Sleuths

Vanishing Act (with Michael Kurland)

The three of us — Ardis, Cedric Clute and I — were sitting at a quiet corner table, halfway between the Magic Cellar’s bar and stage, when the contingent of uniformed policemen made their entrance. There were about thirty of them, all dressed in neatly pressed uniforms and gleaming accessories, and they came down the near aisle two abreast like a platoon of marching soldiers. Most of the tables that front the stage were already occupied, so the cops took over the stack of carpet — covered trunks which comprise a kind of bleacher section directly behind the tables.

I cocked an eyebrow. “Most saloon owners would object to such an influx of fuzz,” I said to Cedric. He owns the Cellar, San Francisco’s only nightclub devoted to the sadly vanishing art of magic.

“Policemen have a right to be entertained,” he said, smiling.

“Their lot, I understand, is not a happy one.”

Ardis said speculatively, “They look very young.”

“That’s because they’re most of the graduation class of the Police Academy,” Cedric told her. “Their graduation ceremony was this afternoon, and I invited them down as a group. Actually, it was Captain Dickensheet’s idea.” He indicated a tall, angular, graying man, also in uniform, who was about to appropriate a table for himself and two other elder officers. “I’ve known him casually for a couple of years, and he thought his men would enjoy the show.”

“With Christopher Steele and The Amazing Boltan on the same bill,” Ardis said, “they can’t help but enjoy it.”

I started to add an agreement to that — and there was Steele himself standing over the table, having appeared with that finely developed knack he has of seeming to come from nowhere.

Christopher Steele is the Cellar’s main attraction and one of the greatest of the modern illusionists. I don’t say that because I happen to be his manager and publicist. He’s also something of a secretive type, given to quirks like an inordinate fascination for puzzles and challenges, the more bizarre the better. Working for and with him the past five years has been anything but dull.

Steele usually dresses in black, both on stage and off, and I think he does it because he knows it gives him, with his thick black hair and dark skin and eyes, a vaguely sinister air. He looked sinister now as he said, “The most amazing thing about Phil Boltan, you know, is that he’s still alive. He does a fine job on stage, but he has the personal habits and morals of a Yahoo.”

Ardis’ eyes shone as they always did when Steele was around; she’s his assistant and confidante and lives in a wing of his house across the Bay, although if there is anything of a more intimate nature to their relationship neither of them has ever hinted at it to me. She said, “You sound as though Boltan is not one of your favorite people, Christopher.”

“He isn’t — not in the least.”

Cedric frowned, “If you’d told me you felt that way, I wouldn’t have booked you both for the same night.”

“It doesn’t matter. As I said, he is a fine performer.”

“Just what is it that you find so objectionable about Boltan?” I asked as Steele sat down.

“He’s a ruthless egomaniac,” Steele said. “Those in the psychological professions would call him a sociopath. If you stand in his way, he’ll walk over you without hesitation.”

“A fairly common trait among performers.”

“Not in Boltan’s case. Back in the 40s, for example, he worked with a man named Granger—”

“The Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion,” Ardis said immediately.

“Right. The Granger Four-Men-in-a-Trunk Illusion premiered at the Palladium before George the Fifth. That was before Boltan’s time, of course. At any rate, Granger was getting old, but he had a beautiful young wife named Cecily and an infant son; he also had Phil Boltan as an assistant.

“So one morning Granger awoke to find that Boltan had run off with Cecily and several trunks of his effects. He was left with the infant son and a load of bitterness he wasn’t able to handle. As a result, he put his head in a plastic bag one evening and suffocated himself. Tragic — very tragic.”

“What happened to the son?” Cedric asked.

“I don’t know. Granger had no close relatives, so I imagine the boy went to a foster home”

Ardis asked, “Did Boltan marry Cecily?”

“No. Of course not He’s never married any of his conquests.”

“Nice guy,” I said.

Steele nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Enough about Phil Boltan,” he said “Matthew, did you have any problem setting up for my show?”

“No,” I told him “All your properties are ready in the wings.”

“Sound equipment?”

“In place.”

“Ultraviolet bulbs?”

“Check,” I said. The u.v. bulbs were to illuminate the special paint on the gauze and balloons and other “spook” effects for Steele’s midnight séance show. “It’s a good thing I did a pre-check; one of the Carter posters fluoresced blue around the border, and I had to take it down. Otherwise it would have been a conspicuous distraction.”

