You Might As Well Die (29 page)

“No longer? What do you mean? Did something happen to her?”

“Are you pulling my leg? Don’t you read the news?”

“No, I don’t bother. Friends of mine write it. They usually just tell me.”

The man looked askance at Sherwood, not sure whether to take him seriously. “Well, Viola was running a bogus spiritualism thing. It turned out to be a big sham.”

“Yes, a séance. I’ve heard as much.”

“She was working it with her mother and with Ernie MacGuffin. Have you heard of
him
?”

“Yes. I knew him.”

“Yeah, we all knew him around here,” the man said. “When we found out Viola was running a fraud voodoo operation, we fired her. And now Ernie is found dead. Not suicide, but dead just the same. If we’d known this before, we would have done more than fire Viola.”

“Done more?” Sherwood asked. “Do you think Viola had something to do with Ernie’s death?”

“She knew he was alive, didn’t she? Then her phony operation gets exposed, and before that news is hardly even out, Ernie turns up dead.” The man narrowed his eyes. “His whole suicide was a sham, see? So to answer your question—yeah, I think Viola had something to do with it.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

He nodded, a knowing look on his face. “Try the Peek-a-Boo Revue, at the Spotlight Theater.”

“The Peek-a-Boo Revue? You mean—”

“Yeah, she’s strutting her stuff again. It was what she was doing before she became an artist’s model here.” He plucked the cigarette from his bottom lip and spat on the sidewalk. “What else is she good for?”

Sherwood checked his pocket watch. “It’s early yet. Do you know where I can find her right now?”

“Try her mother’s. She lives here in the Village, off Wooster Street.” The man gave Sherwood the exact address.

“Thanks.” Sherwood extended his hand. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met an artist who actually wore a beret.”

“Artist?” The man dropped Sherwood’s hand. “I’m no artist. I’m the janitor!”

He slammed the door in Sherwood’s face.

 

“Mrs. Parker!” Houdini shouted from somewhere within the jungle of books and papers. For every bookcase in the room, there were also a half dozen chest-high stacks of books piled on the floor. On top of all these were papers, pamphlets and news clippings overflowing like palm leaves. “What brings you here?”

Dorothy called out, “Your wife, Sacagawea, brought me here. And now she’ll have to lead me through this untamed wilderness to find you in person.”

Dorothy and Houdini’s wife—who had introduced herself as Bess—had just climbed the stairs to the attic of Houdini’s large town house. Moments earlier, when Dorothy had arrived and introduced herself, Bess had warned her about venturing into Houdini’s overstuffed attic library. Now Dorothy understood what Bess had meant.

They weaved through the forest of books and papers and eventually found Houdini in a corner of the library. He sat on the edge of a leather-backed swivel chair, hunched over a very messy desk. He took off his half-moon reading glasses and stood to welcome them, knocking over a pile of books in the process.

“Good morning, Mrs. Parker. Even in my wildest imagination, I didn’t expect you to come calling. What can I do for you?”

“Are you looking for something to do today?”

Houdini glanced, with a concerned expression, at the pile of papers and scrapbooks on his desk. “I really do have so much to do. . . .”

Bess chided him. “My love, no one but yourself is compelling you to put your library in order. It’s Sunday, a day of rest for most people. Give yourself the day off.” She turned to Dorothy. “He has the largest collection of books and papers on magic and illusion in the world, as well as the largest collection on the dramatic arts this side of Harvard.”

Houdini said, “And it will never get organized, my love, if I don’t do it.” He turned to Dorothy dismissively. “Just what type of outing do you have in mind, Mrs. Parker? A carriage ride? A visit to the museums? A stroll in the park?”

Dorothy shook her head. “Adventure. Danger. Excitement. Maybe we’ll stop for a nice lunch.”

Houdini’s mesmerizing eyes lit up. “I’ll get my coat!”

He raced out of the jam-packed room, a flutter of papers flying in his wake.

“Bess! Tell Henry to bring the Rolls around!” Houdini yelled as he clambered down the stairs. “Well, come on, Mrs. Parker. Let’s be on with it!”

