Review
Praise for Rhys Bowen
“This installment outshines the others…. Don’t miss this great period puzzler reminiscent of Dame Agatha’s mysteries and Gillian Linscott’s Nell Bray series.”
---Booklist on In a Gilded Cage
“Delightful … As ever, Bowen does a splendid job of capturing the flavor of early twentieth-century New York.”
---Publishers Weekly on In a Gilded Cage
“Molly is an indomitable creature.… The book bounces along in the hands of Ms. Bowen and her Molly, and there is no doubt that she will be back causing trouble.”
---Washington Times on In Dublin’s Fair City
“Readers will surely testify that Murphy has become one of their favorite characters.… This book is a keeper.”
---Tampa Tribune on In Dublin’s Fair City
“Its enjoyable charm and wit will appeal to a cross-section of mystery fans.”
---Baltimore Sun on Oh Danny Boy
Product Description
Irish immigrant and PI Molly Murphy is thrilled to have a ticket to the theater to see a trio of illusionists that are all the rage. Indeed, headlining is Harry Houdini, the most sensational of them all; he has just returned from entertaining European kings and queens for a brief run on Broadway.
But before Houdini can even take the stage, the opening act goes horribly wrong and to the crowd’s shock the illusionist saws into his assistant. In the aftermath, the stunned performer accuses Houdini of tampering with the equipment he keeps under lock and key. And he’s not the only one critical of “The King of Handcuffs.” Risking his life every night, Houdini has raised the stakes to such a perilous level that he’s putting lesser acts out of business.
With everyone on edge, Houdini’s wife hires Molly to be part investigator/part bodyguard, but how can she protect a man who literally risks his life every night? And how is she going to uncover whether these masters of illusion are simply up to their tricks or if there truly is something much more treacherous going on.
With sparkling wit, charming characters, and historic detail, multiple award winner Rhys Bowen brings early-twentieth-century New York City and the fantastic performers of the time vividly to life in The Last Illusion.
About the Author
Rhys Bowen is the author of the award-winning Molly Murphy and Constable Evans mysteries. Her novels have garnered an impressive array of awards and nominations, including the Anthony award for her novel For the Love of Mike and the Agatha Award for Murphy’s Law. Her books have also won the Bruce Alexander Historical Award and the Herodotus Award, and have been shortlisted for the Edgar, the Agatha, the Macavity, the Barry, and the Mary Higgins Clark Award.
She has also written Her Royal Spyness, a series about a minor royal in 1930s England, and she is the author of several short stories, including the Anthony Award–winning “Doppelganger.” Her story “Voodoo” was chosen to be part of the anthology of the best of 50 years of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.
Ms. Bowen was born in Bath, England, and worked as an announcer and studio manager for the BBC in London, before moving to Australia and then California. It was here she started writing children’s and young adult novels, and then moved on to mysteries with the Constable Evans novels. When not writing she loves to travel, sing, hike, play her Celtic harp, and entertain her grandchildren. She lives in San Rafael, California.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
One
New York City, July 1903
Ladies and gentlemen. For my final illusion I will perform a feat that will amaze and astound you—a feat never before attempted in the history of magic, a feat fraught with danger and horror.” The showman, presented to the audience as the stupendous, sensational Signor Scarpelli, paused for dramatic effect. The atmosphere in the theater was electric. A lovely young woman stepped from the shadows at the side of the stage. She was dressed in a white spangled costume that revealed shapely legs right up to mid thigh, and she was wearing white fishnet stockings and knee-high white boots. The illusionist, a dapper little man with an impressive handlebar mustache, extended his hand to her and she took it, moving gracefully into the spotlight. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the lovely Lily. Tonight I shall attempt to saw this exquisite young lady in half.”
There was a gasp of horror from the auditorium. I think I must have given a small gasp myself. I glanced at Daniel, seated beside me, and was annoyed to see that he was grinning. As a policeman who had seen everything, he was not likely to be alarmed by a mere spectacle onstage. I, still very much the unsophisticated Irish country girl, had been baffled and impressed by the simplest tricks that had started this evening of illusion at Miner’s Theatre on the Bowery—doves that appeared out of nowhere, then were placed in cages, only to vanish again, hats that produced great bunches of flowers, and even clever card tricks. Frankly I’d never seen anything like it and was enjoying myself immensely. As much as anything I was relishing an evening spent with my intended for once. It wasn’t often that a New York police captain like Daniel Sullivan found himself with free time to take his lady love to a theater.
A large contraption was being wheeled onto the stage. It was covered in a red velvet cloth, which Scarpelli whipped away dramatically to reveal a table on legs on which reposed a large, oblong box, garishly painted with flames and shooting stars. He then spun it around to show that it had small openings at either end. Scarpelli then opened the box lid and let down a front panel to reveal a white-satin padded interior, as one might see in a superior type of coffin. Then he extended his hand to the girl.
“I’ll now ask my lovely assistant, Lily, to step inside this contraption of horror,” he said.
Lily smiled and waved to the crowd as she allowed the Great Scarpelli to assist her into the box, where she lay while the lid was closed, leaving her head exposed at one end and her feet sticking out of the other. The box was then latched with two large locks. From the orchestra pit came a low, ominous drumroll. Signor Scarpelli then produced an impressive-looking saw, bent it, and waved it around.
