the curling mustachios and the unharvested crop of bushy hair, have little existence today, save in the cartoonist’s imagination. Merlini’s face was clean shaven and his haircut altogether normal.

At first you do not suspect him of any connection with show business. This despite the fact that the Riding Merlinis have been one of circusdom’s top equestrian acts here and abroad for five generations. You would not guess that Phineas T. Barnum had been his godfather, that his initial entrance on to this earthly stage was made in a circus car en route somewhere between Centralia and Peoria, Illinois; or that he made his first public appearance at the age of three in the role of a small, burnt-corked Nubian, who held grimly to the side of a swaying howdah as it was borne around the arena on the back of the immortal Jumbo.

It is not until he speaks that you suspect his profession. His voice belongs to the theater; richly resonant, it exhibits an unusual range of depth and tone. Merlini can be, and at times is, completely self-effacing, then suddenly he speaks and in that instant has captured everyone’s complete attention. If he is “working” he proceeds at once to double-cross his listeners with smooth misdirection. His speech, habitually dry, ironic, and humorous, has a habit of shifting with subtle celerity to a compelling delivery that is not far short of hypnotic. It is utterly impossible to tell when he is being serious and when he is pattering in preparation for a minor miracle. He could sell you anything; and he does sell you impossibilities.

The planes of his face are forceful though asymmetric, one wayward ear projecting with rakish nonconformity considerably further than the other. His hair and eyes are black; and the latter shine with an intense curiosity. The good-humored crinkles at the corners of his mouth often bracket a faintly lopsided smile. He carries his tall, spare body with an almost conceited air of confidence. At rest his hands look large and masculinely awkward; in motion they take on that special grace and delicately co-ordinated economy that spells long discipline.

There is no predicting his dress. At times it is as impeccable off stage as it always is on; and at other times it achieves an inimitable disorganization, as comfortable as it is slack. His pockets are always loaded with the smaller appurtenances of his profession — cards, thimbles, silk handkerchiefs, and, I suspect, other gadgets of a more secret sort.

Merlini likes surf bathing, table tennis, puzzles, Times Square, and Mrs. Merlini. He can smell any circus that approaches within a radius of one hundred miles, and he promptly disappears in that direction. He dislikes subways, beer, inactivity, grand opera, and golf. I suppose that he sleeps, but I have never caught him at it. He has authored three books: Legerdemainiacs, The Psychology of Deception, and Sawdust Trails. He is the proprietor of a shop which supplies the conjuring fraternity with its illusive paraphernalia.

As the light came up Merlini looked at me and started to speak, when his eye caught the rigmarole of words and circles traced on the floor. His eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit, and then flattened in a frown. He glanced swiftly around the room. His eyes came back to the chalked diagram, and he asked,

“What the devil have you — or rather, what have you and the devil been up to, Ross?”

“Breaking and entering, for one thing. Discovering a corpse for another.”

That announcement got me some attention.

“That doesn’t sound like a gag.”

“It isn’t. Look behind you.”

He turned and saw the covered form on the davenport.

“The gentleman’s name,” I went on, “is — or rather was — Cesare Sabbat. He—”

“Who?” Merlini’s steady calm evidenced a slight wobble.

“Dr. Cesare Sabbat. Know him?”

Merlini took two steps and lifted a corner of the dressing gown. He looked at the face a moment.

“Yes, but—” He regarded me thoughtfully. “The face doesn’t exactly suggest an easy death, and, judging from the numbers of the forces of law and order outside, I’d guess it was far from normal.”

“He was strangled,” I explained. “And since there was no noose of any sort found, he could hardly have accomplished it unaided.”

“And yet you had to force an entrance.” He eyed the splintered door panel. “This is an interesting contradiction. Quite, particularly since the dressing gown is incomplete.”

“The dressing gown — what’s the matter with it?”

“There are loops on each side which indicate that it’s built to tie around the middle. I don’t see the cord. By the way, what am I wanted for?”

I stared at the dressing gown and answered, “Not for murder — at least, not yet. I think Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Bureau would like you to explain how the Walking-Through-A-Brick-Wall Trick is done. It looks as if Sabbat’s murderer knew the answer. So far, the Homicide Squad hasn’t been able to discover any other way out of this apartment. The doors, both of them, were locked, bolted, and the keyholes stuffed, from the inside. The windows haven’t been opened in months.”

“You’re off to a swell start, Ross. Don’t stop.”

With studied calm I produced another thunderbolt. “What’s more, all the witnesses hereabouts seem to be customers of yours. There are so many magicians floating around that they positively get in your hair.”

