“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 possible doubt about it. Her cocktail gown was recognizable, and, even more surprising, she was bound about with strong cords. She moved her head and smiled a little.
“Speak to us, dear lady,” Crafto cooed. “Are you quite comfortable?”
“Roped up like this?” Vera demanded. “Hardly! But all for the love of art! I know how I got into this cage, ladies and gentlemen, but do any of you?”
The response to this was a thunderous round of applause in which Whittaker joined. He was so carried away by the brilliance of the illusion that he had forgotten his real task.... But the end was not yet. Crafto, at the side of the cage, surveyed the bound girl in the midst of the bars, then he waved his wand mysteriously towards her—again and again. The reason for this became apparent after a moment or two.
Here, surely, was the ultimate in stage illusions, for without any covering over the cage, with only Crafto near her, with the cage suspended on its chain two feet above the floor, Vera actually began to fade! She smeared mysteriously, vanished in dim vapours, and at length had gone entirely. The bars that had been behind her were in view again, but of she herself there was no trace or sign.
“First class!” roared Sidney Laycock, jumping up and leading the clapping. “What a pity you can’t do that with all women, Crafto! Fade ’em out when they get a damned nuisance, eh?”
“That ape talks to much,” Kestrel growled. “One of these days I’ll kick him out of the damned house. Can’t think what Vera sees in him.”
“And now,” Crafto murmured, bowing and smiling “we bring the little lady back to you, safe and sound, and devoid of her ropes.”
He held out his hand dramatically towards the left wings and waited. Vera did not appear. Crafto frowned very slightly and held out his hand again.... Silence, and a tension that seemed as though it would make a distinct bang when it broke.
“Vera!” Crafto called anxiously. “Vera! Come on!”
He was no longer a clever illusionist: he was a much-worried ordinary man. He moved quickly towards the wings, then the chorine who had brought him the cage cloth came in view. Her words came distinctly to the audience.
“She’s not back here, Mr. Crafto. We haven’t seen her.”
“But—but you must have!” Crafto