Cedric looked at me reproachfully. “I suppose you’d have removed the Iron Maiden if that had fluoresced,” he said, meaning the half-ton iron torture box in one corner.

“Sure,” I said. “Dedication is dedication.”

We made small talk for a time, and then Cedric excused himself to take his usual place behind the bar; it was twenty past ten. I sipped my drink and looked idly around the Cellar. It was stuffed with the paraphernalia and memorabilia of Carter the Great, a world-famous illusionist in the ’20s and ’30s. His gaudy posters covered the walls.

The stage was rather small, but of professional quality; it even had a trapdoor, which led to a small tunnel, which in turn came up in the coatroom adjacent to the bar. The only other exits from the stage, aside from the proscenium, were curtains on the right and left sides, leading to small dressing rooms. Both rooms had curtained second exits to the house, on the right beyond the Davenport Brothers Spirit Cabinet — a privy-sized cubicle in which a tarot reader now did her thing — and on the left behind a half-moon table used for close-up card tricks.

At 10:30 the voice of Cedric’s wife Jan came over the loud-speaker, announcing the beginning of Boltan’s act. The lights dimmed, and the conversational roar died to a murmur. Steele swiveled his chair to face the stage, the glass of brandy he had ordered in one hand. He cupped the glass like a fragile relic, staring over its lip at the stage as the curtain went up.

“Oh, for a muse of fire...” he said softly, when The Amazing Boltan made his entrance.

“What was that?” I whispered, but Steele merely gave me one of his amused looks and waved me to silence.

The Amazing Boltan was an impressive man. Something over six feet tall and ever so slightly portly, he had the impeccable grooming and manners of what would have been described fifty years ago as a “born gentleman.” His tuxedo didn’t seem like a stage costume, but like a part of his personality. It went with the gold cuff-links and cigar case, and the carefully tonsured, white-striped black hair. He looked elegant, but to my eyes it was the elegance of a con man or a head waiter.

Boltan’s act was showy, designed to impress you with his power and control. He put a rabbit into a box, then waved his hands and collapsed the box, and the rabbit was gone. He took two empty bowls and produced rice from them until it overran the little table he was working on and spilled in heaps onto the stage floor. He did a beautiful version of an effect called the Miser’s Dream. Gold coins were plucked out of the air and thrown into a bucket until it rattled with them; then he switched to paper money and filled the rest of the bucket with fives and tens. All the while he kept up a steady flow of patter about “The Gold of Genies” and “The Transmutations of the Ancients of Lhassa.”

When he was finished with this effect, Boltan said to the audience, “I shall now require an assistant. A young lady, perhaps. What about you, miss? That’s it — don’t be afraid. Step right up here on stage with me.” He helped a young, winsome-looking blonde across the footlights, and proceeded to amaze her and the rest of the audience by causing sponge balls to multiply in her closed hand and appear and disappear from his.

He excused the girl finally and asked for another volunteer: “A young man, perhaps, this time.” I could tell by the pacing of the act that he was headed toward some impressive finale.

A bulky bearded man who had just pushed himself to a table at the front, and was therefore still standing, allowed himself to be talked into climbing onto the stage. He was dressed somewhere between college casual and sloppy: a denim jacket, jeans, and glossy black shoes. He appeared to be in his late twenties, though it wasn’t easy to tell through his medium-length facial hair.

“Thank you for coming up to help me,” Boltan said in his deep stage voice. “Don’t be nervous. Now, if you’ll just hold your two hands outstretched in front of you, palms up...”

The bearded man, instead of complying with this request, took a sudden step backward and pulled a small automatic from his jacket pocket.

The audience leaned forward expectantly, thinking that this was part of the act; but Steele, who apparently felt that it wasn’t, jumped to his feet and started toward the stage. I pushed my own chair back, frowning, and went after him.

Boltan retreated a couple of steps, a look of bewilderment crossing his elegant features. The bearded man leveled the gun at him, and I heard him say distinctly, “I’m going to kill you, Boltan, just as someone should have done years ago.”

Steele shouted something, but his words were lost in the deafening explosion of three shots.

Boltan, staggering, put a hand to his chest. Blood welled through his fingers, and he slowly crumpled. A woman screamed. The uniformed police cadets and their officers were on their feet, some of them starting for the stage. Steele had reached the first row of tables, and was trying to push between two chairs to get to the stage. The bearded man dropped his weapon and ran off stage right, disappearing behind the curtain leading to the dressing room on that side.

