An Adventure
of the Phantom Sleuth
The Weatherby Theatre
was once a bastion of cultural entertainment. Some of the greatest
actors had graced its stage; some of the finest conductors had
commanded concerts in its great hall. How saddening it was to
some of the upper-crust citizens that the Weatherby had fallen
on such hard times that it now hosted what they discounted as
low-class fare. They rode past in chauffeured limousines and
raised their noses at the marquee, which boasted the current
show: The Spuldor Follies.
But the common man
and woman of Stockport flocked to the Weatherby, anxious to see
Emile Spuldor’s talented vaudevillians. Patrons gasped with pleasant
surprise, laughed and joked, and pointed out to their children
the collection of posters depicting the featured acts.
The haunting voice
of Marybell Miller! The jazz music of Benjamin Bland and his
Bugle Band! The amusing antics of Jack Mulligan’s Trained Dogs!
The sensational tumbling team of the Spinelli Brothers! The dancing
duo called the Hot Steppers! Yes, Emile Spuldor boasted all of
these acts and more, for he knew how to draw a crowd. Still,
he would gladly have given up half of their contracts to keep
his star attraction: Maldrake the Magician.
Patrons crowded the
lobby, eager to secure seats in the great hall. Off to one side,
loitering in the shadows of the telephone booths, a lone man
stood watching. The collar of his grey trench coat was turned
up, and the wide brim of his hat was pulled conspicuously down,
effectively covering his face so well that one couldn’t see the
cloth mask that surrounded his eyes. The Phantom Sleuth found
the patron he was looking for, caught the man’s eye, and gave
the signal by running his fingers along the brim of his hat.
Without awaiting any response, the Sleuth slipped into the end
booth and waited.
He raised the receiver
to his ear and fished a nickel from his pocket even as his accomplice
entered the booth at the other end of the row. The Sleuth did
not hesitate to insert the coin and dial the number of the booth
his cohort occupied.
The first ring was
cut prematurely short. “Hello?”
“Hello, Byron.”
“Hello,” said the
voice on the phone. “So, you’re here. I take it you intend to
lurk about and try to prove your little theory?”
“But, of course,” the
Sleuth coolly replied. “You heard what Jane said about the case
her father was working on. Eye witnesses gave a very good description
of the thief who looted Lattimore’s Jewels.”
The voice on the phone
sighed. “Maldrake the Magician,” it said in a defeated tone. “Yes,
but I was lurking backstage during last week’s performance and
he never left the stage. You saw that for yourself, you were
sitting right there, in the third row. Even Commissioner Wayland
has dropped the theory.”
“Oh, come now, Byron,” the
Sleuth gloated, “Jane’s father has no imagination, but surely
you can see how it’s done? It’s actually a common magician’s
trick, as I understand.”
“What is?”
The Sleuth sighed. “Isn’t
it obvious? Maldrake is actually a pair of identical twins, just
as we are. While one of them is onstage, before an audience of
witnesses who can confirm his alibi, the twin breaks into nearby
jewelry stores. And Jamison’s Fine Jewels is just across the
street…”
“No, I don’t like
it, Brian!” growled the voice on the phone. “I’ve heard your
theory before, and it just doesn’t feel right!”
The Sleuth chuckled. “Perhaps
it will feel different to you after I’ve caught him tonight.
When does his act go on?”
“Er, let me check
the program…He’s the finale, just like last time.” There was
a heartbeat of thoughtful silence. “You’re going to regret it
when you find you’re wrong.”
“No,” the Sleuth replied, “I’m
only going to regret that I won’t see Jane’s face when Benjamin
Bland plays. She does so enjoy his music. When is he on?”
“Er,” the voice paused, “Right
after Wotan the Mesmerist. He’s the last act before the intermission.”
The Sleuth grunted
in moody acknowledgement.
“I could trade places
with you,” Byron said at last. “Just leave the hat, the coat,
and the mask. You can spend the evening with her.”
“No, that wouldn’t
be fair to you,” the Sleuth said into the receiver, filtering
all the pain out of his tone. “When we started this, we agreed
to alternate.” He didn’t mention how it stung when Jane called
him by his brother’s name. The Sleuth blanched slightly at the
thought, and for a moment regretted that Brian Twain was legally
dead. “Well,” he said at last, “You’d best get back to Jane,
and I’d best find an inconspicuous spot backstage…” After their
short goodbyes, the Phantom Sleuth skulked out of the telephone
booth.
