The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird (books for 8th graders .TXT) 📗

One small boy – his mother occupied with her flashy swain seated beside her – was folding tiny pieces of paper and dropping them on the heads of the better-dressed patrons sitting beneath him in the stalls.

I had been only ten years old myself when I first saw a magic show. That one had featured dancing dogs, and I recalled the canines were infinitely more entertaining than the florid, grotesque man who had performed after them, sweating under his battered top hat and manipulating cards on a stained, felt-covered table. But that was long ago.

The Great Borelli promised to entertain at an entirely different level. A spangled red and silver curtain billowed at the back of the stage. In front were arrayed various gleaming contraptions and velvet topped tables.

Seated next to me in the stalls, Holmes drummed his long thin fingers on his knee, as impatient as the young boy above us.

At the sound of a musical flourish from a small band on the right side of the stage, the lights dimmed. Followed by a spotlight, the Borellis appeared from behind the curtain. Tall, dark-skinned, with the pointed beard and trimmed moustache of Renaissance portraits, the Great Borelli boasted an athletic physique and the light-footed movements of a sportsman in his youthful prime.

Madame Borelli was glamorous far beyond her already striking appearance at Baker Street earlier in the day. A red silk gown draped over her statuesque figure like molten lava, adorned with red and black sequins that seemed to give off sparks from the limelights at the front of the stage.

The act proceeded with a fast-paced series of magic tricks, most employing lavishly decorated pieces of equipment, including a gold filigreed coffin-like box into which Madame Borelli was locked, her head and feet sticking out of either end, promptly followed by Borelli piercing the coffin with swords. Holmes leaned in to whisper, ‘Either careful choreography, and Madame is a contortionist, or trick swords which fold in on themselves.’

I nodded. ‘Shhh.’

Holmes leaned in again. ‘Those feet sticking out are false feet. Look, the soles are unworn!’ whispered the spoilsport.

‘Let me enjoy this!’ I hissed back.

Borelli flung a red satin drape over the whole thing, intoned incantations, then tossed it away with bravado, revealing Madame Borelli standing intact next to the gold coffin. The audience erupted in applause.

More tricks followed, in which the magician seemed to be in flirtatious competition with his mischievous wife. The charming Ilaria threatened to upstage him at every turn, but he won the day by making a variety of objects – including a teacup apparently filled with liquid, and a small, live rabbit – appear and disappear into his hat.

‘Fabric pocket at the edge of the table. See there, he drops the rabbit in while you are watching the scarf, it never goes in the hat,’ said my companion. ‘And there is no liquid—’

‘Oh, Holmes,’ I groaned.

A woman in front of us turned to look at us. ‘Yes, go home, you rude man!’

Holmes chuckled, but for the next several illusions did manage to hold his tongue.

After more remarkable hat tricks, the audience exploded into enthusiastic applause. I leaned over and said, ‘Now that was well done, wouldn’t you say, Holmes?’

‘Mmph. Sleight of hand. Misdirection. Pre-rigged table and hat,’ came the reply. ‘This is not what I came for.’

But the music started up again, and the stage lights dimmed. The table was whisked away and a large tank was rolled in, some six feet high and four feet square. A spotlight followed it in. It was filled to the brim with water, which sloshed over the edges as the thing was wheeled to the centre of the stage. Lowered from above was a large clock, with a vivid second hand slowly ticking round.

The band’s music grew ominous. The top of the tank was removed and in it were embedded two iron cuffs.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! In our next adventure,’ the Great Borelli boomed with his Italian accent, ‘holding the breath is important. First, I ask you to try. Do I have a volunteer to be submerged with these iron cuffs around your ankles and try to escape?’

The audience went silent, except for some nervous laughter. I stole another glance at Holmes. ‘Not ready for this one?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps one day,’ said Holmes.

I regretted my joke.

‘How long can the average man hold his breath?’ Madame tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Or woman?’ He looked out over the audience. ‘Let us see. Will you give it a try? Upon my signal, my assistants will keep watch. Keep your eyes on the clock. Raise your hand to start. Lower it when you must take a breath. We shall see who is best among you. Ready? Deep breath in now, ready … go.’

There was a collective gasp from the audience and many hands went up. Why not? I thought, and raised my hand, taking in a big breath.

As the clock ticked and we literally held our breath with one hand in the air, the Great Borelli stripped off a layer of clothing, revealing a grey woollen bathing costume underneath. After displaying his remarkable physique in a classic strongman pose, he removed his shoes and socks. He then made as if to remove his bathing costume to a collective gasp from the ladies. He stopped with a wink. The clock ticked on … thirty seconds, forty seconds.

Borelli next climbed up a ladder to the top of the tank and sat on a small platform. Two assistants removed the top, displayed to the audience the iron cuffs securely welded into it, then carefully locked his ankles into them, clicking them shut like handcuffs and then adding padlocks on top of these.

They fastened a thick chain around his waist, and to this, a pair of what looked like police regulation handcuffs. Once locked, the assistants gave a sharp tug, showing that the cuffs were not only secure, but tight.

Around us a series of gasps sounded out and one by one the hands went down—forty-five, fifty,