The entire audience knew now that the shooting wasn’t part of the show; another woman screamed, and people began milling about, several of them rushing in panic toward the Cellar’s two street exits. Blue uniforms converged on the stage, shoving tables and civilians out of the way, leaping up onto it. Steele had made it up the steps by this time, with me at his heels, but his path to the stage right curtain was hampered by the cadets. Over the bedlam I heard a voice shout authoritatively, “Everyone remain calm and stay where you are! Don’t try to leave these premises!”

Another voice, just as authoritative, yelled, “Jordan, Bently, Cullen — cover the exits! Let no one out of here!”

I could see the stage area exit beyond the Spirit Cabinet, the one from the dressing room area stage right to the club floor; in fact, I had kept my eyes on it from the moment the bearded man had run off, because that was the only other way out of that dressing room. But no one appeared there. Steele and the cops pushed their way through the stage right curtain just as several other cadets reached the exit I was watching. Any second now they would drag the bearded man out, I thought, and we could start to make sense out of what had just happened.

Only they didn’t emerge, and I heard shouts of surprise and confusion instead.

“He’s got to be in here somewhere.”

“He’s not here, damn it, you can see that.”

“Another exit...”

“There isn’t any other exit,” Steele’s voice said.

“Well, he’s hiding in here somewhere.”

“Where? There’s no place for a man to hide.”

“Those costume trunks—”

“They’re too small to hold a man, as you can plainly see.”

“Then where the hell is he? He can’t have vanished into thin air!”

Subsequently, however, it appeared that the man who had shot The Amazing Boltan in full view of more than thirty cops had done just that.

Half an hour later I was again sitting at the corner table, along with Steele, Ardis, a harassed looking Cedric, and Ced’s slender and attractive wife Jan. The contingent of police had managed to quiet the frightened patrons, who were now all sitting at the tables or in the grandstand, or clustered along the walls, or bellied up to the bar for liquid fortification; they looked nervous and were mostly silent. Blue uniforms and business suits — the cadets and their officers, and several regular patrolmen and Homicide people — stood guard or moved about the room examining things and asking questions and doing whatever else it is cops do at the scene of a violent crime.

A number of things had occurred in that half hour.

Item: Boltan had died of the gunshot wounds, probably instantaneously.

Item: The gun which the murderer had dropped, a Smith & Wesson M39, had been turned over to the forensic lab men. If they had found any fingerprints on it, we hadn’t heard of it yet.

Item: The police cadets who had covered the Cellar’s two Street exits immediately after the shooting swore that no one had left.

Item: The entire stage area and the remainder of the club had been thoroughly searched without turning up any sign of the bearded killer.

Conclusions: The Amazing Boltan had been shot to death by a man who could not have left the Magic Cellar, was therefore still here, and yet, seemingly, was not here at all.

All of us were baffled, as we had said to each other several times in the past few minutes. Or, rather, Ardis and Cedric and Jan and I had said so; Steele sat in silence, which was unusual for him, and seemed to be brooding. When I asked him how he thought it had been done, since after all he was a master illusionist and a positive fanatic when it came to “impossible challenges,” he gave me a meditative look and declined comment.

We had considered, of course, the trapdoor in the stage, and had instantly ruled it out. For one thing, it was located in the middle of the stage itself — right behind where Boltan had fallen, as a matter of fact — and all of us had seen the killer exit stage right through the side curtain; there was no trap in that dressing room area. The tunnel leading from under the stage trap to the coatroom had been searched anyway, but had been empty.

I dredged my memory for possible illusions which would explain the bearded man’s vanishing act, but they all seemed to demand a piece of apparatus or specific condition which just wasn’t present. Houdini once vanished an elephant off the stage of the Hippodrome, but he had a large, specially made cage to do it. What did seem clear was that the murderer knew, and had applied, the principles of stage magic to come up with a brilliant new effect, and then had used it to commit a cold-blooded homicide on the stage of the Magic Cellar.

Captain Dickensheet approached our table and leaned across it, his palms hard on the edge. “Everybody,” he said pointedly to Cedric, “has to be somewhere. Don’t you have any ideas where the killer got to — and how?”