“Ladies and gentlemen, a common ordinary saw, with which I’m sure the gentlemen among you are familiar. This particular specimen has been sharpened to perfection, in fact I’m sure any one of you would covet it for your own woodpile. Allow me to demonstrate.”
A male assistant now pushed out a small table on which lay a log of wood. Scarpelli removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and proceeded to saw most efficiently through the log until the two halves fell onto the stage floor.
“So you’ll agree that I should have little problem slicing through such a delicate specimen as sweet Lily,” he said, giving the audience a wicked grin. “Right then. To work. Drumroll if you please, Maestro.”
The drumroll started again, louder and louder until it filled the theater with sound. I could almost feel those around me holding their breath. I knew I was holding mine. Carefully he placed the saw on the middle of the box and started to move it back and forth. It went through the top layer of wood like butter. We could see it protruding with each thrust, lower and lower. It must have reached the girl’s body by now. Suddenly, over the noise of the saw and the drum, there came a bloodcurdling scream. Screams echoed back from the audience. Some people had risen to their feet. Some ladies were already swooning. It was clear that something had gone wrong.
“Holy Mother of God,” I heard myself muttering.
Signor Scarpelli extracted the saw with difficulty, threw it down, then rushed around the table, and began clawing frantically at the locks. The screaming had now stopped and the theater was ominously silent.
“A nice touch,” Daniel muttered into my ear. “Get everybody good and scared.”
Then we saw something dripping from the bottom of the box onto the floor. Great drips of red.
“It’s blood. See, it’s blood,” someone gasped from the row behind us.
“No! It can’t be!” Scarpelli shouted. “Somebody help me get her out.”
Stagehands rushed to his aid.
“Don’t worry,” Daniel whispered to me. “It’s all for effect, you mark my words.”
At that moment Scarpelli wrenched open the lid of the box.
“Oh, God in Heaven, no, no!” he yelled. “What fiend has done this? Help her, somebody help her.”
At that moment the theater manager came onto the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said holding up his hands for silence, even though most of the crowd was standing still, staring in horror, “I’m afraid there has been a slight mishap. It appears that something has gone horribly wrong. Is there a doctor in the house?”
“Yes, I’m a doctor,” came a deep, booming voice from somewhere in the darkness and a distinguished-looking man with impressive gray side-whiskers came up the steps to the stage with sprightly agility for someone of his age and build. “Stand back, please,” he commanded, waving everybody out of the way. He took one look at the girl lying there, then addressed the manager. “This looks extremely serious,” he barked. “Send for an ambulance immediately and bring down the curtain.” He turned back to minister to the girl as the manager came to the front of the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to ask you to leave the theater and go home. The rest of to night’s show is canceled.”
At those words there were mutterings of annoyance and disappointment from the audience but they began to leave their seats.
The curtains began to close. Daniel had reached the aisle, ahead of me. He was pushing his way through the departing crowd, like a salmon swimming upstream, making for the stage. I followed in his wake. I didn’t stop to think that I might not want to witness what had happened up there. Up the steps I went after Daniel. He pulled aside the curtain that had now fallen on the stage. It was almost as if a tableau was taking place before our eyes—the men clustered around the open box, the doctor bending over it. They looked up as they saw us come onto the stage.
“Are you also a physician, sir?” The doctor demanded, looking up from his patient, “because if not, I’ll ask you to leave instantly. . . .”
“No, I’m a police detective,” Daniel said, “Captain Sullivan.” He fished in his pocket and produced his badge. “And before any of you go around touching everything, I assume we now have to treat this as a crime scene.”
“We do indeed, Captain.” Scarpelli moved toward Daniel. “Someone must have tampered with my equipment. There was no way the saw should have come anywhere near her. I had perfected the illusion.”
“How bad is it?” Daniel moved closer to the box. I followed, unnoticed. Lily was lying still and pale in the white-padded box and there was a great slash of red across her middle. She really had been almost sawn in half. Her white spangled costume was now ripped open and stained bloodred. Blood was still welling up from that horrible gash and dripping steadily onto the floor. I swallowed down the bile that rose in my throat.
The doctor had been taking Lily’s pulse and looked up to meet Daniel’s gaze. “She’s still alive but barely,” he said. “I doubt that anything can be done for her, poor thing. The blade has undoubtedly sliced into her intestines and they will be beyond repair. And to lose so much blood . . . it won’t be long before the body goes into profound shock.”
Scarpelli reached into the box and picked up Lily’s limp, white hand. She had elegant, long fingers and her hand was now so pale that it could have been made of porcelain. “Lily, my poor darling Lily. What have I done to you? Forgive me, Lily. Forgive me, God.” He kissed her hand tenderly before replacing it at her side.
“Has anyone gone for an ambulance?” Daniel said.
“Ernest went,” one of the stagehands muttered.
“Then one of you men go and find the nearest constable,” Daniel ordered. “Tell him Captain Sullivan says there’s been an attempted murder and he’s to report to the duty officer at HQ. I need men out here right away.”
“Attempted murder?” The theater manager looked aghast. “An accident, surely. A horrible accident.”
“The illusionist claims his equipment was tampered with. I have to therefore treat this as an attempted murder. Now, someone, go and find the nearest policeman.” He pointed at a pimply-faced youth standing staring in horror-struck fascination nearby. “You, boy.”
“Very good, Captain, sir,” the youth said. “I know where to find the nearest constable.” He ran off the stage, his footste...
