plain rubbish, Sergeant. Her only object in having you here is so that she can satisfy her ego. It makes her feel important to think that Scotland Yard is keeping watch on her interests. If you like, you’ve my permission to leave at any moment you want.”
“Matter of fact, Mr. Kestrel, I’d rather stay. I’m a bit of an amateur magician and I’d like to see Crafto’s performance. He’s quite an expert.”
The industrialist gave a snort. “No time for such bosh, Sergeant! Making things appear and disappear! What kind of a living is that...?” He broke off and grinned. “Well, wouldn’t do for us all to have the same outlook, would it? See you at dinner. I’ve got to change.”
Whittaker nodded and, left to himself for a while, took the opportunity to do a little private thinking—and particularly weigh up in retrospect those people he had so far met. Of them all he liked Sidney Laycock the least.
He was still thinking when dinner was announced, and throughout the meal, when he was not answering the most preposterous questions in regard to his engineering activities abroad, he relapsed into intervals of meditation, a habit born of his calling as a police officer. Indeed, he did not really begin to take a definite interest in affairs around him until he was in the great ballroom-cum-hall, where the entertainment for the guests was to be held. He would much have preferred to sit between two people with whom it would not be necessary to talk; but instead he found himself saddled with Maine-Kestrel himself, immensely expansive in his evening-dress and surrounded by the aroma of his thick and fragrant Havana cigar.
“All twaddle, Sergeant—nothing else but twaddle,” he declared, motioning vaguely. “I wouldn’t tolerate such clap-trap for a moment if it were not for Vera wanting it. Hard to refuse her anything, y’know.”
“I can imagine,” Whittaker smiled; then to his satisfaction further conversation was made unnecessary by the striking up of the specially hired orchestra—and from this point the special concert, if such it could be called, got really into its stride, complete with an opening number by the chorus.
“Good job the wife’s on the Continent,” Kestrel grinned, as the opening leg-show continued. “She’d take a dim view of my enjoying this.”
Whittaker nodded but did not speak. He was trying to remember that he had come here for a specific reason and that it was just possible that, crazy or otherwise, the delectable Vera might have had very real reason for her request for police protection.... There was too the quite unfounded possibility that Kestrel himself was doing so much talking for the specific purpose of distracting attention.... Such were the thoughts that drifted through Whittaker’s intensely analytical mind—then when at last the curtains went up on the Great Crafto, he became definitely interested.
Being something of a magician himself, however amateur, Whittaker was more interested in the set-up of the stage itself rather than in Crafto as he made his preliminary tricks to the accompaniment of the customary unconvincing patter. But, as far as Whittaker could see, there was nothing unusual about the stage. It was of average size and bounded at either side of its proscenium by two immensely fat imitation granite pillars. The backdrop was black—by no means uncommon for a magician—as were the drapes to the side wings. On the stage itself there was a table, presumably a trick one, and the usual supply of mystic cabinets and equipment.
There was no doubt about it: the Great Crafto was good at his job. Even Kestrel admitted it, so there was no doubt any more; then after a superbly executed routine with the Chinese Rings, Crafto held up his hand and stilled the applause.
“And now, my good friends, we come to the greatest trick of all—the mightiest vanishing trick ever attempted. I tell you, in confidence, that so far this illusion has not been presented anywhere, not even to the Magic Circle, the proving ground for most feats of the unbelievable.... What is even more significant, our charming hostess, Vera de Maine-Kestrel herself, has offered to be the ‘victim’ of the vanishment....”
Applause drowned the remainder, and Crafto smiled broadly; then be added, “Whilst our back-stage friends set up the apparatus I must make a quick change. An illusion such as this demands the appropriate attire.”
With that he bowed quickly and hurried away on closing the curtains. The lights came up and the orchestra resumed its activities. Whittaker looked about him sharply, and finally towards Kestrel himself.
“Should I go back-stage, do you think?” Whittaker asked.
“What in hell for?”
“Merely to make sure there are no characters there who haven’t a good reason to be. After all, Mr. Kestrel, I am here to protect your daughter, and for that reason I feel I should take every precaution.”
Kestrel grinned round his Havana. “Give yourself a rest, Sergeant, and let my daughter’s cockeyed notions take care of themselves. If anything happens—which is about as likely as the end of the world—I’ll take the responsibility.”
Whittaker hesitated, then slowly relaxed again. After all, it was no part of his job to snoop and prowl against the wishes of the master of the house unless—absurd suspicion again!—the industrialist was deliberately preventing a back-stage investigation. It seemed hard to reconcile this, though, with his craggy, good-natured face and tolerant grin.
“This fellow Crafto’s a good showman; I’ll hand him that much,” he said. “Even changes his clothes to get in the mood. Doesn’t mean a thing, of course, but it’s good atmosphere. There are even some mugs who believe the clothes might have a direct bearing on the illusion. One born every minute, Sergeant.”
Whittaker was spared the need of answering as the curtains swept back and the Great Crafto was visible once more. This time he was attired in a cloak festooned with glittering stars and crescents. Upon his sleek black head was the conical hat of a wizard, and in his hand the inevitable wand. These, of course, were merely the stock-in-trade of his act: in the main, attention was centered on the apparatus in the center of the stage itself.
Hanging from the flies on a strong, brightly glittering chain was a giant edition of a normal birdcage. It gleamed with the brilliance of silver, though obviously could not have been made of this metal because of the cost. The bars were about six inches apart, bending inwards to join the big hub and clip at the summit, whilst at the bottom they were set into a base about two inches thick. There was nothing else on the stage at all—just this silvered cage, perhaps six feet high, suspended so that one could see through it, under it, and around it. To further satisfy the now silent audience Crafto walked around the cage and was visible as he passed behind it, then he thumped it with his wand to prove the metallic content of the equipment.
“My friend—The Silvered Cage!” he exclaimed, with a flourish. “Nobody anywhere near it, and our hostess Vera Kestrel least of all. And yet—watch!”
He clapped his hands and a girl assistant brought to him a folded cloth. With a few deft movements, as the girl disappeared again into the wings, Crafto had the cloth draped around the cage and a zipper down its length made sure it could not slip off.
“Lights!” Crafto boomed, and two brilliant limes from high in the flies concentrated their brilliance on the covered cage.
“This chap’s damned original,” Kestrel muttered, as Whittaker watched fixedly. “Most of these gentry work in half-gloom. This stunt’s so brilliant it nearly hurts the eye.”
“And now—behold!” Crafto cried. He tapped the cage twice, whipped away the cloth zipper, and there in the cage, clear for everybody to see, was Vera herself! There was no
