Fantastic Mr Norris
Cinq
The following morning, the windows of the Lestrange street apartment were thrown open. Those Londoners who recognised the normally bolted shutters of Mr Norris’ residence crowded below, craning their necks and pricking their ears for snippets of the policemen’s conversation.
The famous magician had failed to fulfill his promise. He had not disappeared without a trace, or vanished into thin air. The air in his musty residence, it was reported, could not have been thicker. The man who had held the tongues of all London had not been that formidable, behind closed doors. Police reports, which quickly found their way into the papers, described his house as being in a state of compost.
Far from disappearing, the location of his body could not have been more obvious. He lay face-down, sprawled by the fireside, still in his evening things, which made a sharp contrast to the kind of magnificent garments he normally wore.
The fat detective in the bowler hat had bustled about the corpse, jotting down notes about the dead man’s height, weight and apparent age in a little red book, some of the pages of which were curiously blank. Amongst the body’s more remarkable features were the thin, pinched cheeks, prominent nose and thick eyebrows that led to its positive identification. Horace Barrister saw to it that nobody removed the late Mr Norris’ gloves.
He had remarkable features, the Londoners all agreed, but he had not been a remarkable man, after all. He was just ordinary. Though the aftermath of his legend continued for a while, it wasn’t long before people were swearing that all his feats had just been cons. The apparition of glittering sword was a trick of the light– it must really have been hidden in his cape somewhere. Emmanuel Norris had only had a talent for making it look like he was conjuring things.
The police called it a murder. How could they not? There were two men in the apartment when the awful smell alerted the police. By then, the worst of the books had already been destroyed. The fire was smacking its lips in the hearth, crackling happily. No fragments of ash remained.
One man had been decapitated. The sword, which was very real belonged unmistakably to Mr Norris, lay nearby. Norris himself appeared to have been strangled. As there was nobody but the nameless dead man in the room, none of the officers thought to match the size of the bruises to the young man’s fingers. If they had, they would have concluded that the strangling was done by a much larger man.
Horace Barrister cracked his overlarge knuckles, and commented on the stench of rot. Both bodies, he announced, would naturally be far gone into decay by now. There was no point in prolonging the investigation.
Around the room, the other officers agreed.
One by one, they departed, back to their offices to write reports, of avail themselves of hot tea. By nightfall, nothing was stirring in the empty house. Since the fire was extinguished, nothing made a sound. Not even a mouse. No shadows stirred, except for one.
One the shingled eaves outside the window, where a weathervane had been stuck, one of Mr Norris’ pet crows perched. Eying the city with interest, it let out one short, sharp bark, reveling in the use of its voice.
Then, with a power reserved for the kind of flight that is savoured, it launched itself into the air, wheeled once around the marketplace, and sailed off into the night.
The famous magician had failed to fulfill his promise. He had not disappeared without a trace, or vanished into thin air. The air in his musty residence, it was reported, could not have been thicker. The man who had held the tongues of all London had not been that formidable, behind closed doors. Police reports, which quickly found their way into the papers, described his house as being in a state of compost.
Far from disappearing, the location of his body could not have been more obvious. He lay face-down, sprawled by the fireside, still in his evening things, which made a sharp contrast to the kind of magnificent garments he normally wore.
The fat detective in the bowler hat had bustled about the corpse, jotting down notes about the dead man’s height, weight and apparent age in a little red book, some of the pages of which were curiously blank. Amongst the body’s more remarkable features were the thin, pinched cheeks, prominent nose and thick eyebrows that led to its positive identification. Horace Barrister saw to it that nobody removed the late Mr Norris’ gloves.
He had remarkable features, the Londoners all agreed, but he had not been a remarkable man, after all. He was just ordinary. Though the aftermath of his legend continued for a while, it wasn’t long before people were swearing that all his feats had just been cons. The apparition of glittering sword was a trick of the light– it must really have been hidden in his cape somewhere. Emmanuel Norris had only had a talent for making it look like he was conjuring things.
The police called it a murder. How could they not? There were two men in the apartment when the awful smell alerted the police. By then, the worst of the books had already been destroyed. The fire was smacking its lips in the hearth, crackling happily. No fragments of ash remained.
One man had been decapitated. The sword, which was very real belonged unmistakably to Mr Norris, lay nearby. Norris himself appeared to have been strangled. As there was nobody but the nameless dead man in the room, none of the officers thought to match the size of the bruises to the young man’s fingers. If they had, they would have concluded that the strangling was done by a much larger man.
Horace Barrister cracked his overlarge knuckles, and commented on the stench of rot. Both bodies, he announced, would naturally be far gone into decay by now. There was no point in prolonging the investigation.
Around the room, the other officers agreed.
One by one, they departed, back to their offices to write reports, of avail themselves of hot tea. By nightfall, nothing was stirring in the empty house. Since the fire was extinguished, nothing made a sound. Not even a mouse. No shadows stirred, except for one.
One the shingled eaves outside the window, where a weathervane had been stuck, one of Mr Norris’ pet crows perched. Eying the city with interest, it let out one short, sharp bark, reveling in the use of its voice.
Then, with a power reserved for the kind of flight that is savoured, it launched itself into the air, wheeled once around the marketplace, and sailed off into the night.