Cedric shook his head wearily. “There’s just no other way out of that dressing room besides the curtain onto the stage and the curtain next to the Spirit Cabinet,” he said. “The Cabinet is solid down to the floor, and the other walls are brick.”

“No gimmick or gizmo to open that Cabinet’s back wall?”

“No, none.”

“Even if there were,” Steele said, “it would merely propel the killer into the audience. The fact is, Captain, he could not have gotten out of the dressing room unseen. You have my professional word on that.”

Dickensheet straightened up, glaring. “Are you telling me, then, that what we all saw couldn’t have happened?”

“Not at all.” Steele stood abruptly and squeezed past my chair to the aisle. “I can assure you that what you saw is exactly what happened. Exactly.” Then, nodding to the table, he headed back to the stage left dressing room.

Dickensheet lowered his lanky frame into the aisle chair and stared across at the Carter the Great poster on the wall facing him. It depicted Carter astride a camel, surrounded by devils and imps, on his way to “steal” the secrets of the Sphinx and the marvels of the tomb of old King Tut. “Magicians!” the captain said, with feeling.

Cedric asked, “How much longer will you be holding everyone here?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, can’t you just take all their names and addresses, and let them go home?”

“That’s not up to me,” Dickensheet said sourly. “You’ll have to talk to Lupoff, the homicide inspector in charge of the investigation.”

“All right.” Cedric sighed, and got up to do that.

I decided to leave the table too, because I was wondering what Steele was up to backstage. I excused myself and went into the left dressing room where I found Steele sitting in front of the mirror, carefully applying his stage makeup.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“It’s twenty till twelve, Matthew,” he said. “I’m on at midnight.”

“You don’t think they’re going to let you do your show now, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Well, they just took Boltan’s body off the stage fifteen minutes ago.”

“Ah yes,” Steele said. “Life and death, the eternal mysteries. My audience is still here, I note, and I’m sure they’d like to be entertained. Not that watching the police poking and prying into all the corners big enough to conceal a man isn’t entertaining.”

“I don’t understand why you’d even want to go on tonight,” I said. “There’s no way you can top the last performance. Besides, a spook show would hardly be in good taste right now.”

“On the contrary, it would be in perfect taste. Because during the course of it, I intend to reveal the identity of the murderer of Philip Boltan.”

“What!” I stared at him. “Do you mean you know how the whole thing was-done?”

“I do.”

“Well — how? How did the killer disappear?”

“The midnight show, Matthew,” he said firmly.

I looked at him with sufferance, and then nodded. Steele never does anything the easy way. As well, here was an opportunity to put on a kind of show of shows, and Steele is first and foremost a showman. Not that I objected to this, you understand. My business is publicity and public relations, and Steele’s flair for drama is the best kind of both. If he named the killer during his midnight show, and brought about the capture of the bearded man, the publicity would be fantastic.

“All right,” I said, “I’ll use my wiles to convince the cops to allow you to go ahead. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing.”

“Ninety percent of the time, anyway.”

“Ask Ardis to come in here,” Steele said. “I’ll have to tell her what effects we’re doing now, and in what order.”

“You wouldn’t want to give me some idea of what’s going on, would you?”

Steele smiled a gentle, enigmatic smile. “It is now quarter to twelve, Matthew. I would like the show to begin at exactly midnight.”

Which meant that he had said all he intended to say for the time being, and I was therefore dismissed. So I went back out into the club where Captain Dickensheet was still sitting at our table with Jan and Ardis; Cedric had also returned, and had brought with him the dark, intense-looking inspector-in-charge, Lupoff.

When I got to the table I told Ardis that Steele wanted to see her. Immediately, she hurried to the stage left dressing room. I sat down and put on my best PR smile for Lupoff and Dickensheet.

“I have a request from Christopher Steele,” I said formally. “He wants to be allowed to do his midnight show.”

Both cops frowned, and Lupoff said, “I’m in no mood for levity.”

“Neither is Steele. He wants to do the show, he says, in order to name the murderer and explain how the vanishing act was done.”

Everyone at the table stared at me, Cedric and Jan looking relieved. Lupoff and Dickensheet, on the other hand, looked angrily disbelieving. The inspector said, “If Steele knows how and who, why the hell doesn’t he just come out here and say so?”

“You have to understand him,” I said. “He’s an artist, a showman. He thinks only in theatrical terms.” I went on to tell them about Steele’s idiosyncrasies, making it sound as though he were a genius who had to be treated with kid gloves — which was true enough. “Besides, if he solves the case for you, what can it hurt to let him unmask the killer in his own way?”

