Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is a hot summers day as Walter Uhl strides across the cobbled street towards the Orange Tree, stopping only briefly to allow a brown sedan to pass. He is of average height, carrying enough weight around his gut to mark him as well to do, with a fine clipped moustache and beard framing his mouth. His was a mouth used to smiling, a friendly face was an essential tool for a police detective in such troubling times as these. He wore his favourite suit, rather formal in this heat, a dark brown double breasted number with a long blazer and a brimmed hat. The other officers mocked him behind his back for his formality but the suit had paid for itself many times over when dealing with his usual wealthy contacts. Walter Uhl was a bought man.
He steps inside, dabbing at the sweat on his high forehead with a handkerchief, and examines the establishment. The café sits on a corner, with two tall and wide glass windows looking out onto either busy street. The décor is antique, rich oaken tones on walls and furniture, heavy velvet curtains dividing the public areas from the private. One wall, exposed brick, is decorated with a mural, an orange tree with vibrant green leaves. The fruit depicted appears to be in the process of growth, green at the edges still and swelling with life. The back wall is dominated by a high, deep, bar; adorned with the tools of their trade, stirrers, napkins and lids all have their places. A pair of vintage tills ring a chorus as draws are opened and cash exchanged. Behind the bar sit a pair of behemoth coffee machines, pipes and valves lacquered in glistening black, steam hissing from a wand as it is submerged into a steel jug, the milk hissing and tearing as it is heated. At one end stacked high are strudels of varying kinds, buttery pastry surrounding dark red cherry, dappled black poppies, caramelised apple sliding from its casing in the heat.
Walter looks around, the clientele are of all kinds. Businessman shares a table with a younger woman, perhaps a daughter or sister. They talk, mostly him, animatedly until she has to leave and departs with a kiss to his cheek. In one corner sit a gaggle of students, bright colours and dirty trainers, laptops arrayed like a court of find birds, thin backs tilted and slanted in cacophony. At the bar an elderly lady is waiting for her coffee, peering over the counter at the steaming milk, a trained ear listening for her preferred squeal.
Turning his eyes to the barista Walter spies the target of today's inquiry. He is a tall man, taller than Walter by a matter of inches, dressed in a plain white shirt and a cheap black waistcoat, the cinch at the back pulled tight to keep the oversized garment on his gaunt frame. Above, a shock of black hair stands erect, thick and straight. The man turns and Walter sees a serious face, sombre beyond his years, not the kind of face he could imagine laughing with a friend, jesting with a child. His eyes are piercing, almost black, staring at the woman with a focus bordering on madness, his attention all-consuming as he places her cup onto the bar with a flourish. He has decorated himself with a short beard, shaved clean around his cheeks and jaw, a well bordered city state of mouth and chin. Walter knows this man as Eisenheim, a conjurer, barista, enigma and the subject of his current investigation.

For a while, he observes from afar, taking a seat on a repurposed church bench near the window and removing his hat. He dabs at the ever widening bald spot on top of his head with some frequency and assumes his jovial and mundane persona. Not many spare a second glance for a chubby, balding man in a suit with a smile plastered on his face, especially not in this part of Vienna. Eisenheim is a panther at his station, stalking back and forth with slow surety, large hands moving with hasteless speed as he fulfils orders. He speaks little, smiling with his mouth at the odd regular who should happen through. Most he fixes with a cold stare, dark eyebrows arched as if challenging them to some unknown rite or duel. The man certainly commands attention and Walter cannot help but find himself transfixed by the thin man's arcing trajectories across the shop. He was a spinning top, constantly teetering on the edge of control and chaos and Walter spent most of the hour before closing time expecting him to fall; to tumble to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. But he does not and by the time the shops manager comes out to start setting up for the evening show Eisenheim is as calm as ever, much sweatier, but calm nonetheless.
