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

‘I invited them,’ Madame Borelli intervened. ‘This is Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. Mr Holmes, he solves crimes. A famous detective, very good. I called him about the finger you received, about Santo Colangelo. It is especially important, Dario, now that someone else is trying to kill you.’

‘Simple! Is Colangelo,’ cried Borelli.

‘Darling,’ said Madame, ‘Maybe not Santo. He has not the skills.’

‘But perhaps an agent of his?’ said Holmes.

‘You have spoken before, you two,’ said Borelli, his eyes darting between Holmes and his wife. His face grew red with rage. ‘Why do you two speak without me?’

‘Dario, caro mio,’ began the lady in a soothing tone. ‘I wanted his help. I read in the paper, and Scotland Yard recommended.’

Borelli stared at Holmes, considering this.

‘I am a great appreciator of your skills, Mr Borelli,’ said Holmes.

‘A detective? Who tries to flatter me? Who meets in secret with my wife?’ Borelli eyed Holmes from head to toe and snorted. ‘No. For you I have no use.’ He said something in Italian to his wife, who flushed.

Holmes smiled. ‘I am not Madame’s “type”, apparently, Watson,’ said he.

I did not realize my friend spoke Italian. Six years into our partnership, he continued to surprise me.

Borelli turned to me. ‘But you? You are a medical doctor?’

I nodded.

‘Where is your bag?’

‘At home. We came to see your show,’ I said. ‘May I have a look at that ankle?’

‘He is an army surgeon,’ said Holmes. ‘That is a very nice dressing gown, by the way.’

The magician paused only for a moment, then nodded. ‘Look, then.’

I pulled up a chair and leaned in to examine the injury. I had barely touched him when Borelli leaned over his leg, thrusting his face towards mine. He took me by the arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. ‘Ah!’ I said.

‘You will be very careful, no?’ His dark marble eyes bored into mine.

‘Of course.’

‘You make like new.’

‘I will know after I have examined you.’

‘I must perform. Important shows. Make right very fast.’

‘I will do my best,’ I said.

‘Grazie, grazie.’ Still leaning forward, he released my arm and patted me on the back with his other hand. He remained uncomfortably close.

‘Sit back, sir, and try to relax. It will go easier for you. Is there any brandy about?’ I had uncharacteristically left my own flask at home.

‘No, no! I no need,’ said Borelli, waving a hand dismissively.

‘Sit back, please, sir!’ I said.

The magician paused, took a deep breath, then finally relaxed back into the chair, giving me room. As he did, he noted Holmes examining the contraption that had held his ankles.

‘Interesting,’ said Holmes.

‘Put that down!’ ordered Borelli.

‘Dario, please,’ said Madame Borelli. ‘I believe he can help to prove that you did not tamper with Santo’s guillotine trick. We must clear this up, Dario, or who knows what Santo may do?’

Holmes set down the contraption with the ankle cuffs and wiped his hands with a nearby towel. ‘The lock appears untouched. The wood around it is not scratched. If the one lock that malfunctioned was indeed tampered with and not merely broken, then the culprit is an expert.’

‘Colangelo did this,’ snarled the magician. Then, to me, ‘Ach! Easy there, you!’

‘How and when did he allegedly do this? Surely you check your equipment?’ asked Holmes.

‘Always. I examined it at six p.m. tonight.’

‘But the show commenced at seven-thirty. Did you not look again, just before going on? Such a mistake can be fatal,’ remarked the detective.

Borelli waved a hand. He was not yet ready to let Holmes in on the case. ‘But it was not fatal. I escaped! You are so smart, tell me how I do this!’

‘Impressively! You twisted your ankle at an extreme angle until you could slip free by force – abrading the skin there and breaking your ankle in the process. Few could manage this.’

I looked up at the man. ‘You broke your own ankle? On purpose?’

‘Better than drowning, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘Or perhaps worse, failing the trick.’

Madame Borelli smiled at this. The magician did not.

‘Why should I trust you?’ he said. His eyes swept over Holmes, taking in everything from my friend’s sleek hair and closely fitted frock coat to his polished boots. ‘You say admirer. But … you are dressed like magician.’

Holmes laughed.

‘Like a gentleman, Dario,’ corrected Madame Borelli. ‘It is the fine English tailoring of Mr Holmes.’ The lady gave her husband a stern look. ‘You need to listen, caro mio.’

The man raised his eyebrows. ‘Speak, woman.’

‘We must discover not just Santo Colangelo’s guillotine mystery, but also who tampered with your equipment tonight, Dario,’ continued his wife. ‘Possibly it was the same man.’

‘Or woman,’ I said.

‘Many are jealous of my illusions, my fame,’ said Borelli.

‘Oh, to be sure,’ I said. This man’s conceit knew no bounds.

‘Who guards your stage properties when you are away?’ asked Holmes.

Madame Borelli gave a low growl. ‘Falco Fricano. He was married to Dario’s sister, before her death. He watches over things, or says he does.’

‘He is a good man,’ said Borelli. ‘Falco!’ he shouted.

‘He is the wrong man for this job,’ said Madame.

Borelli grunted. ‘What do you know, woman?’

His dismissive manner raised my ire.

‘But you know Falco, caro mio,’ she said before turning to Holmes and me. ‘Falco likes the cards and wine. He is very good for organizing the travel but not for the long, boring jobs like sitting backstage and watching all the equipment. I think he is not there all the time.’ To her husband, she added, ‘I tell you this before.’

A tall, handsome man with the flushed countenance of someone who indeed was a fan of the grape poked his head in the door.

‘Falco!’ cried Borelli.

Fricano smiled and nodded at us. ‘Si, Dario?’ he said.

Borelli said something in rapid Italian to the fellow, who responded with a short, conciliatory burst of words. Borelli replied with a sharp retort, then waved him away. Fricano saluted us with a smirk and disappeared.

‘Falco, he admits,’ said Borelli. ‘Maybe he stepped away for an hour. After five