But then Mackinnon sprang a surprise of his own. The music stopped in mid-bar, the magician stood with arms raised high - and then he shook his hands. Two shimmering scarlet cloths rippled downwards over his arms and hung to the floor like waterfalls of blood.
Simultaneously, all the lights died away except for one narrow spotlight focused on him. There was utter silence in the audience as he walked to the front of the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said - the first words he'd spoken. His voice was light and melodious, though, coming from his masked face, it had the mystery of a strange god's voice in an ancient temple.
The orchestra was hushed. No one moved. It was as if the whole theatre was collectively holding its breath.
"Under these silk cloths," he continued, "I am holding two mighty gifts. In one hand I hold a jewel, an emerald of great antiquity and priceless value, in the other I hold - a knife."
A silent shiver ran over the audience.
"Life," he went on quietly, mesmerically, "and death. The emerald will give its possessor, should he wish to sell it, a lifetime of wealth and luxury. The dagger, on the other hand, I shall plunge into his heart - and death will enter with it.
"One of these gifts, but only one, I shall give to the person who is brave enough to answer a simple question. A correct answer wins the emerald - a wrong one wins the knife. But first, the gifts themselves."
He shook his left hand. The cloth rippled silkily to the floor in a blood-coloured whisper, and there in his hand was a dark green flame - an emerald the size of a hen's egg, flashing with a sea-deep brilliance. The audience gasped. He set it carefully on the black velvet surface of a small table at his side.
Then he shook the other hand. The cloth fell, revealing the gleaming steel blade of a six-inch dagger. He held it out so the edge was horizontal. With his other hand he plucked at the air - and a white silk handkerchief appeared at his fingers' ends.
"So sharp is this blade," he said, "that the weight of the handkerchief alone will cut it in two."
He held the handkerchief high and let it fall. It drifted down slowly on to the blade and, without the slightest hitch or pause, fell neatly past it, sliced in half. Another gasp from the audience - more like a sigh this time, with a tremor of fear in it. Sally found herself spellbound too. She shook her head fiercely, and pressed her knuckles together. Where were the men from the box? Were they backstage already, waiting in the wings?
"Death," Mackinnon was saying softly, "death by this knife would be as soft and gentle as the falling of the silk. Think of the pain of disease, the misery of old age, the despair of poverty. . . Gone in a moment, banished for ever! This is as great a gift as the other. Perhaps even greater."
He laid the knife beside the emerald, and stepped back a pace.
"I shall do the deed," he said, "here and now, on this stage, in front of six hundred witnesses. And as a consequence, I shall hang. I know this. I am ready.
"Because this is a very solemn choice, I do not expect an answer at once. I shall let two minutes pass, by this clock."
The illuminated dial of a large clock appeared in the darkness behind him, with the hands showing two minutes to twelve.
"I shall set the clock going," he said, "and wait. If no one has offered to answer by the time it strikes, I shall take the gifts and conclude my performance. Tomorrow I shall repeat the offer, and I shall continue until it is taken up.
"Let us see if there is one amongst you who will dare to do it tonight.
"It only remains for me to ask the question.
"It is a simple one: what is my name?"
He fell silent. There was not a sound in the theatre except for the constant slight hissing of the gaslights, and the sudden first tick of the clock sounded clearly to every corner of the auditorium.
Seconds went past. No one moved; Mackinnon stood like a statue, his body as still as his masked face. There was silence from the audience, silence from the band, silence from the wings. The clock ticked on. The men from the box must be waiting in the shadows of the wings, held up by Mackinnon's surprise; but they wouldn't stay there for ever, and now a minute had gone by.
It was no good waiting, Sally thought. She looked at Frederick and Jim. "We'll have to do it," she whispered, and Frederick nodded. She opened her bag, snatched out the pencil and paper she kept in there, and scribbled hastily. Her hand shook; she could feel the tension of the audience behind her, half convinced that the emerald was real, that he really would use the knife, that life and death really did hang on the outcome.
The hand of the clock was nearly at the twelve. A rustling whisper arose from all around as people breathed in and held their breath. She looked at Frederick and Jim, saw they were ready, and stood up.