The manager Walter knows to be one Josef Fischer from his surveillance reports. The short man is the business and logistical mind behind the Orange Tree. He keeps the lights on, deals with customer complaints and counts the profits at the end. It seems like quite a tidy arrangement to Walter. Josef is currently wearing his ridiculous curled wig, though Walter has plenty of pictures of the man without it on, and is grooming himself in the mirrored surface of one of the coffee machines, waxing his curled moustache and making sure it is set just so. Once in place he begins barking orders at the various other crew, encouraging them to move tables and begin setting up the stage. This is what Walter has been waiting for.
Though by day the Orange Tree is like many of the other coffee shops in Vienna's Innere Stadt, when certain days each week met their end the shop transforms into a theatre. Chairs pushed back into rows, a low wide stage pieced together, curtains moved to create a barrier of modesty in which the performers can prepare. Then, when the crowd is gathered and tickets sales made, it begins. Walter sits in a back row, not wanting to be seen, and observes the crowd. He likes to watch people when they are relaxed, a private smile between two old friends, a gentle reassuring touch from husband to wife, familiarity wiping away the need for explanation; this is his happy place. As the house lights are lowered Walter and the rest of the congregation turn their attention to the stage, lit in spot. Josef steps out onto the stage, a grin painted onto his face that the little man must have been told oozes charm.
"Ladies, gentlemen, everyone else." A cheer. "Welcome, to the Orange Tree."

Before his reason for being here there are a few variety acts. The first, a woman performing with a trained badger, draws some titillation from the crowd as the beast dances back and forth on stage in a comically small hat. Walter is not impressed but claps dutifully when her time is up. A trio of men is next, taking suggestions from the crowd and turning them into short scenes of a comedic nature. Walter is asked to provide a word for them and proffers the word "Circus" which births an eternal five minutes of rolling, hooting and mummery before the performers tire. Last of the amateur crowd is a flute player who takes herself much too seriously, bowing with aplomb despite the middling applause she receives. He cannot help but clap her loudly and let out a cheer as she departs, celebrating her bravery as much as her melodies. Finally, it is time.
Eisenheim steps out to an awed silence, he is sweating under the stage lights and looks more pale than before. His waistcoat has been stripped off and his shirt unbuttoned to show a crest of thick black chest hair peeking over the fabric. He gestures grandly to the crowd and selects his first volunteer from the crowd, fanning a deck of well-loved cards in front of them, showing their normalcy and looking away with a sombre dramatism. The card is selected, shown to the audience, a queen of hearts, and shuffled back in. He places the deck on the stage and steps back raising a hand, long fingers extended to their limits. Sweat beads on his forehead as he focuses on the cards, all eyes on him. The stage is still, silence holding sermon as the conjurers works his audience. With a snap of his fingers he breaks the tension, the noise so loud in the quiet that even Walter jumps, a shiver down his spine. Eisenheim steps forward and retrieves the deck, draws the top card and displays it.
"Is this your card?" A 4 of spades. The crowd mutters, confusion spreading. The volunteer shakes her head and Eisenheim sighs. "This happens sometimes. Such is the nature of life." He turns to walk towards the back of the stage in defeat, tossing the rest of the deck over his shoulder and high into the air. 51 queens with hearts proudly displayed flutter over the audience. They erupt into applause, Walter joining them even as his mind races to unravel the trick. Eisenheim turns his head, lips pouted in a superior smile, and the audience is his for the night.
The rest of the evening is full of such delights. Walter appraises a few of the tricks correctly, a smattering of sleight of hand and misdirection; others elude his grasp entirely, Eisenheim conjuring a live fowl from an audience members hat and then splitting its form into a pair of white doves with a flourish. The final trick was the one that Uhl had been most excited to see. The orange tree. Eisenheim distracts the audience, collecting a handkerchief and placing it within a box before handing it back to the kerchiefs owner. Walter keeps his eyes away from the remarkable performer, watching instead the attendants placing a table and urn in the centre of the stage before fleeing back behind the curtains. The Illusionist turns, lifting the bucket in strong hands and showing the inside to the audience, it is a hollow cathedral of brass. Empty. He places it back on the stage and turns away, stepping off the stage and towards the bar. He selects an orange, fingers dancing over the arrayed participants, and brings it back to the stage.