“Some of them do that, singly,” Merlini said dryly, and then with entreaty, “Harte, will you please stop running on in this Scheherazade manner and tell me what’s happened? And don’t put all your climaxes in the first scene. It’s bad theater. Besides, I’m punch drunk already.”

“So you can’t take it?” Gavigan’s voice preceded him into the room. They shook hands and the Inspector asked, “Have you met the corpse?”

“Yes,” Merlini answered, “Ross did the honors. But I knew him before, some ten years ago. He used to be rated tops as an anthropologist in the magic and primitive religion line. Then he dropped out of sight so suddenly and completely that I rather thought he must have gone to continue his other-world researches closer to their source.”

“What caused the sudden eclipse?” Gavigan asked interestedly.

“His subject ran away with him. He began taking such things as vampires, werewolves — and maybe pixies, for all I know — seriously. He even hung the traditional sword and sprigs of garlic on his door as a vampire preventive. Odd, because he looked a bit vampirish himself. There was a Lon Chaney-Boris Karloff feel to him. You almost expected him to bare a set of yellow fangs at any moment and say boo! Last time I talked with him, he was full of some new experiments in what he called modern alchemy.”

Merlini gestured toward the worktable and the bottle-laden shelves in the further corner of the room. “Still at it, evidently. Then he began writing books and articles that his scholarly colleagues couldn’t swallow. Lycanthropy Today and The Secret Heresies were two of the titles I remember. The latter book treated Telekinesis, Cryptesthesia, and Astral Projection as established facts. The editors of scientific journals began sending him rejection slips, and his scholarly reputation nosed over into a power dive.”[2]

“But what about his disappearance? What did he do, start pouting and go hide?” Gavigan asked impatiently.

“He had a frightful temper, and he nearly killed an eminent German archeologist at a scientific congress by clubbing the poor man over the head with his own umbrella. He’d been trying to convince the old boy that Pyramidology was an exact science. The Herr Doktor swore out a warrant for his arrest and Sabbat skipped. No one ever seemed to know where.”

“Pyramidwhatsis wasn’t taught at Public School 67, as I remember. What is it?”

Merlini shucked his overcoat and dropped it with his hat on a near-by chair.

“It’s one of the fancier divination systems and is based upon certain measurements of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, notably those made in 1864 by Piazzi-Smyth, the Astronomer Royal of Scotland. The occultists say that this is the world’s oldest existing structure and was built 100,000 years ago by the Atlantaeans just prior to the sinking of their continent, as a repository of learning and a temple for the initiation of adepts. Similar temples are said to have been set up somewhere in the unexplored — oh, always the unexplored — portions of either Brazil or Yucatan — the authorities disagree — and in Tibet, where the Great White Lodge of the Himalayas is supposed to be today the one remaining active chapter of this ancient priesthood.[3] Their thesis is that if a pyramid inch — they invent their own inches — is taken as a year of our time, then the course of the Pyramid’s inner passageways predicts the course of world history and civilization. According to that science the world came to an end at 4 A.M. on September 16, 1936. Did you know?”

“Sabbat,” the Inspector broke in, finally, “was trying to convert the German professor to that theory?”

Merlini nodded.

“Well,” Gavigan said emphatically, “we know one thing then. He was as batty as they come. Which explains a lot of things in this room.” He scowled up at a Balinese devil mask on the wall, whose varnished fury, glistening in the light, showed that its owner had been a discriminating connoisseur of the hideous.

“There are people who would dispute that conclusion, Inspector. Even in this streamlined Twentieth Century there are plenty of people outside of nut houses who believe firmly in that sort of thing. Southern California is full of them. I could name you a dozen books issued quite lately by reputable publishing houses whose authors state their belief in all sorts of black magic, from teleportation to levitation, werewolves to banshees. Sir Oliver Lodge, William Crookes, and Professor Zoellner were convinced of the truth of spiritism. Conan Doyle took photographs of fairies — the winged variety — and Dr. Alexander Cannon, a member of the British Medical Association’s Executive Council, says he has made thought take objective form and seriously warns his readers to beware of the evil forces set up in the ether by black magicians. And he cites instances. Madame Blavatsky still has her followers, and Evangeline Adams’ writings on that hardy perennial of the divinatory systems, astrology, are still best sellers. A recent convention of the National Association of Fortune Tellers in Trenton, New Jersey, voted to picket all tearooms employing non-association tea-leaf readers. They also introduced to a waiting world a new method of divination or skrying, beer suds reading. Pennsylvania still has its witches, the rite of exorcism for diabolic possession has by no means fallen into complete disuse and Satanic Masses are still—”[4]

Gavigan held up his hands to stem the flood of information and said, “Sure, sure, I know. I’ve got a niece who believes in Santa Claus and has a theory about storks. So what? I still think the Doctor was off his nut.” The Inspector hastily dismissed the whole subject and addressed me, “Harte, you bring Merlini up to date while I clean up a few odds and ends before we get those vaudeville acts next door in here for questioning.”

