tall, spare body with an almost conceited air of confidence. At rest his hands look large and masculinely awkward; in motion they take on that special grace and delicately co-ordinated economy that spells long discipline.
There is no predicting his dress. At times it is as impeccable off stage as it always is on; and at other times it achieves an inimitable disorganization, as comfortable as it is slack. His pockets are always loaded with the smaller appurtenances of his profession—cards, thimbles, silk handkerchiefs, and, I suspect, other gadgets of a more secret sort.
Merlini likes surf bathing, table tennis, puzzles, Times Square, and Mrs. Merlini. He can smell any circus that approaches within a radius of one hundred miles, and he promptly disappears in that direction. He dislikes subways, beer, inactivity, grand opera, and golf. I suppose that he sleeps, but I have never caught him at it. He has authored three books: Legerdemainiacs, The Psychology of Deception, and Sawdust Trails . He is the proprietor of a shop which supplies the conjuring fraternity with its illusive paraphernalia.
As the light came up Merlini looked at me and started to speak, when his eye caught the rigmarole of words and circles traced on the floor. His eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit, and then flattened in a frown. He glanced swiftly around the room. His eyes came back to the chalked diagram, and he asked,
“What the devil have you—or rather, what have you and the devil been up to, Ross?”
“Breaking and entering, for one thing. Discovering a corpse for another.”
That announcement got me some attention.
“That doesn’t sound like a gag.”
“It isn’t. Look behind you.”
He turned and saw the covered form on the davenport.
“The gentleman’s name,” I went on, “is—or rather was—Cesare Sabbat. He—”
“Who?” Merlini’s steady calm evidenced a slight wobble.
“Dr. Cesare Sabbat. Know him?”
Merlini took two steps and lifted a corner of the dressing gown. He looked at the face a moment.
“Yes, but—” He regarded me thoughtfully. “The face doesn’t exactly suggest an easy death, and, judging from the numbers of the forces of law and order outside, I’d guess it was far from normal.”
“He was strangled,” I explained. “And since there was no noose of any sort found, he could hardly have accomplished it unaided.”
“And yet you had to force an entrance.” He eyed the splintered door panel. “This is an interesting contradiction. Quite, particularly since the dressing gown is incomplete.”
“The dressing gown—what’s the matter with it?”
“There are loops on each side which indicate that it’s built to tie around the middle. I don’t see the cord. By the way, what am I wanted for?”
I stared at the dressing gown and answered, “Not for murder—at least, not yet. I think Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Bureau would like you to explain how the Walking-Through-A-Brick-Wall Trick is done. It looks as if Sabbat’s murderer knew the answer. So far, the Homicide Squad hasn’t been able to discover any other way out of this apartment. The doors, both of them, were locked, bolted, and the keyholes stuffed, from the inside. The windows haven’t been opened in months.”
“You’re off to a swell start, Ross. Don’t stop.”
With studied calm I produced another thunderbolt. “What’s more, all the witnesses hereabouts seem to be customers of yours. There are so many magicians floating around that they positively get in your hair.”
“Some of them do that, singly,” Merlini said dryly, and then with entreaty, “Harte, will you please stop running on in this Scheherazade manner and tell me what’s happened? And don’t put all your climaxes in the first scene. It’s bad theater. Besides, I’m punch drunk already.”
“So you can’t take it?” Gavigan’s voice preceded him into the room. They shook hands and the Inspector asked, “Have you met the
There is no predicting his dress. At times it is as impeccable off stage as it always is on; and at other times it achieves an inimitable disorganization, as comfortable as it is slack. His pockets are always loaded with the smaller appurtenances of his profession—cards, thimbles, silk handkerchiefs, and, I suspect, other gadgets of a more secret sort.
Merlini likes surf bathing, table tennis, puzzles, Times Square, and Mrs. Merlini. He can smell any circus that approaches within a radius of one hundred miles, and he promptly disappears in that direction. He dislikes subways, beer, inactivity, grand opera, and golf. I suppose that he sleeps, but I have never caught him at it. He has authored three books: Legerdemainiacs, The Psychology of Deception, and Sawdust Trails . He is the proprietor of a shop which supplies the conjuring fraternity with its illusive paraphernalia.
As the light came up Merlini looked at me and started to speak, when his eye caught the rigmarole of words and circles traced on the floor. His eyebrows lifted the tiniest bit, and then flattened in a frown. He glanced swiftly around the room. His eyes came back to the chalked diagram, and he asked,
“What the devil have you—or rather, what have you and the devil been up to, Ross?”
“Breaking and entering, for one thing. Discovering a corpse for another.”
That announcement got me some attention.
“That doesn’t sound like a gag.”
“It isn’t. Look behind you.”
He turned and saw the covered form on the davenport.
“The gentleman’s name,” I went on, “is—or rather was—Cesare Sabbat. He—”
“Who?” Merlini’s steady calm evidenced a slight wobble.
“Dr. Cesare Sabbat. Know him?”
Merlini took two steps and lifted a corner of the dressing gown. He looked at the face a moment.
“Yes, but—” He regarded me thoughtfully. “The face doesn’t exactly suggest an easy death, and, judging from the numbers of the forces of law and order outside, I’d guess it was far from normal.”
“He was strangled,” I explained. “And since there was no noose of any sort found, he could hardly have accomplished it unaided.”
“And yet you had to force an entrance.” He eyed the splintered door panel. “This is an interesting contradiction. Quite, particularly since the dressing gown is incomplete.”
“The dressing gown—what’s the matter with it?”
“There are loops on each side which indicate that it’s built to tie around the middle. I don’t see the cord. By the way, what am I wanted for?”
I stared at the dressing gown and answered, “Not for murder—at least, not yet. I think Inspector Gavigan of the Homicide Bureau would like you to explain how the Walking-Through-A-Brick-Wall Trick is done. It looks as if Sabbat’s murderer knew the answer. So far, the Homicide Squad hasn’t been able to discover any other way out of this apartment. The doors, both of them, were locked, bolted, and the keyholes stuffed, from the inside. The windows haven’t been opened in months.”
“You’re off to a swell start, Ross. Don’t stop.”
With studied calm I produced another thunderbolt. “What’s more, all the witnesses hereabouts seem to be customers of yours. There are so many magicians floating around that they positively get in your hair.”
“Some of them do that, singly,” Merlini said dryly, and then with entreaty, “Harte, will you please stop running on in this Scheherazade manner and tell me what’s happened? And don’t put all your climaxes in the first scene. It’s bad theater. Besides, I’m punch drunk already.”
“So you can’t take it?” Gavigan’s voice preceded him into the room. They shook hands and the Inspector asked, “Have you met the
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