Free Magician's Fire by Simon Nicholson

something he had spotted on the counter, a dirty fork and plate, the remains of the reception clerk’s breakfast. Perfect . Harry grabbed the fork, wiped it on his sleeve, bent back three of its prongs, peered into the lock’s keyhole, and curved the fourth prong until it was exactly the right shape. He pushed the prong into the keyhole, angled it upward, and…
    The lock sprang open. Harry bent back the prongs and replaced the fork neatly on the plate. Then he slid into the manager’s office and immediately noticed the day’s mail, a knotted bundle on the manager’s desk. He undid it and riffled through the letters. Two of them were for Mr. Boris Zell, both in Bulgarian, which Harry didn’t understand, so he tossed them aside. But filed with them was a telegram in English, addressed to Boris too. Harry lifted it up and read it carefully.
    â€¢ TELEGRAM •
    TO: MR. BORIS ZELL C/O HOTEL CROSBY, NY
    FROM: MR. OSCAR MUNTZ, MANAGER, VARIETY THEATER, CHICAGO
    WE CONFIRM BOOKING OF YOUR ACT FOR EVENING OCTOBER 1ST 1886. WE NOTE YOU CLAIM YOUR ACT WILL CONTAIN CERTAIN NEW TRICKS, ENTITLED: BICYCLING OVER SPIKES, THE FLYING KNIVES, AND SPIDER UP SLEEVE. WE WILL ADVERTISE SUCH TRICKS AND THEREFORE INSIST YOU PERFORM THEM OR NO FEE PAYABLE.
    Just a single sheet of paper that would have cost twenty cents to send, no more. But this was without question a very important discovery, and an unsettling one too. Harry dropped into a nearby chair to take it all in. Why would anyone want to make off with poor Herbie in the first place? Here, resting in his hand, was a possible and very unpleasant answer to Billie’s question.
    The game, Herbie had called it. Magicians studied other magicians, seeking to uncover the secrets to each other’s tricks. This had been going on for more than a thousand years, Herbie had said. But what if one magician chose to take the game a little too far? What if a magician tried to get hold of the secret to some tricks, not simply by watching…but by any means he could?
    â€œPoor Herbie,” Harry muttered.
    The telegram proved it. It was clearly a reply to one Boris had sent earlier, seeking a booking for his show. Nothing wrong with that—except for the list of acts Boris was offering. They were Herbie’s tricks. “Bicycling over Spikes” must refer to the one in which Herbie floated effortlessly over the bed of spikes as if riding a bicycle, and “The Flying Knives” and “Spider up Sleeve” were Herbie’s too. Boris was promising to perform Herbie’s tricks—yet how could he do that if he didn’t know their secrets? So that was the telegram. But what about the shout that had been heard that night?
    â€œWhat’s yours is mine and always shall be!”
    Herbie hadn’t just disappeared. He had been kidnapped. Boris had snatched him from his dressing room—and if the Bulgarian was ruthless enough to do that, what might he be doing now? Would he have imprisoned Herbie somewhere, starving him until he gave up what he knew? Or did he have other devices, as mysterious and sinister as his purple smoke, with which he could persuade the old man to blurt out his dearly kept secrets…?
    The office door was opening. Sunk in the chair, Harry had almost forgotten where he was. Stuffing the telegram into his pocket, he leaped up and rolled under the desk as the hotel manager, a short, bustling man, rushed in. Fortunately, he left the door open behind him, so Harry was able to slide out to the safety of the reception counter. I’ll break into Room 760 , he decided. In there, he would discover clues to how Boris had performed this kidnapping, where he might have hidden poor Herbie, and more besides.
    But for now, he just needed to get out from behind the counter. Peering over it, he made out the porters and some guests. No one was looking directly toward him, so he made a dash for it, sliding across the marble floor