"I can answer it," she called.
A second later the clock struck, but no one heard it in the hubbub that broke out with the release of tension. Every head in the audience turned to look at her; she saw the wide whites of all their eyes in the gloom.
"Good for you!" came a shout, and it was taken up at once with a hoarse and ragged cheer. Sally walked slowly across the front of the auditorium towards the Chairman, who was standing at the foot of the steps. Under cover of the applause she was aware of Frederick and Jim slipping quietly through the door that led backstage. But there was no time to think of that; she needed all her concentration for Mackinnon.
The Chairman offered his hand, and the applause died away as she climbed up to the stage. The silence that fell now was even deeper than before. Sally walked forward. (Windlesham was somewhere in the shadows too, she thought, and he knows who I am, even if the others don't. . .)
"So," said Mackinnon when she stopped, a yard or two from him. "One has arrived with an answer. She comes to meet her fate. . . Now let us hear: what is my name?"
Sally could see the remarkable blackness of his eyes through the chalk-white mask. Slowly she held out the paper. Expecting her to speak, he was a little disconcerted, but it wasn't visible to the audience. As if he'd rehearsed the move for weeks, he reached out with tormenting slowness for the paper, took it, turned to the audience. Sally could feel their huge intense presence on her left.
He unfolded the paper, his eyes commanding silence. Every breath in the building was held - including Sally's. He lowered his eyes and read:
There had been no time to write more.
Mackinnon didn't blink. Instead he turned to the audience and said, "On the paper this courageous young lady has written a name - a name that every member of this audience, every man and woman in the kingdom, would recognize. It does me great honour - but it is not my name."
A gasp. He tore the paper into shreds, letting them trickle down through his fingers. Sally found herself held like a small animal mesmerized by a snake. All the resolution she'd felt had drained away completely, and the situation was reversed; a minute ago, he'd been in her power, now she was in his, entirely. She couldn't look at his eyes or the mask or the red mouth, only at the moving hands shredding the paper. Beautiful, strong hands. Was the knife real? Would he? No, surely - but then, what?
The only thing she knew now was that his mind must be racing. She hoped it was racing to a solution.
The moment couldn't be prolonged. He reached for the knife, held it in front of him and gazed at it profoundly, and then raised it high. He held it above her, still and cold like an icicle of steel -
And then several things happened at once.
A harsh cry broke out from somewhere in the wings, and something crashed heavily to the floor as a furious struggle broke out, making the curtains swing and sway.
A trapdoor beside Mackinnon flew open with a bang and a square platform appeared in the opening.
A woman in the audience screamed, and her scream was taken up by another, and then another.
The orchestra began a frenzied performance, in at least two keys, of the music from Faust.
And then Mackinnon seized Sally by the arm and dragged her to the t
rapdoor. She felt his arm around her, and marvelled at its tense strength.
The lights changed to a flickering, hellish red as the platform, with Mackinnon and Sally on it, began to descend.
The audience was a sea of noise - howling, shrieking, shouting - but Mackinnon's laugh, Satanic and powerful, cut through it all as he shook his fist and they sank into the darkness.
The trap closed with a bang over their heads.
The uproar was shut away at once; and Mackinnon drooped. He leaned against Sally and trembled like a child.
"Oh, help me," he moaned.
He'd changed in a moment. In the dim light (a gas-mantle some way off in the clutter of beams and ropes and levers was the only illumination) she saw that his mask had slipped sideways. She snatched it off and said:
"Quick - tell me. Why is Bellmann chasing you? I've got to know!"
"No - no - please! He'll kill me! I've got to hide -"
His voice was Scottish now, high and panicky, and he beat his hands together like a distracted child.
"Tell me!" Sally snapped. "If you don't, I'll let them have you. I'm from Garland's. A friend, d'you hear? Fred Garland and Jim Taylor are holding off those men at the moment, but if you don't tell me the truth, I'll give you away. Now tell me why Bellmann's after you, or--"
"All right - all right!"
