Emile St. John clinked glasses with Riker. „To the last parade.“ And now he held up Mallory’s gold watch, but her hand was still attached to the fob at the end of the chain.
Her face was icy as she put her pocket watch away.
Prado sighed. „You’re getting slow, Emile. Time to call it an evening. I’ll pick up this round. I think your wallet is getting a bit light.“
„Nonsense,“ said the Frenchman, reaching into his breast pocket. When he opened his wallet, there was nothing inside but bits of paper.
Nick was nodding in approval. „Nicely done, my dear.“
Mallory held up a handful of folding money and credit cards. Grudgingly, she laid them on the table.
St. John seemed a bit subdued as he settled the tab with a waiter, but Prado was laughing. The two men said their good nights and walked toward the door, which was now framed in garlands of flowers.
Riker turned to Mallory. „And what else have you got, kid? That little item from Nick’s side pocket? Were you gonna share that?“
She pulled another flower from her hair and tossed it over one shoulder. Next she drew out a folded prescription sheet and spread it on the table. „I’ll run it by Slope in the morning. Probably harmless, but you never know what can kill in the right dosage. What do you bet the doctor’s signature is a forgery?“
„Ah, bless him,“ said Riker, watching Nick Prado’s back as the door swung shut. „I hope I’m up to bumping people off when I’m his age. But poison’s too tame. No bet – I won’t take your money, kid. Or is it St. John’s money?“
The band was playing the opening bars of a tune for slow dancing. Malakhai appeared at the table and took her by the hand. She didn’t resist as he led her onto the floor.
„I’m going to teach you one remarkable trick.“ When they stood in the center of the dancing crowd, he released her. Other partners swirled around them. „I’ve never done this illusion with a live woman before.“
He held up his right hand in the posture of a dancing partner. As her hand was rising to meet his, he said, „Now don’t touch me. Keep your palm flat and in front of mine. Hold your left hand about an inch above my shoulder. Don’t let it drop. Don’t ever forget to keep your distance.“ He smiled. „As if you could.“
His arm reached around her, and she sensed a hand at the small of her back, though there was no physical contact. Her own left hand rode in the air above the material of his suit, her fingers curling to the shape of his shoulder.
„Close your eyes, Mallory, or you won’t sense the next move. This thing can only be done in the dark.“
The scent of flowers was stronger when her eyes were shut. She felt the warmth of his raised hand pressing the air. Mallory stepped back, and his heat followed with her.
„Very good,“ he said, moving toward her again as she retreated to keep the distance between them. He moved to the right and she with him, not following his lead this time, but moving in anticipation. A clarinet was melding into the velvet saxophone.
They turned in a circle, revolving to the music, never touching flesh to flesh. One tune blended into another with a faster tempo. She felt lighter as the music speeded up. The trumpet was rippling. Quick notes ran round and round in the dark to the heartbeat of drums. Mallory’s face was suddenly warm with a rush of blood beneath her skin. The music was zooming. And then it slowed, swaying her body with mirror movements to the partner she could not see or touch. Downy hairs at the nape of her neck were standing out and away.
She was turning and turning, eyes closed, blindly chasing the tease of heat. The music mellowed into a luscious basso, sweet and thick, notes dripping like slow honey. There was a sensuous rhythm in the strings of the bass, endlessly drawing out this prelude, this thrumming expectation of bodies not yet meeting. It was close to pain as they moved nearer to one another. The music was slowing, so soft now.
Whispers of reeds.
A sigh.
In the last sweet extended notes of the horns, Malakhai’s left arm was warm and solid against her back. Her right hand was folded into his. She had not yet opened her eyes. The sweet scent of flowers mingled with wine and smoke. His hand lightly touched her hair, and Mallory’s head tilted back. Eyes shut, stone blind, she was staring into the blue eyes of a boy’s un-lined face. The large spread hand at the small of her back pressed her body close to his. Closer still. The saxophone moaned in the thrall of sex at the peak, at the top of the act, warm and liquid. It was 1942 – it was Paris.
Mallory had made an error in timing and distance.
She stepped back quickly, one hand rising, as if she meant to ward off an arrow. Malakhai stared at her with a boy’s blue eyes – so cold now that their dance was done.
He turned around and walked away.
She had not expected that.
Suddenly absent the guidance of heat and music, Mallory stood alone at the center of the floor, not knowing whether to move right or left. She looked down at the white satin tuxedo – inspecting it for what? Blood?
Chapter 17
Mallory stood by the dragon screen and nodded at something Charles Butler had said, keeping up the pretense that she was paying attention to his words.
It was his clothing that made her suspicious.
For the third time in a week, Charles was wearing blue jeans, though he had been raised to wear formal attire. She had sometimes envisioned him as a toddler going off to a dress-code nursery school in a tiny suit and tie.
And why was he still working on the platform?
„I’ll put security cameras on every floor.“ Charles came down the stairs of the platform, two steps at a time. „And I’ll ask Malakhai to ring the bell, instead of finessing the locks. How’s that?“
He was so happy this morning. Encountering her in the basement had been unexpected – for both of them. He must assume that she had dropped by to explain her disaffection from the upstairs office.
„It’s not just Malakhai’s lock-picking.“ Mallory stared past him, focusing on the platform, the unsolved riddle.
Charles sat on the floor and opened the toolbox. Mallory hunkered down beside him. „Emile St. John is doing a routine with a hangman’s noose. Did Max use the platform for that one too?“
„Yes,“ said Charles, „but Emile is doing the early version. Max created that illusion long before the platform was built. I hope you don’t want to see the original gallows. It would take all day to – “
„Just tell me what it looks like.“
„It’s a cliche of every cowboy movie you’ve ever seen. Very narrow and maybe ten or eleven feet high. And it’s got a rickety look to it – that’s deliberate. It increases the visual tension.“ He turned around to look at the platform. „You know, this one looks a bit like a gallows. Maybe that’s why Max built thirteen steps – tradition.“
Mallory walked over to the platform door. The room was lit and she could see the gleaming brass of new cogs and chains for the mechanisms. So Charles was overhauling the entire apparatus. „You’re trying to work it out?“
Charles looked up from the toolbox. „The Lost Illusion? Yes, but Malakhai doesn’t think much of my chances. He promised to leave me the solution in his will.“
She sat on the edge of a packing crate full of red capes. „I can’t wait that long.“ One weapon lay on the floor, the same crossbow that had misfired and ripped her jeans. Its empty pedestal was stripped down to the gears of inner wheels and springs. „So the pedestal was broken.“
„One of the springs snapped.“ Charles searched through the tiers of toolbox shelves, then lifted out a length of chain. „Malakhai took it to a repair shop. He thinks he can match it up to a new one.“