The Vanished Man

the glass. She beckons to him and finally he gives in to temptation and steps through. We see they’ve changed places. The woman’s now on the front side of the mirror. But there’s a puff of smoke and she does a quick change and becomes Satan.
    “Now the illusionist is trapped in hell, chained to the floor. Flames begin shooting up from the floor around him. A wall of fire moves closer. Just as he’s about to be engulfed by flames he gets out of the chains and leaps through the fire at the back of the mirror to safety. The devil runs toward the illusionist, flies into the air and vanishes. The illusionist shatters the mirror with a hammer. Then he walks across the stage, pauses and snaps his fingers. There’s a flash of light and, you’ve probably guessed, he becomes the devil. . . . The audience loves it. . . . But I know that part of everyone’s mind is rooting for the fire to winand the performer to die.” He paused. “And, of course, that does happen from time to time.”
    “Who are you?” Rhyme whispered, despairing now.
    “Me?” The Conjurer leaned forward and passionately rasped, “I’m the Wizard of the North. I’m the greatest illusionist who ever was. I’m Houdini. I’m the man who can escape from the burning mirror. From handcuffs, chains, locked rooms, shackles, ropes, anything. . . .” He eyed Rhyme closely. “Except . . . except you. I was afraid that you were the one thing I couldn’t escape from. You’re too good. I had to stop you before tomorrow afternoon. . . .”
    “Why? What’s happening tomorrow afternoon?”
    The Conjurer didn’t answer. He looked into the gloom. “Now, Revered Audience, our main act—the Charred Man. Look at our performer here—no chains, no handcuffs, no ropes. Yet he can’t possibly escape. This is even harder than the world’s first escape routine: St. Peter. Thrown in a cell, shackled, guarded. And yet he escaped. Of course, he had an important confederate. God. Our performer tonight, however, is on his own.”
    A small gray object appeared in the Conjurer’s hand and he leaned forward fast, before Rhyme could turn his head. The killer slapped a piece of duct tape over his mouth.
    He then shut out all the lights in the room except a small night-light. He returned to Rhyme’s bed, held an index finger up and flicked his thumb against it. A three-inch point of flame rose from the digit.
    The Conjurer wagged the finger back and forth. “Sweating, I can see.” He held the flame close toRhyme’s face. “Fire. . . . Isn’t it fascinating? It’s probably the most compelling image in illusionism. Fire’s the perfect misdirection. Everyone watches flame. They never take their eyes off it onstage. I could do anything with my other hand and you’d never notice. For instance . . .”
    The bottle of Rhyme’s scotch appeared in the man’s grip. He held the flame under the bottle for a long moment. Then the killer took a sip of liquor and held the flaming finger in front of his lips, looking directly at Rhyme, who cringed. But the Conjurer smiled, turned aside and blew the flaming spray toward the ceiling, stepping back slightly as the stream of fire vanished into the darkness of the ceiling.
    Rhyme’s eyes flickered to the wall in the corner of the room.
    The Conjurer laughed. “Smoke detector? I got that earlier. The battery’s gone.” He blew another flaming stream toward the ceiling and set the bottle down.
    Suddenly a white handkerchief appeared. He wafted it under Rhyme’s nose. It was soaked in gasoline. The astringent smell burned Rhyme’s eyes and nose. The Conjurer coiled the handkerchief into a short rope and, ripping open Rhyme’s pajama top, draped it around his neck like a scarf.
    The man walked toward the door, silently opened the deadbolt and then the door, looked out.
    Rhyme’s nose detected another scent mixed with the gasoline. What was it? A rich, smoky scent. . . . Oh, the scotch. The killer must’ve left the bottle open.
    Except that the smell soon overtook the gasoline’s aroma. It was overpowering. There was scotch everywhere.And Rhyme understood with dismay what the man was doing. He’d poured a stream of liquor from the door to the bed, like a fuse. The Conjurer flicked his finger and a white fireball flew from his hand into the pool of single malt.
    The liquor ignited and blue flames raced along the floor. Soon they’d set fire to a stack of magazines and a cardboard box next to the