He glanced around like a trapped animal. They were still standing on the wooden platform, between the iron runners that guided it up to the opening in the stage. It was the kind of thing known as a demon-trap - used in pantomimes to bring the Demon King on-stage. Somewhere, Sally thought, there must be a man winding a handle to control it, but there was no one else in sight.
Then there came a clatter of machinery. Sally could see nothing but a tangle of pulleys and chains, but suddenly Mackinnon took fright and dashed away, leaping off the platform and dodging between the hefty wooden pillars that supported the stage.
"Not that way!" called Sally, keeping her voice low.
It worked. He hesitated - and gave her time, in her clumsy enveloping dress, to spring after him and seize him by the arm.
"No! Let me go--"
"Listen, you fool," she hissed. "I'll give you to Bellmann, I swear I will, if you don't tell me what I want to know."
"All right - but not here -"
He looked this way and that. She didn't let go. There was a sputtering gaslight nearby that cast a lurid glare over them, making him look half-crazed and hysterical.
Suddenly she became angry, and shook him.
"Listen," she said. "You mean nothing to me. I'd give you up now, but there's something I want to know. There's fraud, there's shipwreck, there's murder mixed up in this - and you're involved. Now - why is he chasing you? What does he want?"
He struggled, but she didn't let go; and then he began to cry. Sally was amazed, and a little disgusted. She shook him again, harder.
"Tell me!" she said, her voice low with anger.
"All right! All right! But it's not Bellmann anyway," he said. "It's my father."
"Your father? Well, who is your father?"
"Lord Wytham," said Mackinnon.
Sally was silent, her mind in a whirl.
"Prove it," she said.
"Ask my mother. She'll tell ye. She's not ashamed."
"Who's she?"
"Her name's Nellie Budd. And I don't know where she lives. I don't know who you are, either. I'm just trying to earn my living, trying to perfect my art. I'm innocent, I've done nothing tae anyone, I tell ye. I'm an artist, I need peace and calmness - I need tae be left alone, not bullied and tormented and hounded without end - it isnae fair, it isnae right!"
Nellie Budd. . .
"But you still haven't told me why he's after you. And what's it got to do with Bellmann? It's no good telling me it's nothing to do with him - his secretary was here tonight. A man called Windlesham. Why's he involved?"
But before Mackinnon could answer, a trapdoor banged open somewhere above them, and Mackinnon twisted out of her hands and vanished into the shadows like a rat. She took a step after him, but stopped; she wouldn't catch him now.
She expected to find confusion above, with the audience still in an uproar over their disappearance. Instead, she found an apologetic stage-manager, a stage full of dancers, and the audience in high good humour.
Apparently, there should have been a stage-hand below to conduct her back to her seat - the trap, the platform and the red hell-fire all being what Mackinnon had devised as a climax to the act. It was the first time they'd played it, and the stage-manager was delighted with the effect.
The reason there'd been no one below was that all the available men had been called to deal with a fracas in the wings. Four men had appeared from nowhere, it seemed, and set about each other in fury, and after a huge struggle, had been thrown out. It was probably another angry husband, said the stage-manager.
"An angry husband?"
"Well, you see, Mr Mackinnon's got a way with the ladies. I daresay you noticed. They fly to him like moths. Can't see why, but there you are. It wouldn't be the first time there's been a shindig over that kind of thing where he's concerned. He's a devil for the ladies. Now then, miss, let me find a boy to show you back to your seat. You was in the front row, wasn't you?"
"I think I'll go," she said. "I've had enough entertainment for one evening, thank you very much. Which is the way out?"
Once outside the theatre she hurried around to the stage entrance, her heart beating fast, and saw Frederick sitting on the step swinging his stick gently while Jim wandered up and down peering at the ground. Apart from them, the alley was deserted.
She ran up and crouched down beside Frederick.
"Are you all right? What happened?"
He looked up, and she saw his cheek was cut, but he was smiling. She touched it tenderly.
"Ow. . . We sent 'em packing. It was a bit cramped in there, the curtain kept getting in the way; but when they threw us out into the alley here and I could swing the stick we got on a bit better. Nasty pair they were. Still, I shook some dust out of Sackville and Jim spread the other feller's nose over his face, so we didn't do too badly. At least, I didn't. Found it yet?" he said to Jim.
