sickened fascinationas it stretched downward, quivered, broke away, then fell to the floor, where it splashed on the damp spot left by the first falling drop of blood.
Are the two of you
deaf? screamed my mind.
Apparently so. Plum was walking over to the casket now. “This a trick?” he asked, pointing at it.
“No, it’s real,” Cassandra said. “At least he says it is.”
“Real?”
He looked repelled. “A real coffin in your husband’s office?”
Magic Room!
I cried out. Minus sound, of course.
“That’s the kind of man he is,” Cassandra answered him.
Folks!
I thought.
Plum peered in through the glass top, twitching in shock as he saw what he thought was Max.
“Is this
him?”
he asked, aghast.
“Of
course
not,” she said, frowning. “It’s a quarter-size dummy.”
Plum grimaced, looking ill. “Sure
looks
real,” he said.
He turned to ask her something else and saw her staring at the suit of armor.
God bless us all
, I was thinking—
—as a third, large drop of blood was disconnecting from the fingertip of the glove.
They both winced simultaneously as it splattered on the floor. Now
you hear it
, I thought,
at last
.
“My God,” said Plum.
Cassandra’s expression was one of disbelieving horror.
“He
wouldn’t,”
she said.
Plum started toward the suit of armor.
“It wouldn’t make sense,” Cassandra murmured shakily. I had to agree.
But who was in the suit of armor, then?
“Why do you keep saying that?” asked Plum.
“Because he’s a
magician,”
she explained. “He’d never be so obvious.”
That, at least, she understands
, I thought.
But she wasn’t certain enough to not watch apprehensively as Plum reached the suit of armor and stopped.
A fourth drop of blood was collecting at the fingertip.
Plum winced again—as Cassandra did—when the drop fell, enlarging the scarlet splash-mark on the floor.
Gingerly, he reached up toward the faceplate, his movement slow, almost diffident. Cassandra watched him with a sickened gaze.
Plum’s fingers moved closer to the faceplate.
Closer.
chapter 15
A
stonishment!
Plum recoiled, crying out involuntarily as the suit of armor sprang open, its hinged halves stopping with a loud, metallic clang.
Cassandra jerked back, gasping.
And I recoiled and jerked back inwardly, my mind crying out—
—as
The Great Delacorte
stepped forth.
He was attired in full illusionist regalia—white tie and tails, a top hat accordioned shut in his hands. His smile was broad, theatrical.
He was, in fact, not standing before us so much as making an appearance, his expression that which a generation of magic devotees had come to know so well—genial, urbane, and welcoming.
“Good afternoon, my friends!” he said.
The Great Delacorte
saluted them.
Despite my startlement and general disconcertment, it warmed my heart to see him like that.
This was a far different Maximilian Delacorte from the man who met with Harry Kendal—had it only been a few short hours ago?
That Delacorte was wan and understated, soft-spoken until righteous anger came. That was a hurt, embittered Delacorte, a man nearly broken by inner pain.
The man who stood before us now was, indeed,
The Great Delacorte
.
And more.
This man was
on
. Keyed up. Imbued with energy. One might put it, in the current lexicon, that he was
wired
.
There was an undercurrent of almost crazed ebullience in his look and manner which transcended even his usually effusive stage persona.
But then, something
more
was going on beneath the surface.
Frozen by surprise, both Cassandra and the Sheriff twitched as Max popped open his top hat, set it on his head, and tapped it into place.
“It will be my pleasure this afternoon,” he said high-spiritedly, “to entertain you with some minor whimsies of illusion … some larger feats of prestidigitation … and some exploits of darker magic which will place each one of you—whether you will or not—
In Touch
with the
Are the two of you
deaf? screamed my mind.
Apparently so. Plum was walking over to the casket now. “This a trick?” he asked, pointing at it.
“No, it’s real,” Cassandra said. “At least he says it is.”
“Real?”
He looked repelled. “A real coffin in your husband’s office?”
Magic Room!
I cried out. Minus sound, of course.
“That’s the kind of man he is,” Cassandra answered him.
Folks!
I thought.
Plum peered in through the glass top, twitching in shock as he saw what he thought was Max.
“Is this
him?”
he asked, aghast.
“Of
course
not,” she said, frowning. “It’s a quarter-size dummy.”
Plum grimaced, looking ill. “Sure
looks
real,” he said.
He turned to ask her something else and saw her staring at the suit of armor.
God bless us all
, I was thinking—
—as a third, large drop of blood was disconnecting from the fingertip of the glove.
They both winced simultaneously as it splattered on the floor. Now
you hear it
, I thought,
at last
.
“My God,” said Plum.
Cassandra’s expression was one of disbelieving horror.
“He
wouldn’t,”
she said.
Plum started toward the suit of armor.
“It wouldn’t make sense,” Cassandra murmured shakily. I had to agree.
But who was in the suit of armor, then?
“Why do you keep saying that?” asked Plum.
“Because he’s a
magician,”
she explained. “He’d never be so obvious.”
That, at least, she understands
, I thought.
But she wasn’t certain enough to not watch apprehensively as Plum reached the suit of armor and stopped.
A fourth drop of blood was collecting at the fingertip.
Plum winced again—as Cassandra did—when the drop fell, enlarging the scarlet splash-mark on the floor.
Gingerly, he reached up toward the faceplate, his movement slow, almost diffident. Cassandra watched him with a sickened gaze.
Plum’s fingers moved closer to the faceplate.
Closer.
chapter 15
A
stonishment!
Plum recoiled, crying out involuntarily as the suit of armor sprang open, its hinged halves stopping with a loud, metallic clang.
Cassandra jerked back, gasping.
And I recoiled and jerked back inwardly, my mind crying out—
—as
The Great Delacorte
stepped forth.
He was attired in full illusionist regalia—white tie and tails, a top hat accordioned shut in his hands. His smile was broad, theatrical.
He was, in fact, not standing before us so much as making an appearance, his expression that which a generation of magic devotees had come to know so well—genial, urbane, and welcoming.
“Good afternoon, my friends!” he said.
The Great Delacorte
saluted them.
Despite my startlement and general disconcertment, it warmed my heart to see him like that.
This was a far different Maximilian Delacorte from the man who met with Harry Kendal—had it only been a few short hours ago?
That Delacorte was wan and understated, soft-spoken until righteous anger came. That was a hurt, embittered Delacorte, a man nearly broken by inner pain.
The man who stood before us now was, indeed,
The Great Delacorte
.
And more.
This man was
on
. Keyed up. Imbued with energy. One might put it, in the current lexicon, that he was
wired
.
There was an undercurrent of almost crazed ebullience in his look and manner which transcended even his usually effusive stage persona.
But then, something
more
was going on beneath the surface.
Frozen by surprise, both Cassandra and the Sheriff twitched as Max popped open his top hat, set it on his head, and tapped it into place.
“It will be my pleasure this afternoon,” he said high-spiritedly, “to entertain you with some minor whimsies of illusion … some larger feats of prestidigitation … and some exploits of darker magic which will place each one of you—whether you will or not—
In Touch
with the
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