now would be a personal insult. Simon said as gently as he could: “What I do are only tricks. You could do them yourself with just a little practice.”
Margie came to his rescue, taking the woman by the hand and sympathetically leading her aside. For which act, Simon told himself, he certainly owed her one. In deference to the setting, Margie’s costume this evening was much more demure than usual: long, bloomer-like pantaloons and closed midriff, while Simon himself was in the evening dress that he usually wore on stage. He kept going now, pacing toward the rear of the chapel. The nave was almost long enough for a cathedral, and with tonight’s lighting concentrated toward the front, the rear was quite dim. There was to be an intermission now, probably just long enough for Father Gibson to get in a few announcements, and followed by the main event, the Play of Daniel itself. Simon and Margie had been planning to hang around in a rear pew and watch Nebuchadnezzar’s downfall.
“Mr. Hill?” The pale face, remembered voice to match, was waiting for him. But, Simon realized with surprise, it was as if the man speaking had never seen Simon before, had no idea that they had ever met. In a moment surprise vanished; of course it would have been more astonishing if Gregory Wedderburn had recognized him quickly. He hadn’t been Simon the Great as a boy in Frenchman’s Bend, or even Simon Hill. At five-nine he was now several inches taller than he had been then, and he was heavier by thirty or forty solid pounds. His brown hair was no longer short, but almost shoulder length, and he had grown a mustache.
And Simon certainly felt no necessity of recognizing Gregory Wedderburn as an old acquaintance. “Yes, what can I do for you?”
“My name is Gregory Wedderburn, sir. First of all, I would like to compliment you on the performance.” No, Gregory certainly didn’t look as if fifteen years had passed; he was almost exactly as Simon remembered him. Of short stature, age indeterminately somewhere between forty and sixty, a face that any casting director would immediately type as belonging to a tycoon and not a servant.
“Thank you,” Simon replied, neutrally.
“You’re very kind,” contributed Margie, just coming up. She must have managed to get away from the widow before the subject of seances could even be broached. Simon hoped so, anyway. There was a trace of a frown on Margie’s face as she regarded him; she knew him well enough now to be able to judge his sometimes sudden moods with considerable success.
Meanwhile Simon was being shown a side of Gregory that he had never seen before, the face of the obsequious servant. “Secondly, sir, I’m here tonight as an agent.” A gentle imitation of a laugh. “No, I’m not volunteering to be your booking agent, or whatever the right term is. I’m representing my own employer. He would like to hire you for a private performance.”
Simon thought he knew who that employer was, and curt refusal was on the tip of his tongue. Yet he couldn’t quite come out with it. The germ of a daring idea, very intriguing even if still very hazy, had been born. He had to find out more. It was completely obvious by now that Gregory had not the faintest idea of who Simon really was.
“You come quite highly recommended, Mr. Hill.” Gregory managed to sound smug, servile, and snobbish at the same time. “Miss Vivian Littlewood, ah, my employer’s sister, saw one of your performances not long ago.”
So, now he works for Saul. That was a minor surprise. “And who is Miss Vivian Littlewood?” Simon enjoyed the chance to make his own tone condescending.
Gregory almost flushed. He drew his short frame perceptibly more erect, and looked up at Simon frostily. “My employer is Saul Littlewood. You’ll recognize the family name if you’re at all familiar with Chicago.”
“Oh, you mean the old meatpacking family.” It was fun to be knowledgeable but not impressed.
The little man had regained his smoothness. “Mr. Littlewood is planning a rather lavish weekend in his suburban home, starting one week from tonight. I realize that this is quite short notice and that you may well have some previous engagement. But I am authorized to say that Mr. Littlewood will make it quite worth your while.” Gregory smiled rather vacantly and nodded in Margie’s direction, as if assuring her that the guarantee applied to her as well. “The theme of the party will have to do with the medieval, you see.”
“Evidently a popular theme these days.”
“And in this case, as you’ll see, very appropriate indeed for a housewarming.” Gregory displayed the faint smile of superior knowledge. “Mr. Littlewood has authorized me to offer you one thousand dollars for one evening’s performance, on Friday. Then you and your assistant will be welcome to remain as guests for the remainder of the weekend if you wish. That would of course be an all-inclusive fee for both of you, meant to cover expenses—”
“A thousand dollars?” Simon couldn’t help showing surprise. “I’m hardly one of the big names of show business. What do I have to do? I mean, I don’t have any big production numbers, or…”
“The only requirements are, first, that you provide yourself with some medieval costume, authentic in appearance. Secondly of course you are to give the best performance of which you both are capable, a point I am sure I need not emphasize. You are of course free to choose your own tricks, effects.” Gregory paused meaningfully. “You will of course cooperate in so far as you feel able, with any special requests that members of your small audience may have.”
Simon shrugged. “Insofar as we feel able.”
“Yes. And there is a fringe benefit that you may consider of some importance.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Among the guests will be a few who are quite influential, I understand, in the world of entertainment. You say you are not now one of the big names of show business, but… I of course know nothing of magic myself. Would there be any special equipment, or prearrangements that you require?”
Margie was about to speak, probably with questions to ask, but Simon had taken her hand and now squeezed it gently, signalling for silence. He said: “We can provide all the special equipment we’ll need. Where’s this house?”
“In the far suburbs—rather far out even to be called suburbs, I’m afraid; about two hours’ drive. You’ll need rather detailed instructions on how to get there.” Again, the small superior smile. “When you see the house, you’ll understand what I mean about the medieval theme being fitting.”
THREE
Mrs. Hildegard Littlewood, nee Hildy Nordberg, was dressed for tennis, having just recently ascended from practice on her court. She was standing on the roof of her castle, leaning her forearms and elbows on what her bridegroom had recently told her ought to be called a merlon. It was the portion of a battlement that stuck up like a giant squared tooth. With fingers hooked over the rising edge of stone, Hildy could feel how her thick new golden wedding ring caught and grated on the edge. With her eyes closed in summer sunshine, she was trying to fight back a threatened bout of near-hysterical giggles. She had the feeling that if she once let the laughter get started it was going to get out of hand at once. Sometimes lately it had seemed to Hildy that if she could allow herself one good bout of hysteria she would get it out of her system and would then be able to settle down. But she wasn’t familiar enough with hysteria to know if it might be managed that way. In fact she had never had trouble with it before. And she wasn’t sure, either, how long she was going to be alone on the roof before someone came up looking for her.
She told herself now for the thousandth time that she had no realistic cause for unhappiness. Quite the contrary. Absolutely the contrary. And in fact she wasn’t really unhappy. It was just that two months ago she had been a part-time student and part-time waitress, supporting herself after a fashion by dishing out pizza in a roadside place just outside Los Angeles. And today here she was just finished with a workout on her own tennis court in Illinois, with more money in more bank accounts than she knew what to do with, and standing on top of her own imported, reconstructed… no, it was just too ridiculous.
Hildy pulled hard on the mortared stones. A sound between a laugh and a faint shriek escaped her lips. But then nothing more came. A genuinely relieving outburst was evidently not as near the surface as she had thought.
She released her grip on the edge of the parapet and turned, opening her eyes to summer sunshine that warmed the stone-paved castle roof and the nearby treetops that screened away most of the outside world. If you could see me now… but what made her overload of success all the more traumatic was that there was practically no one to whom she could say that, even on the phone or in a letter.
Hildy had moved around a lot in her young life. What little had been left of her family when she was growing