Jim grunted something. Sally got up and turned his face to the light. His lip was split and, as she saw when he opened his mouth, he'd lost one of his front teeth. She felt a pang; they'd been hurt, and she'd let Mackinnon go. . .
"Did you find anything out?" said Frederick, getting to his feet.
"Yes, I did. Let's find a cab and get you home - I want to put something on that cut. And Jim's mouth is going to hurt. I hope we've got some brandy."
"Pity they threw us out, really," said Frederick. "I wanted to see Senor Chavez, the Boneless Wonder."
"I seen him before," mumbled Jim. "He's a waste of time. He stands on his hands and sticks his leg in his ear, and that's it. What'd you find out, then, Sal?"
In a four-wheeler a few streets away, Messrs Harris and Sackville were undergoing a painful dressing-down from Mr Windlesham. But they weren't giving it the attention it deserved; Sackville, having been beaten about the head with Frederick's stick, was even more fuddled than usual, and Mr Harris, whose nose had felt the impact of Jim's brass knuckles, was preoccupied with diverting the flow of blood away from his shirt-front and into a sodden handkerchief.
Mr Windlesham looked at them with distaste, and knocked at the roof. The cab slowed down.
"We ain't there yet," said Sackville thickly.
"Most acutely observed," said Mr Windlesham. "However, it's a nice sharp night. The walk will do you good. It seems to me that your talents are more suited to terrorizing women than fighting with men. If that is the case, I may have another job for you, and I may not; it depends on how punctual you are in the morning. Seven o'clock in my office, and not a minute later. No blood on the doorhandle, Mr Harris, thank you; mop it clean, if you wouldn't mind. No, not with your handkerchief. The tail of your coat will do very
well. Goodnight to you."
Grumbling, muttering, groaning, the two thugs disappeared down Drury Lane. Mr Windlesham told the driver to take him to Hyde Park Gate; his employer, he thought, would be greatly interested by the evening's events.
Chapter Twelve
PHANTASMS OF THE LIVING
"So, what have we got?" said Frederick, helping himself to marmalade. It was the morning after their visit to the music-hall, and he and Jim were breakfasting with Sally at the Tavistock Hotel in Covent Garden. "Mackinnon claims to be Nellie Budd's son by Lord Wytham. Well, that's possible."
"That's the yarn he spun to Miss Meredith, too," Jim pointed out. "At least, he didn't name his father and mother, but the story was the same. But that doesn't explain why Bellmann's chasing him. Unless he doesn't fancy him for a brother-in-law. Don't blame him."
"Inheritance," said Sally. "There was something about that, wasn't there? But the illegitimacy might rule that out. What could he inherit from Wytham?"
"Precious little, at a guess. The man's bankrupt, or on the verge of it," said Frederick. "Everything he's got is mortgaged up to the hilt. And now he's been pitched out of the Cabinet as well. . . I don't know. He's a dismal kind of Johnny. I prefer Nellie Budd. No wonder she blinked when I mentioned Mackinnon."
"What about this North Star business?" said Jim.
"North Star Castings," said Sally. "Something to do with iron and steel? It's not listed at the Stock Exchange. I'll go and see this Mrs Seddon at Muswell Hill tomorrow, but this morning I'm going to see a Mr Gurney and ask him about psychometry. I've also got a business to run, in the intervals between everything else. . ."
"Well, I'm off to do some snooping around Whitehall," said Frederick. "I want to see what I can find out about Wytham. And then I'll go and pay another call on Nellie Budd. Talking about business, it's about time I earned some money. I haven't made a penny from this case so far; in fact, I'm down one watch."
"It's all right for you, mate," said Jim bitterly, feeling his bruised mouth. "You can buy another one for thirty bob. Teeth ain't so easily come by. And how you have the cold-hearted cruelty to taunt a feller with kippers and toast when all he can manage is porridge and scrambled eggs, I shall never know. Still, that geezer's going to have trouble with his conk for a while; that's some comfort."