"Humans have always sought to understand nature. Once, we had gods, little gods of streams and trees, larger ones of oceans, mountains. Now we have science to seek our answers in, a new method of thinking. But what if I told you we still do not understand so much of our humble spinning globe. That my friends is the definition of magic, that which we cannot understand, or maybe, that which we should not."
This is the illusionist's game, Walter can see the crowd being drawn in by the conjurers words, losing their focus on the real trick occuring. But he cannot help himself, Eisenheim has an energy to him that Walter has never before seen or felt. He watches spellbound as the magician raises his hand, strong fingers splayed and directs his heated focus to the bucket on the table. A hush falls.
"Life. Death. Growth and rebirth. All these things have been debated and argued by scholars, priests and scientists. Tonight, I mean to show you that none know as much as I."
He twists his hand slightly, adjusting the flow of energy, and from the bucket a budding sprout grows. Gasps from the crowd and Walter alike. The bud springs upwards, gaining momentum and energy with each second, leaves sprouting bright and verdant. Soon, the oranges follow, green buds that spring into vibrant orbs. The crowd erupts into applause as Eisenheim takes an orange and tears it open, spraying the front rows with citrus oils and filling the room with the strong acidic scent. Walter finds himself grinning and hooting before he can rediscover his composure.
Eisenheim turns to go but an emboldened member of the audience shouts after him.
"What of the kerchief?"
The magician turns slightly, smiling, and addresses the woman in the crowd holding the box. She opens it to find it empty. The illusionist points to the back of the room. Necks crane and bodies shift as the handkerchief is brought aloft by a pair of white butterflies and deposited into its owners waiting hands. The trick is complete.

Detective Uhl smokes a cigarillo outside of the Orange Tree, basking with other members of the public in the magicians afterglow. He listens more than he talks, only stepping in when he identifies a misunderstanding in someone's explanation of the act. The people seem to love him, Eisenheim, they talk of him as if he were a friend or a local animal. Walter's professionality is strained almost to its limits in these conversations, wishing to divulge his passion for the craft but held back by the ongoing investigation into this little shop and its mysterious provocateur. Eisenheim has come to the attention of Walters employers. Not his employers at the city council, the taxpayers and members of the public who rely on his talents to bring justice when harm is done, his true employers. Tomorrow he will visit them, taking the afternoon off for a doctor's appointment and strolling casually over to the offices of Meyer-Lyng financial services and stock holdings. He will take the elevator up to the fourth floor and make his way through the trophy filled halls to the office of Leopold Meyer, eldest child of the same Meyer family whose name sits on the buildings antique front.
The young heir has a great interest in the affairs of Vienna, he owns many of the cities buildings and businesses, and has interests vested in many more than that. He is a bright man, handsome and clipped in the way that a racing horse might be, with a moustache drawn from a previous century. He has a probing mind that often reaches far ahead of his tongue, and manners, in its deductions. Should his venerable father ever die he is likely to become one of the richest and most powerful young men in Vienna, though Walter knows that Leopolds patience is not nearly as well-honed as the rest of his faculties. The young investor has a keen interest in the Orange Tree, and thus Walter has an interest too. Though he has not elected to share his exact interest, Walter Uhl knows that with enough silence and time he can let the man unspool his plans and fill in the gaps. For now, he enjoys the company of the common folk around him, the fine smoke of his cigarillo and the cool night air. Tomorrow, his investigation can begin.

Chapter Text

Walter Uhl is a man who does his homework. In his younger days Uhl had been fascinated by the occult and the divine, it had started with innocent questions at church, the nature of the triptych and how the messiah both was and wasn’t the lord who sat in the clouds above, but soon his inquisitive young thoughts had pulled to places the nuns in his classes refused to go. As with many children, one of his first ports of call was the myths and gods of ancient Egypt. A young Walter had spent hours in the national library studying graven images of gods and beasts, tracing hieroglyphics with a stubby finger, his hands and eyes drawn especially to the weighing of the heart against Ma'at, the feather, the truth, the law. While he does not presume to take the role of Anubis in his daily life, he knows that he is not suited for divinity and its constraints, he holds the story close to him.