I assented, and he turned to issue a brisk flow of orders. Brady was busily messing up the place with an insufflator that belched clouds of aluminum powder. Gavigan began a painstaking examination of the room, part of the time on his hands and knees. I noticed that he kept an ear tuned in on the rapid resume which I rattled off for Merlini.

When I mentioned the difficulty with the lights, Gavigan added a marginal note. “The electrician found all the fuses blown. And new ones popped out as fast as they were put in. He deduced a short. Then he found a penny in a light socket. After removing that he blew some more fuses. Then finally he discovered that pennies had been put in five different outlets. He blew about four sets of fuses finding that out. Does that information mean anything to anybody?

“Doesn’t sound very illuminating, to say the least,” Merlini commented. “Let’s hear more, Ross, lots more.”

As my recital progressed, his eyes beamed like those of a small boy with his first bicycle. His quick, alert movements indicated a growing inner excitement, though his face, except for the eyes, was bland and inscrutable. I took my story up to the arrival of the Homicide Squad, and Gavigan, rejoining us at that point, added a brief summary of the subsequent events. Merlini inspected Duvallo’s card and the pieces of torn handkerchief, Gavigan having brought the one from the kitchen back with him.

“No sliding panels or secret exits,” Gavigan concluded. “Three walls of this apartment are outside ones. The fourth, along the hall there, is plastered on both sides, and you can’t conceal a door in a wall like that. And anyway, just to be sure, I’ve looked. Ditto for the ceiling, of course. As for the floor — well, with the carpet rolled aside you can see for yourself, and, besides, Malloy says that a trap door would drop one straight into the bedroom of a maiden lady who’d yell bloody murder at the very thought. Just why the blazes a murderer has to go and commit a murder like this, I don’t know. It’s the damnedest—”

“It’s a swell alibi, isn’t it?” Merlini said. “If you can’t explain how it was done you can’t convict. You might know who the murderer is, place him right on the scene, and have a dozen witnesses, but just as long as he isn’t actually seen within or leaving this room, he’s quite safe — as long as the impossible situation isn’t punctured, of course. It’s also possible that he may be a murderer with some regard for others and doesn’t want any innocent person convicted. As long as it looks impossible, we can’t even do that. Or perhaps he couldn’t manage to manufacture any proof that he was somewhere else at the proper time — he may even have been seen near here at the time of the murder. The impossibleness of the murder gets over all that.”

“Sure, and that’s your job. Puncture the impossibility. Tell me how someone got out of this room, and it’s a ten-to-one shot we’ll know who it was.”

“Give me a chance to warm up, will you? I’m pretty well grounded in locked room theory, and I supply the profession with escapes from leg-irons, lead coffins, strait jackets, and the like, but — well, this situation is something of a honey. All the usual locked room trimmings, plus a new one. And that’s obviously going to be the headache. Those keyholes.… ” He broke off, frowning thoughtfully at the door. Then he said, “Inspector, let’s see you put on your Torquemada act. Before I hand in a report, I’d like to hear what those witnesses have to say for themselves.”

“That’s fair enough,” Gavigan answered. “Brady, we’ll start with Rappourt. Shoo her in.”

Brady withdrew, and the Inspector held a quick whispered conference with Malloy, who then went out, stepping aside at the door for Madame Rappourt. She glanced briefly at the covered figure and then quickly at the Inspector. Though more composed than before, she held herself stiffly alert, and her gaze was restless. Merlini, as she came in, retired suddenly to the bookcases where he began browsing.

“Sit down,” Gavigan said, pushing forward a chair. Madame Rappourt moved her head negatively and stood, waiting.

“How long have you known Dr. Sabbat?” the Inspector began.

Behind me, at the desk, Quinn scribbled shorthand.

Rappourt’s voice was deep, almost masculine, and mysteriously pleasing.

“I’d never met him,” she said, speaking with the abnormal precision of one whose native language was not English. “We were to meet tonight for the first time.”

“You knew of him?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ve read some of the things he has written.”

“Colonel Watrous knew him?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why Mr. Sabbat invited you here?”

“He wanted to study my trance state, I believe.”

“I see.” Gavigan said that as if he did see. “Perhaps you know of someone who might have desired to kill Mr. Sabbat.”

“No. I do not.”

“Please detail your movements from say ten o’clock last night up to now.”