The Phantom Sleuth
stood in the wings, in a place where deep shadows pooled thanks
to the configuration of the stage lights. He was all but invisible
there, and he watched the performers with sharp, predatory eyes.
Emile Spuldor took the stage first, with his trade-marked air
of self-importance. With heaping amounts of pomp and formality,
he bade his audience welcome and offered his show to them, “for
your discerning enjoyment.”
The show began in
earnest when Marybell Miller took the stage and belted out her
impressive rendition of This Time It’s Real. Jugglers,
comedians, dancing girls, and a steady stream of other performers
paraded on and off of the stage. The only one who acknowledged
the presence of the Phantom Sleuth was Spot, one of Jack Mulligan’s
star beagles, who sniffed at him with idle curiosity.
The Sleuth watched
them all with wary eyes, wondering how many of them might be
some accomplice of the magician and his secret twin. He paid
little heed to the performances themselves, and scarcely noticed
the impressive dancing of the Hot Steppers or the seemingly supernatural
tricks of Wotan the Mesmerist and his turbaned black assistant.
Then the bald, bespectacled
mesmerist took his final bow to the disturbed but fascinated
applause of the audience, and quit the stage. Once in the wings,
Wotan’s smile was replaced with a scowl, and he strode purposefully
past the Sleuth even as Benjamin Bland and his musicians took
the stage and erupted with their signature number, Bourbon
Street Boogie.
With small reluctance,
the Sleuth crept out of his concealing shadows. With caution,
he parted the curtains just enough to peer out at the audience.
He scanned the congregation and soon found Jane Wayland. She
moved to the music, almost dancing in her seat, and clapped along
with an unconcealable smile brightening her pretty features.
The Sleuth allowed
himself a brief, sad smile. But it instantly vanished from his
face when she turned to Byron, who sat at her side, and kissed
him on the cheek. At this heart-wrenching sight, the Sleuth closed
the curtain once more, and left the wings of the stage to embark
on his business in other parts of the theater.
He had just passed
through a doorway into a rear hall, when he was instantly assailed
by the bald mesmerist’s unhappy grumblings.
“I tell you, Emile,
that I am a far superior conjuror than that knave, Maldrake!” he
spat the words at the show’s host. “There is no illusion in his
act which Umbota and I cannot perform! Better! And this is in
addition to the mind-reading, the psychokinesis…”
Emile Spuldor held
up one hand in a calming gesture which thus far had proved futile. “I
told you quite plainly when you signed on with me, Cornell,” the
owner announced with unveiled aplomb, “that I already had an
existing contract with Maldrake, and was not in need of another
magician! Fortunately, you had your mesmerism to fall back on…”
“Mentalism!” the
bald man growled. “I have told you time and again, I am a mentalist!
Mentalism includes so much more than mere mesmerism!”
“And I have told you
time and again that the public dislikes such a word!” Spuldor
fired back. “The unlearned masses provide the bulk of our income,
and they are ignorant of its meaning! The average audience-member
thinks it is connected to diseases of the brain! Whilst mesmerism
sounds more exotic…mysterious…forbidding!”
The bald man clenched
his hands into futile fists and shook with fury. “I ask you one
final time! Will you rid yourself of that…that rank amateur and
give me his spot in the show?”
Spuldor drew back
in surprise, his eyes widened. “I will do no such thing!”
Wotan grunted with
unbridled frustration. “How can you stand by him with such loyalty?
Him, who was sought out by the police for clumsy, tasteless crimes?”
The owner fixed him
sharply with a frown. “You know as well as I that Maldrake committed
no such crimes! The police declared the robberies were executed
in the very minutes he was performing onstage!”
The bald man gritted
his teeth, adjusted his thick glasses. “You mark my words, Emile,” he
rasped, “By this time next week; Maldrake will not be a part
of your show!” Then he spun on his heel and pushed his way down
the hall, past dancing girls, tumblers, and whoever else happened
to be in his way.
Spuldor watched him
go and sniffed haughtily. “Well, one of you won’t, I daresay.”
The Phantom Sleuth
took it all in with great interest, then blended into the crowd
even as Spuldor barked a reminder that there was a show going
on.
Complete story available in the
print edition of Big Pulp Winter 2010