 

Across the street from Midge MacGuffin’s house, Benchley stood leaning against a tree. He watched her front window. For the second time in ten minutes, Midge appeared in the window and looked nervously up and down the street. Both times, Benchley thought Midge would notice him looking at her. But she didn’t. She had her eyes out for someone else.

What is she up to?
Benchley wondered. Something did not seem right.

It was a quiet street of modest little town houses, and Benchley felt rather conspicuous just standing against a tree with no business being there. What would he say if anyone bothered to ask him why he was loitering around? He tried to occupy his thoughts with an answer. So far, he had nothing.

A few minutes later, the front door opened. Midge stepped halfway out. She had her coat on. Again she looked both up and down the street. This time, she did glance at Benchley. He pulled down the brim of his hat, but she was already back inside, the door closed.

He didn’t think she had paid any attention to him. She had glanced at him, realized he wasn’t whom she was looking for, and gone back inside.

At least that was what he hoped had happened. It was possible that she had seen him, recognized him, and quickly retreated into her house. He didn’t think so . . . but he couldn’t be sure.

Now he really felt conspicuous. He pulled out his pipe, filled the bowl (and spilled half of his tobacco in his haste) and tried desperately to light it. A man standing around smoking a pipe might not seem quite so suspicious. Why
wouldn’t
a man stop on a nice quiet street and have a pleasant little smoke? Happens all the time, right?

“Hello,” a high-pitched voice said. “What are you doing here?”

Benchley, startled, spilled the rest of his tobacco. He turned quickly. He looked down to see a very young girl with a miniature poodle.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

Benchley smiled. Without thinking, he answered, “I’m the tooth fairy. Just taking a break.”

She was befuddled. “Taking a break? The tooth fairy takes breaks?”

What a sweet little cherub,
Benchley thought. “Yes, indeed, I’m very busy. Why, I’m taking a tooth from every child on this block.”

The little girl’s eyes went wide in alarm. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Don’t take my teeth. Don’t take any of my teeth!”

The poodle growled at Benchley, baring its sharp, tiny fangs. The little girl spun around and yelled at the top of her voice. “
Mommy!
He’s going to take my teeth! He just said so!”

Benchley looked up to see a stern-faced woman pushing a baby carriage. The woman’s expression went from stern to threatening. “He said
what
?”

The little girl began to sob. The dog was now yapping, darting back and forth at Benchley’s feet. The carriage jiggled on its own; the baby inside was stirring. Then it let loose a piercing wail.

Well,
Benchley thought as he backed away
, so much for being inconspicuous.

 

Robert Sherwood found the dingy street and soon knocked at the door of Viola’s mother’s house.

The door flew open. An enormous, broad-shouldered woman filled the threshold. The woman wore an old cotton robe sprinkled with coffee stains. Sherwood was taken aback. The woman’s hair was askew—until he realized it was a wig.

“Who are you?” she spat. Before Sherwood could answer, she ranted, “Another dissatisfied customer? Well, get out! No refunds! It’s all over with. Or don’t you read the news?”

Sherwood pulled himself up to every inch of his six-foot-seven height. He wouldn’t be intimidated by this woman—no matter how intimidating she was.

“No, I don’t bother to read the news,” he said, using the same retort he gave to the janitor at the art school. “Friends of mine write it. They usually just tell me.”

The woman took a deep breath. She seemed to expand to twice her size. “So you’re one of those bloodsucking reporters ? I’ve half a mind to beat you into a bloody pulp for the way you’ve raked my little princess over the coals.”

Sherwood instinctively stepped back. He almost expected her to roll up her sleeves and display a pair of muscled, tattooed forearms.

He raised his hands as if to calm her down. “Your little princess—that’s who I’m looking for. I just want to see Viola.”

“Oh, another one of those guys!” The big woman rolled her eyes. Then she pointed a thick, accusing finger at Sherwood. “If you want to see my daughter disgrace herself, and forget every lesson I’ve ever taught her about how to act like a proper lady, you go right ahead down to that flea-bitten theater and you pay for a ticket like all the other perverts!”

