The Linking Rings Page 2

  He shook his head good-naturedly. “Why start now? Call me Larry.”

  “That may take a while,” I admitted.

  “As you wish, Dr. Marks,” he said, giving my hand a quick squeeze before moving back into the crowd.

  There’s a funny thing about magicians: get just about any number of them into a room together and the place suddenly turns into an impromptu performance venue. This was no exception, and mini-shows popped up all over the room. I had finished looking at the displays and was still feeling the adrenaline rush of meeting Laurence Baxter. So I turned my attention to the room, which in the past few minutes had transformed into a sea of magicians demonstrating their skills to other magicians, who were patiently (or not) awaiting their turns to demonstrate right back.

  Closest to me was a young man with slicked-back jet-black hair wearing a tattered tux and bright yellow sneakers. He was demonstrating his virtuosity with a deck of cards, but I would be hard-pressed to call what he was doing a traditional magic trick. Instead, he was manipulating the cards, practically juggling them, his hands orchestrating the cards into a shower of tumbling, well-controlled movements. The small crowd around him, consisting of young men about his age, was cooing in appreciation at his skill and dexterity. I found it impressive as well, although I could hear my Uncle Harry’s voice in the back of my head, growling, “Yes, that’s all well and good, but when is he going to actually do something?”

  He didn’t get the chance, as one of his audience members squinted across the room and declared, “Angelika is here!”

  “And she’s performing? Brilliant!” said another teen boy in the group.

  That was all it took for the crowd to rapidly disperse and just as quickly reform across the room. The young man in the tux and yellow sneakers scowled at the interruption and didn’t bother to follow his audience.

  “Ah, she’s nothing to run home for.”

  I didn’t want to disagree with him, but from this distance she certainly appeared to be worth a quick trot. She was dressed in a bright Victorian-style outfit, consisting, primarily, of a tight red corset along with a very short red skirt and black lace stockings. Her blonde hair was tied up in a messy ponytail on the top of her head, while on her feet she wore high black shoes with what looked like painfully sharp pointed heels.

  “Not a fan?” I suggested as the young man squared his deck of cards and began to put them back into the case.

  “Of her? Not bloody likely,” he grumbled. “She’s all knickers and knockers, that one.” He pocketed the deck of cards and smiled up at me. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  I shook my head as I put out my hand. “No, from the States. Eli, nice to meet you.”

  He took my hand and then his face brightened. “Not Eli Marks by any chance?” he said.

  “That would be me,” I said, anticipating his next statement would be some glowing comment about my Uncle Harry.

  “Fantastic,” he said, now pumping my hand enthusiastically. “I’m a huge fan of your Card-Presto, use it all the time. Saved me a small fortune on cards over the years.”

  “Well, thanks, glad it’s of use,” I said, taken aback the conversation was actually about me and not my nearest relation. The Card-Presto, a device designed to help flatten decks of cards, and thus increase their longevity, was one of the few magic items I had ever produced. It was a small but consistent seller. “And you are?”

  “Liam. Liam Sutherland. This is fantastic. Eli Marks. My, my.”

  I shrugged modestly.

  An awkward moment of silence, which Liam broke. “Well, mate, I’m helping out backstage so I have to be off. But if you’re around after, I’d love to buy you a pint.”

  He barely looked old enough to be buying alcohol at all, a pint or otherwise, but I’d always been lousy at guessing a person’s age. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “That would be great.”

  “Brilliant,” he replied happily, turning to go, repeating my name as he headed toward the door. “Eli bloody Marks, what do you know.”

  I basked in the momentary glow of celebrity for a few seconds, then made my way across the room to watch Angelika to see if there was, in fact, anything more to her than, as Liam so expressively put it, knickers and knockers.

