Chapters (39)
- Cover
- Title
- TheLastIllusion
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- HISTORICAL NOTE
“In Harry’s top pocket at the theater. Remember when we tried to open the second trunk, only neither key would work? I must have stuck the keys in my belt and forgotten about them. Lucky, wasn’t it?”
I took out the keys and knelt in front of the suitcase.
“I don’t know, Molly. Harry’s going to be awful mad if he finds out.”
“Bess,” I said, my patience and good nature wearing thin after a very trying day, “if your husband has been kidnapped and is waiting to be rescued, don’t you think we should do everything we can to find him?”
“Of course, but I don’t see what—”
“Look,” I said, trying to measure my words so that I didn’t give too much away. “The police think he may have something in this trunk that someone is willing to kill for. I have no idea what that might be, but we have to look. Either I can look here and I promise not to study how he does his illusions, or I can hand the whole suitcase over to the police, which is probably what I should be doing now.”
She chewed on her lip, looking ridiculously like a helpless child, then nodded. “Yes, I see. Thank you, Molly. I do understand that you’re trying to help. You’re trying to do what’s best for us. Okay, go ahead then.”
I put the first key in the lock. It was too big. So that must be the key to Houdini’s trunk. I replaced it in my purse. I tried the second key and heard a satisfying click as the suitcase opened. I don’t know what I expected to see—an envelope marked TOP SECRET or something, but all I saw was a lot of incomprehensible diagrams with words scribbled across them, sometimes in English and sometimes in what must have been Hungarian. If I’d wanted to steal Houdini’s secrets, I’d have been none the wiser. The diagrams meant nothing to me. I read their titles: “Making Orange Tree Grow—after Robert-Houdin.” And scrawled underneath, triumphant: “I finally figured out how he did it!” Various boxes, coffins, handcuff designs, and then, “Possible new stunt. The amazing underwater illusion.” What followed were some complicated diagrams, a device shaped like a large bullet with what looked like flower petals at one end, with arrows around it, and tiny words scribbled in another language.
“Underwater illusion,” I said. “That sounds ambitious. Does he do an underwater stunt?”