his top hat with the flair of a true showman, Giraudin then walked over to one of the headstones. Like a graveyard ghoul, he perched atop it and stared out into the crowd, his long, spindly legs stretched out before him.
Murphy didn’t like what he saw. He gulped. This whole performance was becoming too strange for him. He thought he had mentally prepared himself for some degree of oddness, but this was surpassing anything he had ever seen before.
On stage, Giraudin rose to his feet and passed his hand over his top hat with a flourish. With a wiggle of his fingers, he plunged his arm inside and pulled out not a white rabbit but a severed head! It was that of one of the Hung brothers!
A loud cry of horror went through the auditorium.
Murphy’s heart lurched inside his chest and the man on his right vomited.
Giraudin grinned, his face like a skull. He looked at the head before throwing it into the crowd. With a blue flash, it vanished in mid-flight, drawing another cry from the spectators.
So it was just an illusion. Murphy settled a little. No doubt papier-mâché duplicates filled with fireworks. He was disgusted but impressed. This sure beat the petty card tricks and the ‘find the lady’ that was known to win a buck or two by fooling drunks in the bars around town.
A second midget’s head, a third, and a fourth were also removed from the hat. Giraudin studied each, at one point lovingly caressing one’s cheek, before throwing it to the audience. They all vanished as had the first. He turned and walked to the opposite end of the stage. Hat held in one hand, he raised his other arm before sticking it inside. This time he screamed; his face a portrait in pain. He pulled his arm free. Clamped on to his hand, its teeth around his wrist, was Sammy Hung’s head!
As one, the spectators screamed. Some, deciding they had seen enough, made for the exit.
Giraudin added to the screaming. Desperately, he tried to shake Sammy’s head free. The head fell back into the hat, which now lay on the floor, dragging the Frenchman with it.
Captivated by the scene before him, Murphy watched as the top hat slowly began to swallow Giraudin. This couldn’t be happening, his rational brain tried to tell him. It was magic of such a high calibre that it defied explanation. But that was all it was—a clever magic trick, performed by means unknown in order to befuddle and entertain the masses. This was something that he had never experienced before. He had always disbelieved in the reality of magic, in anything remotely supernatural—it had no place in his hard-bitten, well-ordered life. He dealt only with things that he could see, feel, talk to and, if necessary, shoot. Now, his mind floundered frenziedly, out of its depth, groping for something firm and sane on which it could anchor itself. Was it a trick? Some part of his mind demanded an answer.
Giraudin’s limbs danced in spasmodic judders as, like a constrictor snake with its prey, the hat began to expand as it drew him in. Blood poured over the brim. With a slurping noise, the stage magician was engulfed from head to waist. Somehow, he staggered to his feet, blood covering what remained visible of him—his lower half. He crashed against one of the headstones and fell to his feet.
Grimly, Murphy watched as Giraudin’s legs kicked as though he was trying to right himself once more.
Suddenly, with a nauseating slurp, the hat devoured everything bar one foot. A trouser leg and a well-polished shoe protruded at an odd angle.
Spotlights fell on the bloodstained hat. It sat alone on the stage, steaming and burping like some gorged, fat toad.
A disturbing minute passed.
Murphy stared, confused, dumbstruck and utterly disgusted.
Then it happened. Like a geyser, a torrent of blood and guts fountained out of the hat. The crowd screamed in shock and revulsion. Still the red spray came, covering the stage in its gory, lumpy soup. Had anyone been left in the front row they would have been drenched.
The top hat rested on the stage, Giraudin’s unmoving foot defying Murphy’s sense of reality. He had hoped it would move, disappear, do something, anything but lie there. If it had gone, he could have rationalised that there had been some hidden trapdoor or other concealed exit—some escape hatch into which the entertainer had gone.
Matters were made worse when a stagehand in a coolie hat rushed on and lifted the hat, foot and all, off the floor before scampering away again.
A disgruntled-looking man with a mop and bucket came on stage. Muttering darkly to himself, he began cleaning up the copious blood spill.
The lights dimmed and the curtain fell.
This had to be fake, Murphy told himself. It had to be. He had read in the papers about some of these shock-horror grisly shows. They were rated not by talent but on gore content; the bloodier the better. In some ways he supposed it was like the old Roman arenas—the crowd baying for blood. It made him sick, but he had to remain focused. Maxwell was getting edgy and unless he found out something soon about ‘Two-Bellies’ then Murphy’s own life could be in danger.
A spotlight fell on the stage, following the movements of the wizened host. “Well, that was something to tell the grandchildren about, wouldn’t you say? May I present this evening’s next act, Huey Labada!” He began clapping in a doomed attempt to get the crowd to do likewise before retreating offstage.
The curtain rose.
A man in a pin-stripped jacket, looking every bit an archetypal mobster, stood on the stage. In his left hand he held a Thompson submachine gun. Cradled in his right arm was something from a child’s nightmare. The thing was lumpy and potato-shaped. What face it had resembled a cross between a battered child and a drooling bulldog. It was dressed in an old-fashioned convict outfit complete with arrow-stripped markings, a cap, and a ball and chain manacled around one ankle. Whereas most of the body looked stunted and deformed, its arms looked like human arms and moved accordingly.
The theatrical backdrop was of a dimly-lit Chicago street. Sound effects included the wail of a police car in the distance.
“Alright you guys,” said the ventriloquist. “Listen up. I’m Huey Labada.”
“An’ I’m his sidekick, ‘Two-Bellies’,” said the dummy.
Murphy’s heart skipped a beat. He stared hard, trying to discern the dummy’s features. Was it just his imagination, or was there a vague resemblance between it and the photograph Maxwell had given him of the missing ‘Two-Bellies’? But how could that be possible? This grotesque thing was no larger than a five-year old child.
“We’ve got a great show for you folks, tonight,” said Labada.
“Have we?” asked ‘Two-Bellies’.
“Sure have. But first we’re gonna take care of that mug who works in the jewellery shop. The one who set you up and put you in the slammer.”
There ensued a long, drawn-out theatrical scene that involved Labada and his ‘dummy’ in a mock hold-up of a jewellers, the part of the shop owner being played by the little old man who had introduced all of the acts so far. The lights then dimmed and the backdrop altered, so that the images of shadow-puppets could be projected on to it. Whether this was done by cast members offstage or via some form of cinematography, it was hard for Murphy to discern. It was impressive nonetheless, and although not a Broadway production, the scale of it took him completely by surprise.
However,