  While her appearance and costume may have helped draw a crowd, I could immediately recognize it was her skill with a deck of cards that kept the growing audience in rapt attention. By the time I joined the group, she was in the midst of what looked like an Ambitious Card routine, joking playfully with a teenager she had pulled from the swarm buzzing around her. He was a gawky and gangly kid, his looks and manner absolutely screaming “nerdy magician.” She had grabbed him by the shoulders and was manhandling him, getting him into a position of her liking. With the stage arrangement set, she nodded at him dramatically. He placed his chosen card back in the deck and Angelika began a complicated series of cuts and shuffles.

  “Oh, you lads are burning me,” she complained with a smile.

  The crowd laughed in agreement. There is no audience harder to fool than a group of magicians. Oddly enough, no group is easier to fool as well, because with knowledge often comes complacency.

  “Now, you lads think you know every move I’m making here, don’t you?” she teased with a wicked smile. “Every false cut and shuffle, every break, am I right?”

  The group produced sounds of assent, and she increased the speed of her shuffles and cuts.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps. Yet I possess a secret weapon which you young gents sadly lack,” she said, scanning the group and forcing them to look her in the eye. “It’s true and it’s effective and it will help me fool you boys. Every. Single. Time. Never underestimate the mis-directional value of some well-placed...cleavage.”

  With that, she glanced down at her chest, which was attractively shaped and featured by her bustier. Every eye followed her gaze. I don’t know if she actually made a move with the cards right then, but at that moment she could have snuck an elephant into the room and no one would have noticed.

  “Back up here, boys,” she said a moment later, laughing and pointing to her eyes. “Back up here, please.” Nervous laughter all around as they realized how she had maneuvered their gaze at what was likely a critical moment. She turned to the young man who was helping her with the trick and he locked eyes with her, terrified to look anywhere else.

  “See anything down there you like, Brian?” she asked. He sputtered a noncommittal response. “Is it warm in here? You look a bit...sweaty,” she added seductively, gesturing to his forehead. “Have you maybe got a handkerchief on you?”

  He nodded and quickly reached into his back pocket. As he did, his expression changed from one of embarrassment to amazement. Instead of the handkerchief he had gone after, he pulled a playing card out of the pocket. He glanced at it, and then held it up for the small crowd: a Queen of Hearts, with his name scrawled across the face.

  “That’s how it’s done, boys,” she said with a laugh.

  The crowd burst into applause, including several loud whistles of appreciation. She took a deep curtsey, modestly placing one hand over her cleavage as she did so. It may have been my imagination, but I thought she winked at me before turning away from the group.

  “She’s really good, isn’t she?” a familiar voice said behind me. I turned and was surprised to see Megan standing next to me. As soon as I saw her, I started to feel a bit guilty, like the wink was something I had requested. For her part, Megan seemed nonplussed by the exchange and actually excited by the magic.

  “I mean, I only saw the end of it, but she really had them engaged,” Megan continued. “You know, the way you and Harry talk about engaging an audience.”

  I was a little thrown by the arrival of my girlfriend and this sudden topic of conversation.

  “Did you already make it to the hotel?” I sputtered, pulling
out my phone to check the time. “Was there any problem?”

  She shook her head, smiling broadly. She clearly wasn’t suffering the same degree of jet lag I was feeling.

  “We’re all checked in,” she said. “It’s adorable. I don’t know where the desk clerk is from, ‘cause we had a lot of trouble communicating with each other, but we eventually got it all sorted out. It was great! I think you’re going to love it.”

  Because Harry had wanted to spend so little time in London, we had timed our arrival a bit on the tight side. Our plan, which apparently had worked, was once we landed, Megan would take the bags and get us checked into the hotel, and then come meet us at The Magic Circle for the evening’s special show. Which, if my phone had properly updated, was going to start in about ten minutes.

  “We should probably head into the auditorium,” I said, looking around and noticing the steady stream of people leaving the room. I patted my pockets for the two tickets Harry had given me, and we joined the line of people waiting to ascend the spiral staircase up to the theater.

