'For a time, boys, we were the most famous magicians in Europe, and titled and well-known people everywhere sought us out, gave parties for us, came for advice. I met all the surrealists, all the painters and poets; I met the American writers in Paris; I met dukes and counts, and spent many afternoons telling fortunes to those who wanted the help of magic in planning their lives. Ernest Hemingway bought me a drink in a Montparnasse bar but would not come to my table because he thought I was a charlatan. I heard that he had referred to me as 'that dime-a-dance Rasputin,' a description I did not mind a bit. The real tinpot Rasputin was an Englishman who fancied himself a demon. I met Aleister Crowley in England, and knew at once that he was a sick, deluded fraud — a blubbery ranter whose greatest talent was for mumbo jumbo.
'Crowley and I met in the garden of a house in Kensington belonging to a rich and foolish fancier of the occult who supported both of us and wanted to know what would happen if we met. I was already in the garden when Crowley oozed through the scullery door. He was sluglike, thoroughly repulsive; wore a black caftan; dirty bare feet; shaven head. His face was crazy and ambitious — there was a kind of crude magnetism to him. Crowley looked me in the eye, trying to frighten me. 'Hello, Aleister,' I said. 'Begone, fiend!' he shouted, and pointed a fat digit at my face. I turned his hand into a bird's claw, and he nearly fainted on the spot. 'Begone yourself,' I said, and he shoved the claw under the caftan and exited with great haste. Later I understand he displayed the claw to a female admirer as proof of his satanic abilities, and worked over spells for months before he was able to change it back.'
Something moved into the fuzzy light down in the trees. 'From what I've said already, you know that I had grown careless about spending time in England. By 1921, we traveled freely back and forth across England, playing theaters in towns from Edinburgh to Penzance, though most of our work was in London, especially at the Wood Green Empire. I thought the world had forgotten the mysterious Dr. Nightingale. But one person had not, and I met him one summer night after a performance. He was waiting by the stage door of the Empire, and I saw his red hair and knew who he was before I saw his face.'
A light in the trees showed a flight of «teps, a brick wall, a suggestion of a narrow alley. The figure in the Burberry and hat came down the stairs. Tom saw Rose hovering behind him. The magician lifted his bottle as if toasting his former self, but did not drink. With the magician's next sentence, Tom knew that it was not himself he was toasting.
'There she is, Rosa Forte, my porcelain shepherdess, my enchanted fish. I was glad she was there — I wanted her to see what I could do. I wanted her to know that nothing in her code or Speckle John's could hinder me for a moment. And I want you boys to know that too. I will not be hindered.'
The little scene down in the trees was obscurely, inexplicably sinister: Collins' surrogate in hat and long coat, the fragile girl behind him on the stairs. Savagery seemed to flicker about them — a hopeless violence curled in the fog.
Another man stepped out of the fog; red hair shone.
' 'I knew it was you,' Withers said to me. 'I should have known you'd wind up like this — a worthless parasite.' Except that he said it wuthless pa'site. 'Call yourself Coleman Collins now, do you, murderer? Well, you put on a pretty good show, I'll say that for you. I hope they'll let you perform in the stockade.' Puff-oahm. He stood there, beaming hate at me, hate and satisfaction, because he thought he had me. This little racist Southern doctor, traveling through Europe on undervalued American dollars, piling up anecdotes to wow them with back in Macon or Atlanta.
'I asked, 'Are you threatening me, Withers?'
''That I am,' Withers said: he was simply gloating. 'You went AWOL. Somewhere, somebody's still looking for you. I'm going to see that you're found.'
'So I called up Halmar Haraldson and sicked him on Withers.'
The Collector lurched into the fuzzy light, his face glowing with moronic glee. The red-haired man backed up. On the stairs behind Collins' surrogate, Rose could not see why the man playing Withers was frightened. She stared at the man, confused and beginning to be alarmed.
'Hey!' the red-haired man shouted. 'Hey, Mr. Collins?'
Tom's stomach tightened: this was not just a scene. The Collector stumbled forward. Rose saw him and screeched.
''No, you are found, Withers,' I said. And now observe how well your friend Mr. Ridpath fulfills his role.'
'Oh, my God,' Del said, and began to stand up. Rose screamed again, and Collins' stand-in gripped her arm.
The Collector flew at the red-haired man, who shouted, 'Stop him! Stop him!' The Collector knocked him down.
'Collins! Help me!' A red furry thing flopped from the man's head, and Tom saw that he was the man on the train, the aged Skeleton Ridpath. The Collector had him pinned to the ground and was battering his face. 'Found you! Found you!' he keened.
Del was on his feet, screaming; Rose, unable to move, screamed too.
'Shut up!' Collins ordered, and Del silenced.
One blow; another; the monster's bony fists smashed away again and again into the man's head. Rose turned away and shielded her face against the brick of the staircase.
'Yes, as I did, you're going to see it happen,' Collins said calmly. 'You have to see it. The poor devil didn't know it, of course, but that was the only reason he was here. To be Withers' stand-in.'
Skeleton was humming tunelessly, battering in the old man's head.
'An entirely expendable character — a failed actor named Creekmore, no better than a skid-row bum.' Collins gave a snort of amusement. 'He answered an advertisement, can you believe it? He sought me out. So did Withers. Withers knew I'd stolen Vendouris' money — as if taking the money of the dead were a crime.' Collins lifted the bottle and drank.
Down in the fog, Skeleton was doing something vile to the actor. Blood gushed from the head — Tom saw the skin leaving the bone, and stood up and turned away.
'Don't even think of running,' Collins said from his throne. 'Your friend would catch you in seconds. And then all this would be real.'
Tom looked back down to where the awful scene had taken place. The Collector was gliding back into the fog. The body was gone; Snail and Thorn and Pease stood beside the staircase with their arms locked over their chests.
'It wasn't real?' Tom said.
'Not now, child. Withers was no more. Don't worry about Creekmore. He has a few scratches, no more. I'll pay him tomorrow and send him off. He will think of me with gratitude, I assure you.'
Del gradually ceased quivering. 'That was Skeleton,' he mumbled. 'I saw him ripping . . . that man's face . . . all that blood.'
'A few bloodbags concealed in the mouth. Creekmore is already in the summerhouse washing his face and wondering where to find his next bottle.'