The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [84]
Some one thought of the lights. It was the Magician himself. This curious circumstance was not noted until later. The switch clicked and the chandeliers sprang into being again. Colwell held the torn mask in his hand. Every eye, still straining for sight after the shock of the flashlight, sought the blind face of the performer. It was horribly blind now, stripped of its silk ribbon. Covering the eyesockets like plasters were great black disks larger than silver dollars. He stumbled across the room—almost fell against the table; his uncertain hand sought Colwell’s arm, traveled down its length and took from the fingers the torn mask and replaced it. The master of ceremonies gazed at the cadaverous face, fascinated. The room was deathly silent. The Magician flashed his teeth in a poor attempt at a smile. His voice, when he spoke, was in whispers as crisp as leaves:
“Ah—my poor eyes! I do not sell——Gentlemen, I am clumsy with your words. Let me not offend those who are my friends among you when I say I do not sell you my private self—it is only the monkey in me you can buy.”
Colwell and Saunders were making efforts to soothe their arms, which were suffering exquisitely. Several men pushed forward, ashamed, to bridge the embarrassment with their apologies to the Magician, who stared at them imperturbably with the mask. Things gradually came to rights, except for the honorable gentlemen of the committee, who took the first chance to retire with their troubles. The hands of the mask were like steel and when he wrenched the bones in their sockets he had not dealt lightly.
“We proceed,” said the Magician with a deprecating wave of his hand. “The room! I am to be your prisoner. It is so written.”
The few members who knew of Colwell’s precautions of plugging the keyslots with lead thought wryly of the fact now. If this thing went any further the Pegasus Club would be the butt of the town!
“We will forget that,” said Welton, of Tonopah Magnet, assuming leadership in a movement to make amends. “Besides,” he added with a laugh, “we haven’t given you a chance to go through our pockets yet. You would have to escape empty-handed.”
“Your pardon!” said the mask with a grand bow. “I have already taken the opportunity.”
So saying he displayed the contents of his capacious pockets. He had at least a score of wallets and several rolls of bank-notes. The room exploded in a cry of amazement. Then the truth flashed upon them. When they passed the guest from hand to hand his nimble fingers had been busy substituting wads of paper for wallets.
“The hour is late,” he continued, feeling the face of his watch. “I must be gone in five minutes. The room—if you will.”
Welton, of Tonopah Magnet, roaring with laughter, took the Magician—they admitted now he was at least that—and led him to the door of the cloakroom.
“One favor!” said the mask at the threshold. “My coat—my hat—my faithful cane. Ah! I thank you. I bid you good night!”
The naïveté of the words was masterly. Welton, of Tonopah Magnet, drew the door shut with a slam and the lock clicked. He faced the others and turned his trousers pockets inside out comically. He was not worrying about the safety of his cash, but he did admire the deftness of those fingers.
“I am glad to say he left my watch,” he said; and he put his watch on the table. It was lacking five minutes of midnight. “What gets me,” he continued, turning toward the closed door, “is how we are going to get the poor devil out without a battering ram. Colwell has most certainly earned everlasting fame by his brilliant entertainment this evening.”
The keys were useless now that the spring