Missing Magician Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Missing Magician

  Copyright © 2018 by Paul Tomlinson

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced or transmitted, in whole or in part, or used in any manner whatsoever, without the express permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in the context of a book review.

  The Missing Magician is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events, is purely coincidental.

   

  First published January 2018

  Publisher: Paul Tomlinson

  www.paultomlinson.org

  Cover image and design © 2017 by Paul Tomlinson

  In memory of Louisa Goodman

  Chapter One

  Malloy drove the Alvis to Prince Leopold Park. As they arrived, Vickery turned and placed a hand on Malloy’s shoulder.

  “Stay in the car, there’s a good man,” Vickery said.

  Malloy didn’t like this, but wasn’t really in any position to argue: he was employed in the role of ‘associate’ and Vickery was the boss.

  The place chosen for the meeting was remarkable in that it was an absence of location. It was an overcast morning, and there was a heavy mist – the kind that causes beads of moisture to form on the wool of an overcoat. Through the windscreen, all Malloy could see were soft grey shapes, like a blurred photograph. He watched Vickery walk away from the car, his outline gradually fading. Another faded shadow appeared, a stout figure in a long overcoat and bowler hat: he and Vickery shook hands like old friends, and then they were both lost in a swirl of vapour.

  The lack of any firm landmark was disconcerting, making it feel like he was at the edge of the world with nothing beyond it, even though Malloy knew the park lay in front of him. His own breath had fogged the inside of the windscreen and he wiped it with a gloved hand. As the mist shifted, he would occasionally catch a glimpse of the dome of the bandstand or the silhouette of a tree, but aside from that, he saw nothing.

  Malloy glanced at his wristwatch: twenty minutes had passed since Vickery left the car. He would wait another ten minutes, then he would go in search of Vickery. The second hand swept around the dial at an agonisingly slow pace. He opened the door and climbed out, hoping that visibility would be better outside the car. He looked around him, and couldn’t even discern the outlines of nearby trees. He thought about walking in the direction of the bandstand, but then a sound caught his attention. A light cough.

  “Do close the door, Jamie, you’re letting in the damp.”

  Malloy ducked his head inside the Alvis: Vickery was sitting in the passenger seat pulling off his gloves. Malloy had not heard him return. He slid back behind the wheel and closed the door. He might have asked Vickery how he had re-entered the car unobserved, but he knew what the answer would be: Magic, my dear fellow. He started the engine and cleared the windscreen with the back of his gloved hand.

  “Who was the fat bloke in the bowler hat?” Malloy asked, not expecting a straight answer.

  “Fat?” Vickery said. “Yes, I suppose he is now. Freddie Fairburne. He was Foreign Office when I knew him. He is secret service now – though he didn’t tell me that, of course.”

  Malloy glanced across and saw Vickery was watching him – and smiling. They were driving away from the park, up the hill and away from the mist that had settled in the valley. The sky was still grey, but it looked as though the sun would burn away the clouds before the morning was over.

  “Was he offering you a job?” Malloy asked, smiling.

  “You don’t think I could be a spy?” Vickery asked, pretending to be offended.

  “I think you have been,” Malloy said. “Not that you’ve told me that, of course.”

  “There is a lot I haven’t told you, Jamie. But if I remain tight-lipped, it’s not because I don’t trust you.”

  “I know that,” Malloy said, and part of him believed it.

  “Freddie did ask me if I’d do something for him. And I told him I’d do it. I shall need to go away for a few days. Three or four at most.”

  “Very good, sir,” Malloy said, keeping his eyes on the road. He only called Vickery ‘sir’ when he was mocking him, or when he was annoyed with him. Vickery was aware of this. Malloy knew that Vickery owed him nothing and that he owed Vickery everything – his life and reputation included. He had been saved from the hangman’s noose and would be ever grateful. But that couldn’t stop him feeling disappointed about being excluded from this new adventure.

  They drove on in silence for a time, Vickery glancing out at the early morning traffic on the roads and pavements. “Freddie shall have three days of my time, and no more,” he said. “After that, I think you and I should get away for a while.”

  “A week at the seaside?” Malloy asked. He couldn’t quite imagine the Great Vicari doing sandcastles and a portion of chips.

  “Me in a bathing suit? Good lord, no,” Vickery said. “I had in mind a stay in the country. A couple of days with your aunt, perhaps, and then on to somewhere a little more rugged?”

  Aunt Flossie was the closest thing to a parent Malloy had. She had wanted to be introduced to Benjamin Vickery since she had learned that he and Malloy had been reacquainted, but Vickery had refused. Until now.

  “You and I spend so much of our time having adventures that we barely have time to talk to one another,” Vickery said. “As soon as I’ve dealt with Freddie’s little problem, we’ll get away from it all – the adventures, the city, everything.”