  Once we got onto the narrow staircase, I made the mistake of glancing down. The surface on the first floor had been painted to make it appear like the spiral staircase continued on into infinity. Looking up offered a similarly disquieting effect, so I instead concentrated on looking at the back of Megan’s head as we made our way up and up, finally arriving at the small auditorium.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, mesdames and messieurs, domain and herrian, you are in for a rare treat this fine evening.”

  Laurence Baxter had been on the stage for all of ten seconds, and he already held the audience in the palm of his hand. The sightlines in the theater were terrific. Even from my tenth-row seat, I felt like he was talking directly to me. The audience was clearly thrilled to be there watching Baxter do his thing, and Megan and I were immediately caught up in the excitement.

  “Can everyone see me all right?” he asked as he pulled out a deck of cards. “And can you see these? In case you are unfamiliar, these are playing cards.”

  The laughter from the audience had a sense of anticipation to it, like they knew where this was headed. To be honest, from where I sat, the cards were not all that visible. Certainly a traditional card trick in front of this size audience would require some real finesse.

  “Perhaps you can see them better if I do this,” Baxter said, and with a practiced flick of his wrist he sent one, then two, then three cards sailing through the air and up into the balcony. I turned and looked over my shoulder at their trajectory, which was so precise that people in the front row of the balcony were able to grab the cards out of the air as they sailed over their heads.

  “As I always say, if you can’t bring the people to the cards, then bring the cards to the people,” he said with a laugh as a round of applause died down. “And, just to prove these are, in fact, ordinary cards, can I have the quick assistance of a volunteer?”

  Moments later, a middle-aged man stood rather sheepishly next to Baxter, who quickly demonstrated for him the necessary wrist moves required to flick cards with such speed and precision. As expected, Baxter continually bested the volunteer, whose plucky efforts landed a series of wingless cards about eight feet away, in and around the front row seats.

  Upping the ante, Baxter then called for some help from backstage. Moments later, Liam, the young card juggler I had spoken to earlier, pushed a wheeled table on stage. Sitting atop the table was a large watermelon. This new addition was on the opposite side of the stage from Baxter and his volunteer, and once it appeared, it provoked a quick wave of applause from many in the audience. Once the large melon was properly positioned, Liam disappeared backstage.

  “Perhaps it was the sheer distance which was tripping you up,” Baxter suggested, handing more cards to the volunteer and gesturing toward the watermelon across the stage. The man was a good sport and gave it his all, but not one of the cards landed anywhere near the table, instead drifting sadly and aimlessly before fluttering to the stage.

  “You have to account for the air currents in the room,” Baxter said patiently, taking the deck of cards from the hapless volunteer. He quickly wet his index finger, held it up in the air to test the currents, and then begin to flick cards—one after another—at the watermelon.

  His aim was perfect, and each card not only hit the watermelon, but pierced the rind, holding fast. Within moments, half a dozen playing cards were protruding from the watermelon. The audience applauded wildly as Baxter escorted his volunteer back to his seat and then returned to the stage. He had done a magnificent job of warming up the crowd.

  “Thank you, thank you, for recognizing and rewarding me for what is, admittedly, a unique and wildly unnecessary talent,” he said. “And, speaking of talent, tonight—or rather, the next fortnight—is a celebration of talent. A rare opportunity for audiences to experience performers who are, with the exception of one another, the definition of peerless.” He lowered the handheld microphone as the audience applauded; this crowd was evidently aware of the line-up that had been brought in for this special series of performances.

  “It is, as they say, a once in a lifetime occasion.” He put one hand into his pocket and began to casually walk the stage. “I’m particularly pleased to be able to introduce tonight’s two performers, for we go way, way back.” He exaggerated the final “way,” and winked at the audience. “Of course, I was just a mere lad when I met them, and they were already well into their dotage.”

