Shell Game

Chapter 18

Judging only by the wildlife of cockroaches in the sink and pink-flamingo statuary cavorting on dead grass outside his window, Fra

Fra

So this was New Jersey.

Nick had told him not to leave the room, but the telephone by the bed had no dial tone. He stared at the public booth on the other side of the parking lot, an upended glass coffin exposed to the traffic of a busy highway – a million pairs of eyes a minute.

It was dangerous to leave the room, or so Nick had said. Fra

But he was not a complete coward. In recent years, all civility had ended, and he had been heckled, hissed and booed by the crowds. There had been times when he feared they would rush the stage and pull him down. Yet he had always remained to finish his act, hands trembling and tears passing for flopsweat. And now he had traveled for thousands of miles, for years and years – for what?

If he could only get through to Emile St. John, everything would be all right. Emile would come to fetch him in a stretch limousine, and they would travel back to New York City, drinking good scotch from the limo bar and smoking Cuban cigars. Rehearsals could resume this afternoon.

He put one hand on the doorknob, then drew back, as if the metal had been hot to the touch. What was the worst thing that could happen to him? What was worse than the terror of anticipation? Well, Nick would be angry. And there was all that highway traffic – all those eyes on him.

Fra

He heard a metallic creak, footsteps stopping outside his door. A knock on the wood and then another. A key was working in the lock. The knob was turning. Fra

When the door opened, a large woman in a uniform walked in, her arms full of fresh linens and towels. She gaped at Fra

The building was surrounded by all the traffic noises of the busy midtown theater district, but not even the siren of a fire engine could permeate these walls. Soundproofing had been an important consideration in his selection of performance space. The gallows illusion would be ruined if the audience was distracted from the ticking of gears, the creaks of wood and the cries of the hanged man.

Emile St. John checked the apparatus one last time. Every rehearsal had gone smoothly. Oliver had gotten this one right.

He glanced at his wristwatch as he slipped on the handcuffs. His assistant was due back in a few minutes. He had hired the young man for the trait of compulsive punctuality.

Timing was everything.

Thirteen steps above him, the stage of the gallows was very small, only room enough to hang a man. The narrow platform had a ramshackle look about it, crooked lines and rough board that concealed an iron framework. Its appearance was tenuous, as though a child had slapped it together with a handful of rusty nails. Visually, the structure threatened to fall apart at the first breeze created by applause.

He walked up the steps, just as Max Candle had done so many times. His foot was heavier on the last step, so it would crack and break at the hinge. And now he stretched his leg to step up on the tiny elevated stage. Emile shifted his weight, and the entire structure wobbled with precisely six inches of tilt in the superbly engineered framework. Standing beneath the noose, he watched as the line began to lower, programmed by clockwork gears to cast its deadly falling shadow on the curtain behind him. When it was level with his head, the line moved back. So far the mechanism was working smoothly. Oliver had done a wonderful job calibrating the noose by Emile’s own height and mass. The metal arm of the hydraulic lift locked on the metal vest beneath his suit.

He slipped the cuff key in the lock. The rope began to pull and tighten; the noose was constricting under his chin, pulling, straining.

And now he heard the sound of splitting wood beneath his feet. His hands were still locked in the manacles. When the structure fell out beneath him, he did not float. He did not follow the well-rehearsed routine of removing the noose and descending by invisible steps to the stage below.

He dropped like a stone, a dead weight, and his still body turned slowly, twisting round and round at the end of the rope.

When Fra

„Oh, yes, Mr. Futura. I’m his assistant. I’ll fetch him right away.“ Fra

Apparently, Nick had been right. Emile couldn’t help him anymore. Fra

Outside the door of the lockup, NYPD was humming with new cases. Mallory sat at a square table scarred with water marks from soda cans and the carved initials of bored felons and cops. She was the orphan of the Special Crimes budget. Slope’s release of Richard Tree’s autopsy had killed every hope for additional manpower, and Heller was not available for any more tests or television shows. Her anger was exacerbated by the gri

„Prado, if I prove you put that arrow in the body, you’ll be prosecuted for mutilating a corpse – not great publicity for the festival. And then there’s your public relations firm. All those wealthy clients might decide to take a walk.“

„Ridiculous,“ said Prado. „All publicity is good. Do you mind if I start that rumor myself?“ He nodded toward the second-floor window overlooking the SoHo street. Reporters were milling on the sidewalk below, creating a litter of coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. Others were behind the fast-food truck, waiting in ambush. „I’ll give you a credit line if you like.“

Behind her, a moan came from the junkie on the floor of the wire cage.

„Hey, knock it off.“ Officer Hong brought his truncheon down hard on the wood frame, but failed to get the prisoner’s attention. „I think this guy’s go

Mallory looked over one shoulder and caught the eye of the boy huddled on the floor behind the wire. He was small and ski

„Don’t piss me off,“ she said.

The junkie slumped against the wall and lowered his head to his chest She turned back to Prado. „I need your movements for Thanksgiving Day. Oliver’s nephew was still wearing a tux when I found the body in the platform. So I figure he died a few hours after the parade.“

„Fra