  This was a promise of ‘jam tomorrow’ intended to stop Malloy dwelling on the fact that he was currently ‘not wanted on voyage.’ This escape to the country would almost certainly never take place, and he knew he would be a fool to let his hopes be raised. Vickery would go off on his secret errand, no matter what, and Malloy could either sulk about it until he returned, or he could make the best of his situation.

  “How about breakfast?” he asked.

  “Excellent idea!” Vickery said.

  *

  “Good evening,” Malloy said.

  “Mr. Vickery isn’t here,” Betty said. She stood on the doorstep looking down at him, blocking his way.

  “I’m to pick him up at seven o’clock and drive him to the railway station,” Malloy said.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Betty said. “I do know that Mr. Vickery is gone. He left an hour ago.” She stepped back and started to close the door.

  “But...” Malloy said.

  “Good day,” she said firmly and banged the door shut.

  Malloy stared at the closed door. Vickery’s housekeeper was twenty-three years old and took her role very seriously. She had taken a dislike to him the first time they met and remained cold to him despite his best efforts to charm her. If she had her way, he was sure, Malloy would never set foot in the house again. And today her master was not available to overrule her.

  He turned, aware now that the Alvis Speed 20 was not at the kerbside where he had left it earlier. It was entirely possible that a sudden change in Vickery’s plans had required him to make an earlier start. It was even more likely that he had never intended for Malloy to drive him anywhere, and the false seven o’clock start was meant to ensure he could make no attempt to join the secret mission or to follow Vickery.

  Malloy pushed his hands into his coat pockets and walked back down the hill.

  The first Malloy knew that something was wrong was when his landlady knocked and said he had a visitor. He never had visitors. No one knew where he lived.

  Vickery had been absent for eight days at that point. Malloy had resolved to stay at home until Vickery sent a message to say that he had returned. He made this resolution because, on the fourth day of his absence, Malloy had called round to Mallowan Crescent.

  “If Mr. Vickery wished you to know his whereabouts, I’m sure he would inform you,” Betty had said.

  Malloy took that to mean he wasn’t at home.

  “Is this where you live?” Betty asked. She was wearing a hat and coat that looked like they were borrowed from her mother, and that made her look even younger than usual. She looked around the dingy room, trying to keep her expression neutral.

  “You don’t like it?” Malloy asked.

  Colour rose in her cheeks and that made Malloy feel guilty. Betty was obviously uncomfortable, and he was only making it worse. She wouldn’t have come all the way down there without good reason.

  Malloy lived in a single room in Mrs. Ribot’s boarding house. It had a small gas fire a
nd a dusty single-ring stove was hooked up to the same gas tap by an ancient bit of rubber hose. The bathroom down the hall was shared with three other boarders. The landlady had left Malloy’s door open – not because she thought it inappropriate for a man to have a young lady in his room, but because she wanted to loiter out on the landing and listen to their conversation.

  Betty stood in the middle of the floor, clutching her handbag in front of her. She looked like she wanted to avoid touching anything in the room, so Malloy decided against asking her to sit down. Instead, he reached for his overcoat.

  “Let’s walk down the street,” he said, “I want to get a newspaper from the corner.”

  “Let’s do that,” Betty said, obviously relieved.

  “You haven’t heard from him?” Malloy asked.

  Betty bit her lower lip and shook her head.

  It was mid-morning and the pavements were almost empty as they walked slowly in the direction of the tobacconist’s at the end of the street.

  “I’m worried about him,” Betty said.

  “Has he ever gone away like this before?” Malloy asked.

  “No. I don’t know. I suppose he did go away, but he wasn’t on his own then. There was always...”

  “Terry,” Malloy said. Betty looked at him and nodded. He knew what she was thinking: Why couldn’t he be more like Terry?

  “Why didn’t you go with him?” Betty asked.

  “He didn’t want me to,” Malloy said.

  “Couldn’t you have tried harder to persuade him?”

  “Perhaps I could have,” Malloy said.

  They had reached the corner now, but instead of going into the shop, Malloy kept walking.

  “What should we do?” Betty asked.

  Malloy wasn’t sure what they could do. But at the same time, he didn’t want to wait around and do nothing. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” he asked.

  Betty shook her head. “He packed a small suitcase. Said he wasn’t going for long.”

  “Did he take his passport?”

  “He took at least one of them,” Betty said. “I saw him go into the safe for it.”

  If Vickery had more than one passport, it was possible that he had more than one identity. There was no telling what name he was travelling under. The only person who knew where Vickery was going was the fat man from the secret service.

  “Freddie something,” Malloy said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The man Mr. Vickery met with before he left. Foreign Office chap called Freddie. Frampton or Fairclough or something like that.”

  “Can’t you remember?”

  “I’m trying,” Malloy said.

  “Think harder.”

  “I am – can’t you see the steam?”