  This produced the laugh he intended, which he waved away with his free hand. “No, no, I admit, tonight’s performers are my contemporaries. I will own up to that. I’m a big enough man to admit that. In fact, I’ve even invited several of them—a few of whom are a step above street buskers and pickpockets—into my own home while they are here in London,” he continued, making it sound like the grandest of gestures.

  “Mind you, I’ve put away the good silver,” he added quickly. “I’m not a bloody idiot.”

  More laughter and applause from the crowd, and I remembered “I’m not a bloody idiot” was a well-known catch phrase of Laurence Baxter’s when he’d been appearing on television regularly in his own long-running prime-time show.

  “Tonight’s two special performers are each receiving a recognition which is long overdue: by order of the Society’s President, each is being bestowed The Devant Award, named in honor of the first president of the Magic Circle.”

  This produced a thunderous ovation, the volume of which was surprising because the auditorium probably only held a hundred and fifty seats or so, including the small balcony above us. Laurence Baxter smiled at the enthusiastic response and even placed the microphone under his arm so he could join in the applause.

  Once it had subsided, he took the microphone in both hands.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming two unparalleled performers as well as dear, dear friends. Oskar Korhonen...and Harry Marks!”

  Another deafening ovation as he stepped toward the wings. The curtain parted, revealing the two older performers.

  It was clear the two magicians had been positioned in a tableau, but it was also immediately apparent something had gone askew. Oskar was seated in a majestic, high-backed wooden chair, with Harry standing right next to him in what I’m guessing had been intended as a regal pose for the pair.

  The applause rapidly slipped away, and a few people laughed and then just as quickly stopped, realizing this was not intended to be a comic entrance. Somewhere in the auditorium, someone shrieked.

  Oskar was slumped over in the chair.

  Harry stood over him. He didn’t look out at the audience. He wasn’t dazed, but instead looked deeply puzzled.

  He was looking down at Oskar Korhonen, who had a large knife sticking out of his back.

  Chapter 2

  Harry was arrested.

  Not immediately, of course. First, there
was a shocked reaction from the crowd. Legendary British reserve was in short supply as it quickly dawned on the audience this was, in fact, not part of the show. Screams were followed by calls for “Is there a doctor in the house?”

  Laurence Baxter was the first to the tableau, looking a bit mystified at what was expected of him, his medical education being long past. He looked at Harry, he looked at Oskar, he looked at the bloody wound in the one-armed man’s back, and—from where I was now standing—he looked a bit pale and wobbly. Perhaps it had been for the best that he had abandoned medicine in favor of magic.

  The cries from the crowd had summoned a stern old woman to the stage, clutching a First Aid kit in her bony hands. I recognized her as the lady who had been running the coat check. My first impression of her—that she was a dead ringer for Mrs. Danvers from the first film version of Rebecca—was reinforced as she slowly moved across the stage. Despite her slow pace and obvious frail condition, she took immediate and complete charge of the situation.

  “Oh, Miss Hess, thank god. There’s been an accident,” Laurence Baxter said as he turned to her with evident relief.

  “So I’ve heard,” she said calmly, in what I recognized as probably a German accent. “Move. Let me see what the fuss is.”

  He stepped aside, and she moved in, glancing first at Harry and then down at the body.

  “Yes, well, we will not need this,” she said, thrusting the First Aid kit into Baxter’s trembling hands. “This man is beyond bandages and antiseptic spray. If the police have not been called yet, they must be.”

  “But, what...why?” Baxter nearly whimpered.

  “Because this man is dead,” she explained with flat simplicity, and then she hobbled off the stage as slowly as she had arrived.

  The police reached the same conclusion Miss Hess had come to, albeit without her Germanic directness.

  In a matter of moments, the auditorium was overcome with a rush of activity. EMTs sprinted in, followed immediately by the police. The order was given for the auditorium to be cleared, and the crowd moved down to the second floor Devant Room and the first floor Clubroom, where the police would likely question potential witnesses.