When he had become involved with the Meyer-Lyng group then, he made enquires and filled out forms. He had been very polite and he had been less polite. His badge made some headway, and a few well-placed brown envelopes got him the rest of the way. Looking into his superiors had always been a quiet passion of his, he likes to know who he is working for; not just their histories and qualifications, but their characters, the weight of their hearts.
Leopold Meyer's heart, he knew from instinct, would raise Ma'at high into the air and deny the young financier entry into the Duat. His records seemed clean, a stint at the university of Vienna studying economics and history with no demerits; some time spent abroad doing charitable works and then an apprenticeship at his father's company, the ranks of which he quickly conquered. The only black mark he could find against the Meyer's heir through any legal channels was a report that had been filed by an ex-partner of his. The woman had alleged many things, but the report had been dismissed summarily. The Meyer name carries weight in Vienna and she sadly had little in the way of evidence. The woman had subsequently fallen off the map entirely, further even than the places where monsters be at the edge of the world; he fervently prayed she had just fled Vienna. It had been enough to give Walter pause, he is a civil servant first and foremost; some civilians however, contribute significantly more to their servants budgets, and the Meyer-Lyng group made a sizeable contribution each and every year. Walter is thus obliged to at least hear out the young heir's requests and do some digging, any more than that will require additional incentives. Walter often wonders how he will find himself when he stands before the scales.

Walter sits in the antiquated waiting room of the Meyer-Lyng offices, magazine in hand. His fingers flick the pages at regular intervals while he watches the people passing through, hidden in plain sight behind his glossy camouflage. The receptionist is older, a chubby man who sweats too much and answers the phone in a clipped accent, speaking little and slowly. Across from him a few suited men chatter animatedly, discussing the day's highs and lows, talking over each other in their haste to gulp down more of the air in the room than their peers. Another plaintiff sits two seats down from him, a respectful distance for solidarity, clutching her purse tightly on her lap; Uhl thinks this must be her Sunday finest, a soft and well-worn blue dress with pearls. Her makeup painstakingly applied though he can tell that she is not used to it, touching her face with some regularity and smudging the finer details. The sweating man behind the desk calls his name and he makes his way for the stairs. He does not like elevators.

On the third floor he navigates with familiar ease towards the young heir's wing of the building, tipping his hat to the desk girl, new, and heads into the corridor leading to Leopold's office. This is his least favourite part of their appointments. The corridor is long, oak-floored, with dark wallpaper that makes the stretch feel closer and tighter the further in he moves. The walls are lined with Leopold's collection. At regular intervals the length and height of the route are children's plush toys in glass containers. Each of the same manufacturer, that the young heir has painstakingly rescued, his words, from various truck grills, charity shops and dumps. In his investigations Walter uncovered a complaint against him from a truck driver who said that Leopold had stepped out in front of his truck while it idled and removed a multitude of such "trophies" from the front of his cab. The driver had not minded so much the removal, but when he had inquired what the other intended the younger Meyer had cursed him most viciously, invoking several protected characteristics and insulting various ancestors before striding away. The report had been dismissed.

Each plush he had painstakingly put back together, sewing their wounds with thick crimson thread so that they appear to be recovering from some major surgery at all times, then he would pin them into place in their glass houses, limbs rigid and faces forwards. Whenever Walter is forced to visit this stuffed menagerie he feels their glassy black eyes follow him the length of the corridor, though it is not fear that flutters in his breast but pity, as if each lacerated bear and reanimated pup calls out to him for freedom. He holds his eyes forward and approaches his benefactors office with haste.

"Well. What did you find out? Who is he?" Leopold does not even raise his eyes from the papers strewn before him as Detective Uhl enters. The office is grand, wood panelling and fine art decorating every inch of the walls, a huge dark wooden desk and plush chair in the centre upon which the days business is gathered. A door behind the desk leads to Leopold's private room, a sanctum Walter would never be granted access to willingly.