“The murderer is still here, then?” Cedric asked.

“I think so,” I said. “Steele didn’t really tell me much of anything, but that’s what I would assume.” I returned my gaze to the two cops. “You’ve got the Cellar sealed off, right? The killer can’t possibly escape.”

“I don’t like it,” Lupoff said. “It’s not the way things are done.”

I had to sell them quickly; it was nearing midnight. I decided to temporize. “Steele needs the show in order to expose the guilty man,” I said. “He’s not sure of the killer’s identity, but something he has planned in the show will pin it down.”

“How does he know it will work?” Dickensheet asked. Then he scowled. “He wouldn’t be wanting to do this show of his just for publicity, would he?”

“Listen, Captain,” I said, “the publicity won’t be very good if he blows it. I’d say Steele’s pretty sure of himself.”

Cedric nodded eagerly; he knew, as I did, that if Steele came through as usual, it would turn a possibly harmful blow to the Cellar’s image into a potential drawing card. He said, “I’ve known Christopher Steele for a long time, and I’ll vouch for what Mr. Booth says. If Steele claims to know what happened here tonight, then he does know. I think you ought to go along with him.”

Lupoff and Dickensheet held a whispered conference. Then they both got up, told us to wait, and went backstage, no doubt to confront Steele. Three minutes later they came out again, still looking dubious — but knowing Steele as I did, I could tell even before Dickensheet confirmed it that they had given him the go-ahead.

Midnight.

The civilian audience had been fidgeting in their seats for a couple of minutes, since Cedric had announced to them over the loudspeaker that Steele was going to do his midnight show. The contingent of police were also fidgeting, owing to the fact that none of them had any idea, either, of what was about to happen. I was alone at the table, Jan having gone back to the bar and Cedric off to work the light board.

The house lights dimmed, and the curtain rolled up. Steele stood motionless at center stage, the rose-gelled spots bathing him in soft light; his work clothes, a black Suit over a dark turtleneck, gave him a sinister-somber look. He bowed slightly and said, “Good evening.”

The last murmur died away among the audience, and two hundred people silently watched for whatever miracle Christopher Steele, Master of Illusion, was about to perform.

“We have, all of us,” he said, “just witnessed a murder, and a murder is a horrible thing. It is the one irremediable act, terrible in its finality and inexcusable in any sane society. No matter how foul the deeds or repugnant the actions of another human being, no one has the right to take from him that which cannot be given back: his life.

“But the murder itself has been overshadowed by the miraculous disappearance of the killer, seemingly before our very eyes. He ran into that dressing room—” Steele gestured to his left, “—which has only two exits, and apparently never came out. The room has been thoroughly searched, and no human being could possibly remain concealed therein. A vanishing act worthy of a Houdini.”

Steele’s eyes peered keenly around at the audience. “I am something of an authority on vanishing—”

Suddenly the lights went out.

There was an immediate reaction from the audience, already edgy from the past hour-and-a-half’s happenings; no screams, but a nervous titter in the dark and the sound of chairs being pushed back and people standing.

Then the lights came back on, and Steele was still there, center stage, facing the audience. “Accept my apologies,” he said. “Please, all of you be seated. As you can see—” he indicated the two police officers standing one on each side of the stage, “—there is nowhere I could go. As well, the lights were off then for a full five seconds, which is much too long for an effective disappearance. A mere flicker of darkness, or a sudden burst of flame, is all that is needed.

“I shall now attempt to solve this mystery, which has so baffled my friends on the police and the rest of us. I’m sure you will forgive me if, in so doing, I create a small mystery of my own.”

Steele clapped his hands together three times, and on the third clap there was a blinding flash of light — and the stage lights went out again — and came back on almost instantly.

Steele was gone.

In his place stood the beautiful Ardis, in her long white stage gown, her arms outstretched and a smile on her lips. “Hello,” she said.

The audience gasped. The thing was done so neatly, and so quickly; Steele had turned into Ardis before their eyes. Someone tentatively applauded, as much in a release of tension as anything else, but there was no doubt that the audience was impressed.

Ardis held up her hands for silence. “What you have just seen is called a transference,” she said when the room grew still again. “Christopher Steele is gone, and I am here. And now I, too, in my turn, shall leave. I shall go into the fourth dimension, and you shall all observe the manner of my going. Yet none of you will know where I have gone. Thus — farewell.”