Impassively and without hesitation she replied: “At ten o’clock last evening I was in my apartment at the Commodore Hotel. There were several persons present, including Colonel Watrous. They stayed until after three o’clock. I slept late this morning and did not leave my room until I came here. At four this afternoon Colonel Watrous arrived, and shortly after Mr. Tarot called for us.”

“Who was present last night besides Watrous?”

“Is that information quite necessary?”

“It is.” Gavigan was polite but firmly emphatic.

She hesitated slightly, then flatly, as if repeating a grocery order, named two Columbia University professors, a distinguished physicist, a well-known, syndicated editorial writer, and a radio news commentator.

“You were holding a séance?” the Inspector asked.

“We were conducting an experiment.”

“In what?”

“Astral duplication.”

Gavigan sighed a bit helplessly. “What’s that?”

“I’m not sure I could explain it so you would understand it.” The impression she gave was that, further than that, she didn’t intend to try.

“Okay. I’m not very interested anyhow. Besides, I can ask the professors or the Colonel.”

She made no reply to this, and Gavigan’s inquiry made a right-angle turn.

“How did you know there was death in this room tonight before you entered it?”

She closed her eyes. “I could feel it.”

“Clairvoyance, I suppose?”

She frowned slightly, then nodded as if she didn’t like the way he said it.

“Could you turn some of it on now and tell us who killed Sabbat?”

For the first time her voice was something other than flatly expressionless. There was a hint of anger in it as she said:

“Do I look like a fool, Inspector?”

“Meaning that you could but won’t?”

“Meaning that you wouldn’t believe that any information I gave had been clairvoyantly obtained. Madame Blavatsky used her occult powers once in pointing out a murderer for the Russian police. Their gratitude took the form of trying to arrest her as an accessory.”

“I suppose there’s something in that,” the Inspector admitted. “And if I promised immunity?”

Rappourt shook her head. “I wouldn’t trust you.”

Gavigan stepped closer to her. “You know, of course,” he said threateningly, “that I can arrest you for the séance you have admitted holding. Perhaps if you told me who the murderer was… ”

“I know nothing of the sort.” Rappourt’s shiny black eyes glistened angrily. “You are bluffing. I collected no fee.”

“Maybe not, but you’re out to get yours one way or another. And you’ll do well to remember I’ve got an eye on you from now on. Can your guests of last evening swear that you were at the séance the whole time?”

She smiled now, for the first time, in an unpracticed sort of way, hesitated a moment, and then with cool amusement said:

“For two hours during the latter part of the evening I was in a deep trance.”

“And how do I know you didn’t walk in your sleep?”

“Because, as my guests will tell you, I was sitting in a large, thoroughly examined canvas bag, the mouth of which was drawn tightly around my neck and the drawstring tied with many knots to the back of my chair. The knots were sewn through with needle and thread and covered with sealing wax. Ropes around my legs and body outside the bag held me to the chair, and the chair was screwed to the floor of a cabinet whose door was triple locked with all the keys held by the sitters.”

There was a slightly adenoidal expression around the Inspector’s mouth. Visibly he collected himself and started to speak, but Rappourt had not finished.

“Tapes had been sewn and sealed about each of my wrists, and their further ends, which passed out through two small buttonhole openings in the bag and through an air vent in the door of the cabinet, were held constantly by the experimenters.”

Gavigan glanced helplessly toward Merlini’s back, but the latter gave no indication of having heard. The Inspector nosed about for a more fruitful line of investigation. “What,” he asked Rappourt fiercely, “do those hentracks on the floor mean?”

“They are obviously some form of invocation. Sabbat seems to have been a black magician.”

“What other kinds are there?”

“Black magic is occult power applied for evil; white magic is occult power applied for good. According to Manley P. Hall there also exists a gray and a yellow magic. Gray magic is the unconscious perversion of—”

The Inspector had had enough of that. He cut in, “Who is Surgat?”

“I don’t know that. There are many demons.”

Gavigan turned toward Merlini, scowling. “Do you know?”

The latter pushed a large dusty folio back into place.

“No,” he said, and then faced us, his eyes on Rappourt. “But if we don’t find it here, this reference library isn’t as complete as I think it is. May I ask Madame Rappourt a question?”

This, I think, was what the Inspector wanted. He nodded.

Merlini smiled at her innocently and asked, “Was your séance — pardon me — your experiment conducted in the darkness usual to the production of that type of phenomena?”

He had only half done when Rappourt began acting strangely. Her eyelids dropped; her arm swung up jerkily; the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. She swayed backward, and then forward, stiffly, and too far.

Gavigan caught her as she dropped.