Uhl takes his time to respond, letting his benefactor finish reading the spread of data before him. Leopold removes his spectacles and spears Walter with his sparkling blue eyes. "The man puts on a great show that much is true." His joke glances off the younger Meyer without finding purchase. "Eisenheim is not his true name. He was born Eduard Abramovich, the son of a carpenter from Salzburg; I believe he actually made a few of the cabinets your father has in his office. The story I have heard around Salzburg is that he found his love of magic while watching a street performer. The old man conjured music from thin air, some say a flute, others a whole orchestra, of course the nature of such a trick is…" Leopold glowers "…unimportant. One neighbour I asked told me that the performer was never found after the boys encounter with him, that the boy said after his ghostly chorus had finished their performance he disappeared into thin air. Whatever the case Eduard became obsessed. He devoted his young life to mastering the sorcerous arts, well, street magic at first, but soon his love of the arcane outstripped that which he could find in Austria. He travelled east, to Asia and spent time there improving his craft. I could find no record of him at any point during this period, no digital footprint, no bank accounts or employment of any kind. Whatever the case he returned the year before last and took up residence in one of the branches of his father's old business. His first show at the Orange Tree was earlier this year, and he has been gaining a following ever since."
Leopold sits still, processing the information, picking through it like vulture stripping a carcass. Walter reads his face intently, but could find no spark of recognition or excitement in his eyes.
"There was one more thing." Leopold looks up from his reverie, eyes inviting Uhl to continue. "They say the young Abramovich was in love when he fled." He shuffles his feet, giving the heir a moment to mull it over, indulging in his propensity for showmanship briefly. "You know the Lyng's lived in Salzburg for a time, they had a daughter I believe, Sophie, if I'm not mistaken." He added, observing Leopolds reaction intently under his simpletons mask. The young heir's merciless blue eyes sharpen, boring into him, an eyebrow lifting, a relative gape for the cold faced investor. Walter feels empowered to press his luck. "You never did tell me why you wanted this fellow looked into? What is your interest in this Eisenheim?"
"What makes you think you can ask me that question? What allows you to presume that position detective?" Leopold leans back, face calm, eyes locked onto Walter, evaluating him as casually as one of the figures in its neat row and column on the papers under him. The younger Meyer's gaze is glassy, too blue, too clear, too cold, it reminds him of that dreadful corridor at his back, of being beheld by something not yet living.
Walter maintains his composure, ever the dutiful player astage, and returns the look with his own warm smile. "I only seek to better understand what you need, what information is useful to you and what is not. If it is his past then I will devote my energy there, if it is his tricks and secrets then I can probe the man himself. He is a great talent but I am sure I can infer some facet of his performance for you." He inclines his head like a mummer, eyes held low, palms to the heavens, a smile caked on.
"I think I shall come and see this show. To see this man you hold in such high regard having only met once." Leopold does not return his smile, running a finger across one half of his moustache in an aged gesture, likely borrowed from his father. "Make sure that he knows I am coming, I will divine his tricks myself."
Walter bows, knowing better than to question the young heir's wishes and makes his retreat. He is cut short by a command from the desk. "You may leave." Uhl smiles his mummers smile and backs out of the room, hurrying through the corridor of glassy pleading eyes down the stairs and out into the Vienna afternoon.

Chapter Text

Walter sits at the bar in the Orange Tree, a steaming mug before him. He used to imagine himself a black coffee drinker, a hard old soul who could appreciate the bitterness of life, who relied solely on the pure caffeine hit and the keen dark flavour to keep him fortified. He knows now that he is not that person, he loves the sweetness of life too much. His drink of choice is the cappuccino, rich warm cream to temper the harshness of a pure pour. Some days he takes it with sugar, some days he tries it without. Today he asked for a syrup with a vibrant orange hue and flavour, the shops speciality. He sips, enjoying the symphony of flavours in his mouth, a vibrant crescendo of discordant elements brought into harmony. Or is it a battle? A war to be won between sweet and sour, cream and citrus, soldiers lost and dying on both sides and yet no victor in sight. He prefers the to think the first.
