The Three Locks Bonnie MacBird (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📖

p.m. Maybe after six. He is not sure.’

Madame Borelli turned back to Holmes. ‘You see.’

‘Was he unsure of the hour, or the length of his absence?’ asked Holmes.

‘He says he was gone only one hour,’ she said. ‘But I think it was more.’

‘Whoever did this obviously came between six when you checked and seven-thirty, then,’ said Holmes. ‘I wonder that you put your faith in this Falco Fricano, Mr Borelli.’

‘He is family. He never will cross me,’ said Borelli. ‘Maybe make mistake – he will not make again.’

‘Do you have any theories about who might have tampered with the lock tonight?’ Holmes asked. ‘Anyone with a long-standing grudge, perhaps?’

‘Many people are jealous of the Great Borelli,’ said the magician with another wave of his hand. ‘Could be one of a hundred. Ah! Do not poke at ankle so.’

‘I am palpating to find the exact break,’ I said. ‘You have fractured the lateral malleolus – the area where the fibula joins the foot. Not an uncommon break for a sportsman. You will have to immobilize this for a while. It will require a splint,’ I announced. Spotting a stagehand at the door, I called him over and described what I needed. As he departed, strident voices floated in from the hall. The word ‘officer’ was clearly in the mix.

‘Ah, the police are here. Wife!’ said Borelli. ‘Send them away!’

Madame Borelli stepped outside and closed the door. I could hear her conferring with several male voices.

‘Have you had any recent threats by post, or directly? Any suspects from this list of a hundred who seem more likely than others?’ persisted Holmes.

Borelli glanced at Holmes. ‘I do not need you. Are you still here? Go, go!’

‘Fine, then,’ said Holmes, taking up his hat. ‘Watson, I will find you in Baker Street.’ I remained seated next to Borelli’s afflicted ankle.

Madame Borelli returned. ‘I told them we know it was an accident. They go away.’ Noting Holmes was about to leave, she attached herself to his arm. ‘Mr Holmes, please stay.’

‘Madame, if you don’t mind,’ said he, attempting to disengage.

But the lady clung to his arm. She turned to her husband. ‘Mr Holmes is very good, Dario. Some say he is like magic. In his profession.’

Just then the stagehand returned with some items that could serve as a splint. I chose a wooden ruler and set about breaking it in half. ‘Holmes, I will need your help,’ I said. I did not want to be left here with this explosive fellow. ‘Hold this piece of ruler just here, while I wrap this around.’ I indicated the makeshift splint and a strip of fabric. Reluctantly, Holmes complied.

‘Ha, you are “like magic”, she say?’ Borelli challenged Holmes. ‘Do you know, then, what is the secret of my success? Why I am the Great Borelli? Who next year will be playing in Prince Albert Hall?’

‘Let me suggest it is not due to your diligent stage personnel,’ said Holmes, ‘or your immense personal charm.’

‘One time only, Falco, he leave the tank. This never happen before and will never happen again! Believe me, I make sure. Now, enough. But why am I great? The secret of my success? You will never guess!’

‘That is true. I never guess.’

‘What, then are you a genius?’

Holmes glanced up at Borelli. I recognized that look. There would be trouble.

‘You have six attributes. Three of which, of course, are quite common.’

‘Only six? Ha! Name them.’

‘The first is showmanship – that is, a well-written patter, delivered with a certain panache. Second, custom props: special, pre-rigged equipment, a kind of cheat.’

‘This is no cheat!’

Unruffled, my friend continued. ‘Pre-rigged equipment has not much to do with skill. One can purchase, for example, the floating lady illusion or—’

Borelli shot a quick angry glance at his wife. ‘All my equipment is made by me!’

‘Designed by your wife, I understand.’ Holmes turned to me as though I’d asked for an explanation. ‘Pre-rigged tricks are the kind that creative artists, such as Madame here, sell to lesser magicians, Watson. Special boxes, tables, card decks. Guillotines that seem to cut off fingers.’

At the mention of the guillotine, Borelli glanced again at his wife.

‘Yes, I told you I consult about Santo’s accident,’ she said. ‘I gave him all the details. Mr Holmes will find who sabotaged Santo’s trick, and Santo will stop troubling you.’ When he grimaced, she pleaded, ‘Dario, listen.’

Holmes had warmed to the topic. ‘The table is rather well done, Madame. Flicking the scarf, for example, as he disposes of the teacup and then the rabbit into a hidden pocket.’

The hidden pockets again! I wondered what happened afterwards and looked about the dressing room in concern, until I spotted the baby rabbit in a small cage, happily chewing some greens. Madame Borelli caught my concern.

‘A very soft bag for little Peter,’ offered Madame, moving to the cage to peer in at her tiny charge. She looked up at me. ‘My illusions will never harm a living creature.’

‘My illusions,’ shouted Borelli.

Madame smiled at us out of sight of her husband.

I returned my attention to the ankle. Her illusions would never harm a creature … except, perhaps, her boorish husband. That thought gave rise to a sudden suspicion. As I tightened the bandage around Borelli’s ankle, he jerked again, sending the makeshift splint awry.

‘Hold still, Mr Borelli! Holmes, press down here, and do not let go.’

‘I am not a nurse, Watson.’

‘Try,’ I said, sharply.

‘You say I have six special somethings. You name two only,’ said Borelli.

‘The third is also common,’ said Holmes. ‘Misdirection. You direct the audience’s attention to the wrong thing.’

‘Pah, you read in a book. Every fool thinks they understand this. But any faker on the street can make money with a shell game.’

Holmes carried on, undaunted. ‘Lock-picking is your fourth bird in hand, and here you pull ahead of your competition. I have read that regulation police handcuffs are child’s play to you.’

‘You think this is magic?’

‘No. It is a skill acquired with a great deal of practice and research. You are