She slammed the door so hard that the force of it shoved Sherwood backward. For a second, he thought the door might crack and splinter to bits. He stood dumbfounded for just a moment, then turned quickly to leave.

Mrs. Parker was right, after all,
he thought.
Maybe the murderer was a woman. Certainly a woman as big and as angry as Viola’s mother could have smashed in Ernie’s head.
Right after Sherwood looked in on Viola at the Peek-a-Boo Theater, he’d have to give Dorothy an earful about this.

 

Up the street from Abraham Snath’s law office, Dorothy Parker and Harry Houdini sat waiting in the back of his Rolls-Royce. They had driven by the dismal building, and Dorothy saw the sign posted on the door announcing another auction of MacGuffin’s art at “rock bottom” prices. The auction was scheduled to begin at eleven o’clock, but it wasn’t quite time yet. So Dorothy and Houdini decided to wait in the comfort of the Rolls.

Houdini was relating a story of his earlier days, how he would drum up interest in each town he visited on his tours. He explained how he would be tied into a straitjacket and suspended upside down ten stories above the street. The stunt would draw so many people that traffic would come to a complete standstill.

“The easiest way to attract a crowd,” he said, “is to let it be known that at a given time and a given place, someone is going to attempt something that, in the event of failure, will mean sudden death.”

Dorothy listened halfheartedly, gazing out the window. She watched a mounted policeman go by. His chestnut brown horse ambled along the street, in no rush whatsoever.

After a thoughtful moment, she turned to Houdini, interrupting him. “I know how you made that horse disappear !”

“Horse?” he asked, annoyed at the interruption. “What horse?”

“At the professional football game. You made a mounted policeman’s Clydesdale disappear. I know how you did it!”

He laughed scornfully and playfully slapped her knee. “Like fun you do, you silly girl.”

She didn’t like being treated like a
silly girl
. “How much do you want to bet?”

“Bet?” He laughed.

“Are you a gambling man?”

He stopped laughing. “I’ve been known to make a wager on occasion.”

“Then how much do you want to bet I know how you did that disappearing trick?”

Now he started to get annoyed. “Impossible. Don’t toy with me.”

“Never,” she said innocently. “I’m as serious as a heart attack. How much?”

“No one knows how I do my tricks. Not even my wife, and she used to be my assistant!”

“Then what do you have to lose? Five bucks? Ten bucks?”

He turned and stared ahead. “Impossible.”

“A hundred? Five hundred?” she asked. “Five hundred bucks says I know how you did that trick.”

He looked at her a moment, his expression as hard as stone. “Fine. Go ahead, tell me.”

She stuck out her hand and he eventually shook it. “You faked it,” she said.

He frowned. “Of course I faked it. It’s a trick.”

“I mean, the whole thing was a fake. The horse, the policeman, the stage.”

He smiled slyly. “I assure you, the horse was quite real.”

“But it wasn’t a police horse; it was a plant. What was it, a circus horse? A trained horse used in a vaudeville show?”

His mouth tightened. She’d gotten it right, she knew.

“And the policeman—he was a plant, too,” she continued. “Let me guess: He and the horse worked together in vaudeville. The horse did tricks—counting numbers and stomping his hoof, right?”

“You haven’t figured it out,” Houdini grumbled. “You haven’t explained my trick at all.”

“Onstage, you raised a box around the horse. Inside the box, the floor of the stage lowers—it’s a ramp. The horse is trained to go down the ramp and hide under the stage.”

Houdini’s voice was tight. “There was no room under the stage. And you saw for yourself that the policeman looked and didn’t find the horse there.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “The policeman jumped off the stage, looked underneath it and threw up his hands like the horse wasn’t there.”

“Precisely.”

“Only the horse
was
there! As I said, the policeman was an actor, and so was the horse. The horse was trained to crouch down in such a small space. And the phony cop only pretended he didn’t see the horse.”

“Absurd!” Houdini’s breath came in quick bursts. “That’s buffoonery, not magic. I assure you that was a real police horse and a real policeman. What devil would possess you to say anything to the contrary?”

She smiled and spoke softly. “Did you see that mounted policeman who just went by? He was riding a small chestnut horse.”