The shop around him is quiet, no show on tonight, only the true dyed regulars sat in their familiar seats. Eisenheim is nowhere to be seen, a lone woman tending the shop in his absence. Her hair is tied up, a few errant strands questing for the ground eternally, a light blue apron with its orange seal tied tight around her waist. Her face is equine, long jawbones that pull forward and a tight pouty mouth, it feels familiar to him somehow but he is too distracted by his other observations to grasp where she sits in his memory. He is watching the curtain that leads into the shops interior, it’s folds have not been disturbed in the half an hour he has sat here, but he knows soon that must change, whoever is in there has to come out eventually, and he hopes it will be Eisenheim.
His waiting drags out long enough for his will to falter. He orders a glossy looking strudel, ladened with sour cherry jam and paired with another coffee. This time he orders a tall iced drink, sweetened as per his predilections with Orgeat, that sweet almond syrup. Uhl pushes down his guilt about his expanding waistline and focuses instead on the woman behind the counter. She is between jobs and props herself against the counter on one arm, the other massaging her calves and adjusting the brown socks poking out from her thick soled boots, pulling them taught where they had slipped down. Everything she wears is well made and worn in equal measure, the kind of clothing without a label or branding, that sells itself on word of mouth among those with deep enough pockets.
He is about to call her over when the curtain ripples and Eisenheim enters.
He seems somehow taller up close, his hair slicked back from his proud forehead, apron cinched painfully tight around his waist creating a hard narrow profile, a complex knot holding it in place. His nose is slightly hooked like that of some fine hawk, a feature matched by the intensity of his almost yellow eyes. He moves through the space, polarizing the guests as he passes each of them. Some he leaves laughing, some he listens to with a quiet intensity. Walter watches him shift masks effortlessly, camouflaging himself perfectly for each set of regulars. He wonders if it matters whether or not Eisenheim is sincere, or whether his mummers farce is the closest thing most of these saps get to actually being seen. The hawk alights for an extended period at a table occupied by two older gentlemen; one tells a series of incomprehensible stories, words muddled by his quiet voice and rapid speech. His companion cuts the winding story short to no one's loss and makes some kind of pointed observation that elicits what sounds like a true laugh from Eisenheim. Walter watches him at work, how he shows each of them just enough of what they want, fingers lightly caressing the reigns of every conversation so gently that his various audiences never realise they are part of the show.

Before long the illusionist completes his circuit and ends up back behind the bar. Walter tries to keep his eyes down but cannot deny the man's pull and is drawn up to examine his sharp features.
"Welcome to the Orange Tree. I take it this isn't your first time with us?" Lips move but it takes Walter a few seconds to realise that words have accompanied them.
"Yes I attended one of your shows last week, you performed the trick this place is named for. I was very impressed. How do you achieve that effect? Wait no don't tell me." Walters mouth begins to run away from him. "Is it a secret compartment? With the tree folded below it. Though how would you keep the fruit in such a small compartment?"
Eisenheim smiles, "A magician never reveals his secret Herr…"
"Uhl. Detective Uhl actually." Walter saw no point in concealing his true nature from the magician, he would be found out before long and perhaps he could put the unflappable man on the back foot even briefly. "I am here about your show actually. I wondered if you could show me around, backstage."
"Do you have a warrant?" The illusionists face moves imperceptibly, unseen to most, though Uhl's many years of watching and studying people let him see the slight surprise, the ghost of a half-cocked eyebrow; a faint spasm of the muscles around his pale lips that show the tiniest flash of white from within. Then he smiles fully, eyes creasing at their corners with practiced ease.
"I don’t. I was hoping you would do me the favour of humouring this amateur enthusiast in the sorcerous arts."
