WHAT HAPPENED THEN - when the magician, having mesmerised the caged tiger, pulled thetasselled cord that released a dozen swords upon itshead - was the subject of heated argument both in thebar of the theatre and later, when Swann's performancewas over, on the sidewalk of 51st Street. Some claimed tohave glimpsed the bottom of the cage opening in the splitsecond that all other eyes were on the descending blades,and seen the tiger swiftly spirited away as the woman inthe red dress took its place behind the lacquered bars.Others were just as adamant that the animal had neverbeen in the cage to begin with, its presence merely aprojection which had been extinguished as a mechanismpropelled the woman from beneath the stage; this, ofcourse, at such a speed that it deceived the eye of all butthose swift and suspicious enough to catch it. And theswords? The nature of the trick which had transformedthem in the mere seconds of their gleaming descent fromsteel to rose-petals was yet further fuel for debate. Theexplanations ranged from the prosaic to the elaborate,but few of the throng that left the theatre lacked sometheory. Nor did the arguments finish there, on thesidewalk. They raged on, no doubt, in the apartmentsand restaurants of New York.

The pleasure to be had from Swann's illusions was,it seemed, twofold. First: the spectacle of the trickitself - in the breathless moment when disbeliefwas, if not suspended, at least taken on tip-toe.And second, when the moment was over and logicrestored, in the debate as to how the trick had beenachieved.

'How do you do it, Mr Swann?' Barbara Bernsteinwas eager to know.

'It's magic,' Swann replied. He had invited herbackstage to examine the tiger's cage for any sign offakery in its construction; she had found none. She hadexamined the swords: they were lethal. And the petals,fragrant. Still she insisted:

'Yes, but really ...' she leaned close to him. 'You cantell me,' she said, 'I promise I won't breathe a word to asoul.'

He returned her a slow smile in place of a reply.

'Oh, I know...'she said,'you're going to tell me thatyou've signed some kind of oath.'

That's right,' Swann said.

'- And you're forbidden to give away any tradesecrets.'

'The intention is to give you pleasure,' he told her.'Have I failed in that?'

'Oh no,' she replied, without a moment's hesitation.'Everybody's talking about the show. You're the toastof New York.'

'No,' he protested.

'Truly,' she said, 'I know people who would give theireye-teeth to get into this theatre. And to have a guidedtour backstage ... well, I'll be the envy of everybody.'

'I'm pleased,' he said, and touched her face. She hadclearly been anticipating such a move on his part. Itwould be something else for her to boast of: herseduction by the man critics had dubbed the Magusof Manhattan.

'I'd like to make love to you,' he whispered to her.

'Here?' she said.

'No,' he told her. 'Not within ear-shot of thetigers.'

She laughed. She preferred her lovers twenty yearsSwann's junior - he looked, someone had observed,like a man in mourning for his profile, but his touchpromised wit no boy could offer. She liked the tang ofdissolution she sensed beneath his gentlemanly fagade.Swann was a dangerous man. If she turned him downshe might never find another.

'We could go to a hotel,' she suggested.

'A hotel,' he said, 'is a good idea.'

A look of doubt had crossed her face.

'What about your wife ...?' she said. 'We might beseen.'

He took her hand. 'Shall we be invisible, then?'

Tm serious.'

'So am I,' he insisted. 'Take it from me; seeing isnot believing. I should know. It's the cornerstone ofmy profession.' She did not look much reassured. 'Ifanyone recognises us,' he told her, Til simply tell themtheir eyes are playing tricks.'

She smiled at this, and he kissed her. She returned thekiss with unquestionable fervour.

'Miraculous,' he said, when their mouths parted.'Shall we go before the tigers gossip?'

He led her across the stage. The cleaners had not yetgot about their business, and there, lying on the boards,was a litter of rose-buds. Some had been trampled, a fewhad not. Swann took his hand from hers, and walkedacross to where the flowers lay.

She watched him stoop to pluck a rose from theground, enchanted by the gesture, but before he couldstand upright again something in the air above himcaught her eye. She looked up and her gaze met a sliceof silver that was even now plunging towards him. Shemade to warn him, but the sword was quicker than hertongue. At the last possible moment he seemed to sensethe danger he was in and looked round, the bud in hishand, as the point met his back. The sword's momentumcarried it through his body to the hilt. Blood fled fromhis chest, and splashed the floor. He made no sound, butfell forward, forcing two-thirds of the sword's length outof his body again as he hit the stage.

She would have screamed, but that her attentionwas claimed by a sound from the clutter of magicalapparatus arrayed in the wings behind her, a mutteredgrowl which was indisputably the voice of the tiger. Shefroze. There were probably instructions on how best tostare down rogue tigers, but as a Manhattanite bornand bred they were techniques she wasn't acquaintedwith.

'Swann?' she said, hoping this yet might be somebaroque illusion staged purely for her benefit. 'Swann.Please get up.'

But the magician only lay where he had fallen, thepool spreading from beneath him.

'If this is a joke -' she said testily,'- I'm not amused.'When he didn't rise to her remark she tried a sweetertactic. 'Swann, my sweet, I'd like to go now, if you don'tmind.'

The growl came again. She didn't want to turn andseek out its source, but equally she didn't want to besprung upon from behind.

Cautiously she looked round. The wings were in dark-ness. The clutter of properties kept her from workingout the precise location of the beast. She could hear itstill, however: its tread, its growl. Step by step, sheretreated towards the apron of the stage. The closedcurtains sealed her off from the auditorium, but shehoped she might scramble under them before the tigerreached her.

As she backed against the heavy fabric, one of theshadows in the wings forsook its ambiguity, and theanimal appeared. It was not beautiful, as she hadthought it when behind bars. It was vast and lethal andhungry. She went down on her haunches and reachedfor the hem of the curtain. The fabric was heavilyweighted, and she had more difficulty lifting it thanshe'd expected, but she had managed to slide halfwayunder the drape when, head and hands pressed to theboards, she sensed the thump of the tiger's advance.An instant later she felt the splash of its breath on herbare back, and screamed as it hooked its talons into herbody and hauled her from the sight of safety towardsits steaming jaws.

Even then, she refused to give up her life. She kickedat it, and tore out its fur in handfuls, and delivered a hailof punches to its snout. But her resistance was negligiblein the face of such authority; her assault, for all itsferocity, did not slow the beast a jot. It ripped open herbody with one casual clout. Mercifully, with that firstwound her senses gave up all claim to verisimilitude,and took instead to preposterous invention. It seemedto her that she heard applause from somewhere, andthe roar of an approving audience, and that in placeof the blood that was surely springing from her bodythere came fountains of sparkling light. The agony hernerve-endings were suffering didn't touch her at all.Even when the animal had divided her into three orfour parts her head lay on its side at the edge of thestage and watched as her torso was mauled and her limbsdevoured.