  They were standing still now, Betty staring up at him expectantly. The gears in Malloy’s head were grinding as he tried to recall Vickery’s exact words following the meeting in the mist. Malloy had said he was fat. Fat? Vickery had said. Yes, I suppose he is now. He was Foreign Office when I knew him. All those words beginning with ‘F’ and his name was...

  “Freddie Fairburne,” Malloy said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Don’t make me doubt myself. I’ll send a telegram asking Fairburne to contact me.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” Betty asked.

  “Then I’ll go down and hammer on the door at the Foreign Office until he answers,” Malloy said.

  Something about that mental image made Betty smile. Perhaps it was the thought of Malloy being carted away by a couple of bobbies for causing a public nuisance.

  “Have you got a shilling for the telegram?” she asked, her fingers moving to the clasp of her handbag.

  Malloy assured her that a shilling was within his means. Betty made him promise that he’d contact her as soon as he had news of any kind, and then said that she ought to get back. The English always seek to maintain their daily routines, Malloy thought, no matter what the circumstances. He watched her hurry away, then headed back to the tobacconist’s. For some reason, he felt that a newspaper might give him some clue to Vickery’s recent activities.

  Of course, the disappearance of Benjamin Vickery, alias The Great Vicari, wasn’t reported in the newspaper. If he had been working as some sort of secret agent, no one was going to report him missing. And besides, Magician Vanishes wasn’t actually much of a headline.

  As he walked, Malloy tried to compose the telegram in his head. It was a while since he’d faced the challenge of creating an intelligible message in twelve words or less. Not that he minded paying a penny for each extra word, but he wanted the words he chose to be clear but circumspect: if Freddie Fairburne really was with the secret service, Malloy couldn’t risk referring to Vickery or his mission directly.

   

  MUST SPEAK RE VICARIOUS ACTIONS (STOP) DRIVER TO HELP

   

  He thought that was suitably cryptic. Fairburne would know Vickery’s on-stage alias and would have been aware that he employed a driver. He didn’t think he needed to give his own name: they would be able to trace him easily enough. He sent the telegram from the local post office and then went home to read the day’s news. And to await a response.

  Chapter Two

  Malloy had lived in the City of Walsingham for almost six years. He’d moved there as a temporary measure. It wasn’t quite in the middle of England, but it was close enough to seem like a sensible choice until he decided where to go next. He hadn’t stayed because he’d grown to like the place – he just couldn’t think of anywhere else that seemed preferable. He’d chosen to board with Mrs. Ribot for similar reasons: the rent was cheap, and it didn’t matter that the facilities were lacking because he didn’t plan to stay long. That’s how it happens, he thought, before you know it you’ll be middle-aged.

  He used the gas ring in his room to boil water for a shave and a cup of tea, but he never cooked anything on it. Often, he would drop into the Bull’s Head for a cheese and onion sandwich and a couple of glasses of beer. More recently he had been dining out with Mr. Vickery who seemed to know all the places where good food was served at fair prices, and where a dinner jacket was not required. Malloy thought about heading over to Giancarlo’s, where he was sure he’d be made welcome, but he didn’t feel comfortable going alone. No, he’d feel much better tucking into steak and kidney pie and lumpy mashed potato, all smothered in thick brown gravy that looked almost black and washed down by a big mug of stewed tea. There was a place half an hour’s walk from his digs where a wizened old man with a Jewish-cockney accent served pies with crisp golden pastry and tea that was scalding hot, and he felt himself being drawn towards it as he turned onto the main street.

  When he got back to the boarding house, Malloy discovered he had another visitor, but Mrs. Ribot did not announce this one.

  “Don’t turn the light on,” a voice said as he entered.

  Malloy blinked and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out a figure sitting in his armchair. The man wore a long overcoat and his bowler hat was resting on his lap.

  “Close the door, there’s a good fellow,” the man said.

  “Mr. Fairburne, I presume,” Malloy said, pushing the door shut.

  “And you are The Driver,” Fairburne said. As he turned his head, Malloy could see the man had an impressive moustache.

  “You got my message?” Malloy said. He sat on the bed facing the visitor.

  Fairburne seemed amused by this. “Vickery told me about you, Mr. Malloy. He wanted you along as his right-hand man, but I forbade it. In retrospect, I think that was a mistake. But you will understand my caution, given the situation with the Irish at present.”

  “I’m Irish, am I?” Malloy said.

  “You have an Irish name and an Irish accent,” Fairburne said.

  “I can change both, if you’d prefer.”

  This brought another chuckle. “I dare say you could. Vickery said you had it in you. I should have trusted his judgment, I suppose.”

  “But we are where we are,” Malloy said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Officially?”

  “Forget ‘officially’ – we’re sitting here in the dark because this meeting isn’t really taking place,” Malloy said.