Magic Lantern. Alex Archer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ end at the hands of a supernatural murderer. M. Dutilleaux was a phantasmagorist conducting a group comprising this reporter and several others through a dark and winding tunnel under the city at the time of his death.

       The reporter described several of the events leading up to the murder. The account meandered, as stories did in those days because the news was meant to be savored and enjoyed and—in this case—puzzled over.

       M. Dutilleaux had barely begun what was to be a fascinating presentation, this reporter is convinced of that, when the crafty killer sprang from the darkness. Merciless and without hesitation, the apparition brandished a knife and drove it through M. Dutilleaux’s heart with cold savagery, like a predator pouncing on much weaker prey. The stricken man had no opportunity to defend himself or call upon his Maker before he lay stretched out dead before us.

       A few paragraphs of the reactions of the crowd, the panic that had ensued and the desperate attempts to revive Dutilleaux followed.

       As of this morning when I write this piece for you, Dear Reader, the Parisian police have yet to decide who killed M. Dutilleaux. There are some who believe that the phantasmagorist was the victim of a Celestial spell that followed him from the Far East during his travels. Many readers this reporter knows believe in those curses. All I can tell you is that whatever killed the poor man was not human. I stared into that White Face of Death and knew fear the like of which I have never before known.

       My only prayer is that the thing that killed M. Dutilleaux has completed its mission. Otherwise, that thing may yet haunt the catacombs. At present, the tunnel has been boarded up and placed under guard by the police until such time as they deem it safe.

       Annja looked up at Edmund. “I assume you followed up on this story?”

       The young professor nodded. “Of course. I’ve checked for months and years following. And I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. No one ever mentioned Anton Dutilleaux again. Only a few magicians remember him. I wouldn’t have known him at all if I hadn’t discovered some of his handbills in a collection I purchased a year ago.”

       “Two hundred years is a long time.”

       “It is. But history has a way of making itself known, don’t you agree?” Edmund sipped his tea.

       “Tell me about this lantern you found.”

       Slipping his hands around his teacup, Edmund leaned conspiratorially across the table toward her. “Only a few weeks ago, I was at an estate sale.”

       “Looking for the lantern?”

       “No. Merely poking about. A lot of magicians have made their home—temporary and permanently—here in London. During my days off, I research those people. Occasionally I stumble across stage props or costumes while dissembling through estate sales.”

       “Treasure hunting?”

       Edmund smiled in pleasure. “When history is not valuable or fashionable, it is garbage and people toss it out. Or they sell it to speculators for pennies on the pound. I have assembled quite the collection of mementos and collectibles. Trust me when I say I have made several acquisitions that other fans of magic envy, and that no one else would want.” He shot her a rueful look.

       Annja didn’t doubt him for a moment. Passion showed in Edmund’s dark eyes and she knew he wouldn’t easily turn away from something he wanted.

       “Have you heard of Étienne-Gaspard Robert?”

       Annja thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Another phantasmagorist?”

       “Yes, but he was also an inventor and physicist from Liège, Belgium. His stage name was Étienne Robertson.” Edmund waited expectantly.

       Annja shook her head again.

       “Robertson, by either name, was one of the most important phantasmagorists who ever lived. I have copies of some of the lenses with which he used to conduct his magic-lantern shows. I can’t afford the real lenses, not on a university professor’s salary. Fascinating stuff. Especially for the time.”

       “I’ll take your word for it.”

       “Do. Anyway, Robertson was there the night Dutilleaux was murdered by the Chinese ghost.”

       “Coincidence?”

       “No. Robertson was there to take umbrage with Dutilleaux. Robertson felt certain Dutilleaux was copying aspects of his own magic-lantern show. Which I’m sure he was. But at that time, many people were copying Robertson.”

       “Was Robertson a suspect in the murder?”

       “Of course.” Edmund grinned, warming to the subject. “Robertson and Dutilleaux were rivals for a long time. But the murder occurred in 1793, four years before Robertson revealed his pièce de résistance at the Pavillon de l’Echiquier. That was when Robertson left his competitors in the dust, to use a colloquialism. During that time, Robertson perfected the magic-lantern craft by putting the projectors on wheels to create moving images as well as make the images larger and smaller simply by moving the projectors.”

       Annja sipped her coffee.

       “The police never found any evidence against Robertson?”

       “No. But Dutilleaux’s magic lantern went missing that night. I believe that Robertson, or one of his assistants, liberated that projector while the gendarmes were en route. Or perhaps it was merely a spectator looking for a trophy. Or simply theft.”

       “And the lantern was taken even though it was cursed.”

       “Dutilleaux claimed that he could open a doorway into another world. Maybe they didn’t think the projector was cursed so much as it was truly a miracle.” Edmund smiled. “You have to remember—magicians, the really good ones, want magic to be real. Perhaps whoever took it believed the magic lantern possessed supernatural powers. Fast-forward two hundred years.”

       Annja finished the last of her coffee.

       “I was tracking down Robertson’s apprentices. There were dozens of them, by the way. In 1799, Robertson’s phantasmagoria show had created such a stir that the courts ordered him to reveal his secrets to the public. Once he did that, there were many imitators. Some of them carried phantasmagoria back to the United States. Did you know that?”

       “No.”

       “In May 1803, the first of the magic-lantern shows was presented at Mount Vernon Garden, New York, and the entertainment caught on readily enough.” Edmund looked into his cup.

       For the briefest moment, Annja felt uncomfortable, like someone was watching her. She glanced around the teahouse, but no one seemed especially interested. It was too dark to see much out the window. She returned her attention to Edmund.

       “The point is, I tracked down some belongings of one of Robertson’s assistants at auction those few weeks ago.” Excitement gleamed in Edmund’s eyes. “I think someone else was searching, as well, because after I bought the lot—for a song, practically—the auctioneer informed me there was an interested party asking about the lantern I’d bought. They told me I could more than double my money if I wished to sell it. Of course I refused. What I gave for the lantern was a pittance, and it was purely for my own amusement. Even doubling СКАЧАТЬ