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

sixty seconds. I made it to seventy-five, then gasped. The Great Borelli smiled. ‘The longest an audience member has ever held his breath was eighty seconds. One minute and twenty seconds. Most of you can do this for less than a minute. I will now escape this tank, but it will take time. Longer than two minutes. It is extremely dangerous. A colleague of mine recently drowned attempting to duplicate this trick. Are you ready?’

The audience responded in affirmation. Holmes leaned forward in his chair. The Great Borelli, now upside down with chains connecting his handcuffs to his waist, was upended so he was hanging from his pinioned ankles.

The entire thing was winched into the air and Borelli was suspended upside down, over the tank. He took in a deep breath of air, and nodded at his assistants to lower him in.

The clock began.

Madame Borelli stepped forward. ‘My husband is risking his life. In the case that something goes wrong, we do not wish for you to see him drown.’ A curtain on a frame was then rolled in to block our view of the tank.

The audience gave audible disapproval. Some boos were heard.

Madame Borelli smiled. ‘Oh … you want to see?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ came the louder response.

‘He’s unlocking the handcuffs just now,’ whispered Holmes.

‘Stop it.’

She nodded at an assistant and the curtain was wheeled off. Forty seconds, fifty, a minute. Borelli could be seen writhing as he seemed to struggle with the handcuffs.

‘I think he’s having trouble,’ I whispered to Holmes. He just smiled at me.

Borelli continued to struggle. The music began to play ominously.

‘I don’t know. This looks like a problem,’ I said.

Ninety seconds. Suddenly Borelli cast off the handcuffs. A ripple of applause. Then the illusionist contorted in the narrow tank to bend at the waist to address his ankle restraints. The clock indicated two minutes.

The audience vocalized its thrilled concern. I glanced at Holmes. He was watching closely. I turned my attention back to Borelli, who was working at the ankle cuffs. One ankle was free, the other still trapped. He paused and threw his head back in seeming despair, beating his hand against the window.

Two minutes and twenty seconds.

Madame Borelli appeared concerned.

‘Holmes!’ I said.

He seemed fascinated. Perhaps not as wide-eyed as those around us, but definitely interested.

Borelli once again attacked the remaining ankle cuff.

Two assistants approached Madame Borelli and appeared to confer with her in something of a dither. She shook her head.

Two minutes and forty seconds.

‘That is a terribly long time to hold one’s breath,’ I said.

‘He is practised, Watson,’ said my friend.

One ankle was free. The other was not. Borelli worked at it, apparently frantic. One assistant came out with a sledgehammer. Then the second.

Three minutes. Were we going to watch a man die before us?

‘Holmes?’

‘He is having trouble with that second ankle cuff,’ said Holmes.

Three minutes and ten seconds. The music stopped. Silence. Borelli seemed to collapse and float downward, becoming caught halfway, still bent at the waist, against the side of the tank, unconscious perhaps. The assistants raised their sledgehammers and glanced at Madame Borelli.

Her posture had changed. She was leaning forward, the picture of alarm.

‘Oh no!’ I said.

Suddenly Borelli gave a great twist and his second ankle came free. He folded like a jackknife, reversed position in the water, and shot to the top.

He pushed the top free! Borelli surfaced, gave a huge gasp, and then shook his head violently, sending a spray of water into the air.

The musicians played a triumphant flourish. The audience burst into applause.

The top was taken in hand by the two assistants who had scrambled up two ladders on either side. One assistant held a hand down to pull him out of the tank. Borelli waved the man away and stayed in the tank, perched on the edge and leaning on his two arms. He gave a salute to the audience, who continued to applaud wildly.

The assistants looked a bit confused. I glanced at Holmes. He was staring at Borelli, his forehead creased in a frown. What had just happened?

Borelli waved to the two assistants. They clambered down the ladders, and with the help of two more stagehands wheeled the giant tank off the stage, Borelli still within. Madame Borelli came to the front of the stage. She bowed deeply.

‘On behalf of the Great Borelli and myself, we thank you for coming today. Grazie. Grazie.’ She bowed again, blew kisses as the music played, and the curtains closed.

I looked at Holmes.

‘Backstage, Watson,’ he said. ‘I am curious about what just happened.’

CHAPTER 9

Misdirection

We pushed past a large crowd of fans and well-wishers to a guardian at the stage door who turned all away. Not to be thwarted, my friend led us to the side of the building to another entrance, a plain locked door which he handily picked with a small tool from his pocket.

In a moment we were greeted by Madame Borelli at the door to their dressing room. The Great Borelli sat on a chair by his cluttered dressing table, still wet and in his bathing costume but royal in demeanor, with a luxurious, embroidered silk robe thrown over all. One leg was elevated, his foot resting on a chair. His foot angled oddly, and I saw in an instant that the ankle was broken. It was swollen and tinged blue. He grimaced in pain as he issued sharp commands in Italian to two stagehands and his wife.

One assistant held the top bar of the tank as Madame Borelli examined the cuffs embedded in it. One was open, but the closed one held her focus. She was frowning and said something in Italian to her husband and their voices rose.

A stagehand pushed through to interrupt urgently. I made out the words ‘il dottore’ and stepped forward. ‘I am a doctor,’ I said. ‘May I assist you?’

The Great Borelli looked up and took us in. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘And how you get in here?’

His accent was thick. The magician eyed the