Eisenheim watches him intently for a minute. In another life Walter could see him stroking his goatee sagely, pulling on the dark shovel shaped patch on his chin, like a wizard of the old stories, while he stares into the detectives soul. Walter wonders what the other man sees in him, how heavy his heart is judged to be; which of his sins Abramovich can divine from the lines etched into his forehead. For that moment he feels undressed, like a painted Venus hanging on the wall of a museum, pale hand barely covering his modesty as the waters surge and crash in static behind him. Looking out from behind his glass the crowd is all Eisenheim, each guest bearing the man's pale burning eyes and neatly shaved beard. A little girl in a pink dress side-eyes him between licks of her oversized lollipop, the magician staring out at him from under her golden curls, her mother pulling her deeper into the crowd.
"Very well." The other man responds, after what feels like an eternity. "But you may only touch what I allow you to. And when I say we are done we will return here. Do you understand?"
Walter smiles and pushes his empty cup forward, signalling his assent. He rises and falls in behind Eisenheim as the curtain is pulled back and the two of them step into the gloom backstage.

Through a stock filled corridor and round past a half cracked office door Uhl is led into the magicians own sanctum. The repurposed office has a single large table strutting through the center of the room, top glossy and worn from the touch of a thousand hands; the walls are lined with shelves and boxes containing, Uhl imagines, all kinds of marvellous tricks and props. Sat atop the table is the bucket used in Eisenheim'ss orange tree trick, along with various sheafs of paper stuffed into wadded notebooks. In the far corner there is a vanity with a tall mirror attached, a cushioned stool half pushed beneath. Walter can just imagine the tall man before him sat practicing his faces, mocking surprise and concern to his reflected doppelganger; applying makeup and performing his own private rituals before stepping on stage.
Eisenheim sweeps a hand across the humble space, "Welcome Detective, what is it you were hoping to find in my little abode. I hope you don’t expect me to reveal all my secrets to you just because we are alone and you are above the law." He leans on the table with one large hand, a casual smile on his face; but Walter can see the control he is maintaining, the tightrope he walks above his own curiosity that threatens to pull him careening into a most immodest line of query.
"I came to see your show the other night, and I was enthralled by-" Walter trails off, taking the bronze pot from which the orange tree had grown, into his hands reverently, "-the orange tree." He turns it back and forth, examining its gilded faces and peeking inside to see if he can discern its secrets; though his finds his powers of perception sorely lacking. "I don't suppose you would show me how you performed this miracle?"
Eisenheim retrieves the bucket from his hands and gently sequesters it under one of his arms. "Sadly not, this trick is my signature, I would not reveal It to you even under duress." He deposits the object safely into a marked box on the shelf and turns back to Walter with a gleam in his eye. "But there is another, smaller trick I could show you." The grinning illusionist holds a pair of handcuffs, thumbs looped through each of the gleaming rings.
Walter holds his hands out, smiling, but the magician shakes his head, gently grasping one of his arms and raising it above his head, towards a thick lead pipe that runs across the ceiling, faded red paint peeling in large jagged flakes. The two are close now, chests almost touching, faces only separated by the distance of Walter's gut. Walter can smell the other man as his hands are locked into place above him, gunpowder and sweat, tart citrus cutting through, faintly stale coffee on his breath. He unconsciously holds his breath, trying not to breathe in too much of the other man's aroma, keeping his head levelled out. The cuffs click into place and Eisenheim steps back, admiring his work. The rush of air brings his newfound position into clarity, strung up, the illusionist smiling across at him calmly.
"What is the trick then? Are you going to free me from afar? Perhaps a magnet is involved, I see that the cuffs have no keyhole." He presents his usual cheerful inquisitive mask, exuding calm, but his arms are already starting to ache, his wrists chafing against the cold steel as he shuffles his feet like an actor finding their mark. It is not unpleasant, yet, but he is not used to finding himself so off guard.
"You have to trust in the process detective. Magic is not an art that comes quickly or to the impatient." Eisenheim's smile seems wider, teeth whiter, a candle burning the tightly bound flame of amusement behind his eyes. "While we let the anticipation build I suppose you wouldn't mind telling me why you are actually here, detective?"
"Like I said I am a…."
Eisenheim cuts him off, "Detective please. Treat me with some decency. You are in my house after all."