There was another bright flash, and the lights once more went out; but we could still see Ardis before us as a kind of ghostly radiance, her white dress almost glowing in the dark. Then she dwindled before our eyes, as though receding to a great distance. Finally, the lights came on to stay, and the stage was empty, and she was gone.

There was a shocked silence, as though the audience was collectively holding its breath. In that silence, a deep, imperious voice said, “I am here!”

Everybody turned in their seats, including me, for the voice had come from the rear of the room.

Incredibly, there stood the murderer — beard, denim jacket, and all.

Several of the policemen started toward him, and one woman shrieked. At the same time, the bearded man extended his arm and pointed a long finger. “I,” he said, “am you.”

He was pointing at one of the young police cadets standing near the Iron Maiden.

The cadet backed away, startled, looking trapped. Immediately, the bearded man hunched in on himself and pulled the denim jacket over his head. When he stood up again, he was Steele — and the apparition that had been the murderer was a small bundle of clothing in his hand. Even the jeans had been replaced by Steele’s black suit trousers.

“You are the murderer of Philip Boltan,” Steele said to the cadet. “You—”

The cadet didn’t wait for any more; he turned and made a wild run for the nearest exit. He didn’t make it, but it took three other cops a full minute to subdue him.

Sometime later, Steele, Ardis, Cedric, Jan, and I were sitting around the half-moon table waiting for Inspector Lupoff and Captain Dickensheet to return from questioning the murderer of Philip Boltan. The Cellar had been cleared of patrons and police, and we were alone in the large, dark room.

Steele occupied the seat of honor: an old wooden rocking chair in the dealer’s spot in the center of the half-moon. He had said little since the finale of his special midnight show. All of us had wanted to ask him how he knew the identity of the killer, and exactly how the vanishing act had been worked, but we knew him well enough to realize that he wouldn’t say anything until he had the proper audience. He just sat there smiling in his enigmatic way.

When the two officers finally came back, they looked disgruntled and morose. They sat down in the two empty chairs, and Dickensheet said grimly, “Well, we’ve just had an unpleasant talk with Spellman — or the man I knew as Spellman, anyway. He’s made a full confession.”

“The man you knew as Spellman?” I said.

“His real name is Granger. Robert Granger.”

Cedric frowned, looking at Steele. “Isn’t that the name of Boltan’s former partner, the one you told us committed suicide?”

“It is,” Steele told him. “I had an idea that might be who the young cadet was.”

“You mean he killed Boltan because of what happened to his father?” I asked.

“Yes,” Lupoff said. “He decided years ago that the perfect revenge was to kill Boltan on stage, in full view of an audience, and then disappear. He’s been planning it ever since, mainly by studying and mastering the principles of magic.”

“Then he intended from the beginning to murder Boltan in circumstances such as those tonight?”

“More or less,” Dickensheet said. “He wanted to do the job during one of Boltan’s regular performances, and the invitation to the Academy graduating class tonight convinced him that now was the time. It was only fitting, according to Granger, that Boltan die on stage under an aura of mystery.”

Jan said bewilderedly, “But why would a potential murderer join the police force?”

“Spellman, or Granger, is mentally unstable. We try to weed them out, but every once in a while one slips by. He believes in meting out punishment to those who would ‘do evil,’ in his own words just now. God only knows what he might have done if he’d gotten away with this murder and gone on to become an officer in the field.” Dickensheet shuddered at the possibility. “As if we don’t have enough problems...”

“I don’t understand how Granger could join the force under an assumed name,” Cedric said. “I mean, if his real name is Granger and you knew him as Spellman—”

“Spellman is the name of the family who adopted him out of the orphanage he ended up in after his father died. As far as our people knew, that was his real name. I mean, you usually don’t check back past a kid’s sixth birthday. We might never have known he was Boltan’s partner’s son if he hadn’t admitted it himself tonight.”

“What else did he say?” I asked.

“Not much. He talked freely enough about who he was and his motives, but when we started asking him about the details of the murder, he closed up tight.”

So we all looked at Steele, who continued to sit there smiling to himself.

“All right, Steele,” Lupoff said, “you’re on again. How did Spellman-Granger commit the murder?”

“With a gun,” Steele told him.