Walter is furious, with himself mostly, how did he let this man's charm disarm him so easily. He chides himself on becoming too content, too comfortable and lazy; he would not have fallen for this in his sharp toothed early years on the force. He berates himself most of all for even thinking of this suspect as having charm. Charm is something that works on young people and the elderly, not on the cognisant and ever watchful adult he is. His mind races to catch up with reality, to find a way through, dignity intact. He comes up blank. Luckily for him, one of the benefits of enforcing the law and fighting for truth is that one no longer needs to be bound by it. He sets his face, relaxing his shoulders as much as the cuffs will allow. "We had an anonymous tip that there was illegal activity happening at this location." A weak lie. "It had enough credible evidence that I was sent here to investigate. It seems though that all is in order here and if you let me down now we can forget this whole exchange ever happened." His usual disarming smile, a hint of malice at the edges of the lips has served him faithfully for many years. The only reaction he gets is a single raised eyebrow. Eisenheim is not buying it. "I am trying to help you herr Eisenheim, I-"
"In the way that the police normally 'help' people detective?"
His shame and anger bubble over as he realises he has lost control. "You understand don’t you," shouting slightly he lowers his voice, "that kidnapping an officer of the law is a crime. That kidnapping anyone, is a crime. I demand that you let me out of here immediately. I do not need to tell you what kind of trouble you are walking into should you not comply. Please, herr Eisenheim, do not make this mistake."
"Very Well. Would you like to call it in?" Eisenheim is playing with him now. His face bears his usual stage mask, that elusive firm look, jaw set just so, lips posed to evoke the idea of a smile without revealing all; but Walter can see in his eyes that he is enjoying this; that candle of amusement burning brighter with each passing exchange. "Tell me, in which pocket do you keep your telephone? I will call your office and you can report that you have been kidnapped. Since you are here on an official police tip, I am sure they will send enough men that I cannot hold you for long." He steps forwards, beginning to pat Walter down with his strong hands, nimble fingers running the circuits of his jacket pockets, slipping in and out with the practiced ease of a cutpurse.
Uhl is sweating now, flinching from the other man's touch as if each caress is a knife blade drawn across his skin, threatening the cut. The fingers move from his jacket towards his trousers, tracing up from his boot, running over the short pistol holstered to his calf. The digits stop suddenly, feeling the inside of his thigh. "Your pulse is racing detective. You don't need to fear, I will not harm you, this will be over as soon as we call your office. Or if you tell me why you really came here, put down your pretence." Walter's mind is clouded with anger and shame and something more crimson, he cannot think, he cannot focus on anything except the long proud teasing face in front of him, and those strong fingers gripping his thigh. He should scream, he should lash out, kick and bite and struggle; the cuffs or the pipe would likely not support his considerable weight if he let his legs fall slack, he could pull himself free and strike the smile off that bearded jaw. But he cannot. He too can feel his pulse now, racing down through his femoral artery and into Eisenheim's fingertips, rhythmic like the ticking hands of a hypnotist's watch as it swings back and forth. The flames in Eisenheim's flicker in time, wafting back and forth in time with his doe's heart. The illusionist has him under his spell.
Fingers from the other hand slide into his pocket, drawing out his antiquated cell phone and flipping it open. Eisenheim leans back allowing Walter a moment to breathe, breaking the tether; an ocean of space opening between them that floods his lungs for what feels like the first time in forever, drawing ragged, panting breaths. The tall man flicks his fingers across the keypad, hovering his thumb over the call button. He catches Walter's eye, tongue darting over his lips. The two of them are locked, the cuffs beginning to chafe on the soft hairy flesh of his wrists, neither willing to break again that silken thread that sits tense between them; as if clinging on to the ghost of the moment just passed. He cannot admit to the other his true reason for coming and he cannot allow him to call the station. He has lost. All he can do is shake his head slowly in resignation. The phone snaps shut triumphantly, the illusionist returning it to his pocket with far less contact than he removed it with.
"I will give you some time to think it over." Eisenheim bows theatrically, turning out of the room, and closes the door behind him with a soft click.