“Now look—”

Steele held up a placating hand. “Very well,” he said, “although you must realize that I dislike explaining any illusion.” He began to rock gently in the chair. “Granger used a clever variant on an illusion first employed by Houdini. As Houdini did it, the magician rode into an arena — this was a major effect done only in stadiums and arenas — on a white horse, dressed in flowing Arabian robes. His several assistants, clad in red work suits, would grab the horse. Houdini would then stand up in the saddle and fire a gun in the air, at which second a previously arranged action of some type would direct all eyes to another part of the arena.

During that instant, Houdini would vanish; and his assistants would then lead the horse out.”

Dickensheet asked, “So how did he do it?”

“By a costume change. He would be wearing, underneath the Arabian robes, a red work suit like his assistants; the robes were specially-made breakaway garments, which he could get out of in a second, roll into a ball, and hide beneath his work suit. So he became one of the assistants and went out with them and the horse.

“Spellman’s vanishing act was worked in much the same way. He probably donned his breakaway costume and false beard in the men’s room just prior to Boltan’s act, over his police uniform, and made sure he was picked from the audience by being there standing up when Boltan did the selecting. After he shot Boltan and ran into the dressing room through the curtain, he pulled off his breakaway costume and false hair, rolled them into a bundle and stuffed them into one of the costume trunks. Then he backed against the side of the curtain, so that when the first cadets dashed through, he immediately became one of them.”

“But we looked in all of the trunks...”

“Yes, but you were looking for a man hiding, not for a small bundle of denim and hair stuffed in toward the bottom.”

Lupoff shook his head. “It sounds so simple,” he said.

“Much magic works that way,” Steele said. “You could never in a lifetime guess how it’s done, but if it’s explained it sounds so easy you wonder how you were fooled. Which is one reason magicians do not like to explain their effects.”

Ardis said, “You knew all along it had to be one of the cadets, Christopher?”

“By the logic of the situation,” Steele agreed. “But I had further confirmation when I remembered that, despite his somewhat scruffy appearance, the murderer was wearing well-shined black shoes — the one item he wouldn’t have time to change — just as were all the other graduating cadets.”

“But how did you know which of the cadets it was?”

“I didn’t until I was on stage. I had found the costume and the beard right before that, and I saw that the guilty man had fastened his face hair on with spirit gum, as most professionals do. It must have been very lightly tacked on so he could rip it off effectively, but the spirit gum would leave a residue nonetheless.”

“Of course!” I said. “Spirit gum fluoresces under ultraviolet light.”

Steele smiled. “Not very much, but enough for me to have detected the outline of a chin and upper lip when I looked for them in the darkness.”

Lupoff and Dickensheet seemed baffled, so I explained that there were u.v. bulbs in some of the spots because they were necessary for Steele’s spook show effects.

They nodded. Lupoff asked Steele, “How did you manage your disappearance?”

“The stage trap. I dropped into it, and Ardis popped out of it. Then she kept the audience’s attention long enough for me to crawl to the coatroom, put on the breakaway costume, and approach the audience from the rear. When the lights went out again and she disappeared, I looked again for the outline of chin and upper lip, to make sure I would be confronting exactly the right man.”

“And now your disappearance, young lady?” Dickensheet asked Ardis.

She laughed. “I walked off the stage in the dark.”

“But we saw you, ah, dwindle away...”

“That wasn’t me. It was a picture painted on an inflated balloon which was held over the stage for our show. I pulled it down with a concealed string while the lights were out, and allowed it to deflate. So you saw the picture getting smaller and seeming to recede. The method’s been used for many years,” Ardis explained.

Dickensheet and Lupoff exchanged glances. The inspector said, “All of this really is obvious. But now that we know how obvious magic tricks are, we’d never fall for anything like them again.”

“Absolutely not,” the captain agreed.

“So you say,” Steele said. “But perhaps—”

Suddenly Ardis jumped up, backed off two steps, and made a startled cry. Naturally, we all looked around at her — and she was pointing across the table to Steele’s chair.

When we looked back there again, after no more than a second, the chair was rocking gently and Steele had vanished.

Dickensheet’s mouth hung open by several inches. Lupoff said in a surprised voice, “He didn’t have time to duck through the curtain there. Then — where did he go?”

I know most of Steele’s talents and effects, but not all of them by any means. So I closed my own mouth, because I had no answer to Lupoff’s question.