The Confabulist (11 page)

Houdini had never officially changed his name or applied for a passport. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Weisz. I’ve been under the impression that you are exceptionally intelligent. Do you know what it is the Secret Service does?”

“Vaguely. I know you’re in federal law enforcement.”

“That’s correct. We’re the enforcement branch of the Treasury Department. We were created on the day Abraham Lincoln was shot. Counterfeiting, bank robbing, illegal gambling, that sort of thing. We also protect key government officials and visiting dignitaries. And we could use a man with your particular set of skills.”

“Are you asking me to work for you?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I’m a performer. I have no intention of becoming a police officer.”

“And that’s exactly why you are of interest to me. I have plenty of agents. And they think like agents and have the abilities of agents. You, on the other hand, have a range of abilities that they do not possess and that are of much use in our line of work.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Wilkie smiled in a way that did not entirely reassure him. “There is a fine line between an escapist and a crook. They both know how to do things that lawmen don’t. Lock picking; safecracking; escaping ropes, handcuffs, and chains—all your gimmicks and tricks. Everything you do, all the techniques you employ, are skills my agents require.”

“You want me to quit and become a Secret Service agent?”

“No, absolutely not. I want to help you make better use of your skills. You’ve been stuck for some time, Mr. Weisz. I can assist with that. In return, you can share your knowledge with me, and occasionally perform a service for your country.”

Wilkie held out his hands, palms up, to show they were empty, and then he clapped them together and produced a card. Houdini was somewhat impressed. Wilkie was more adept than the average
amateur. Wilkie handed him the card. It read
MARTIN BECK, ORPHEUM THEATER, 3 P.M.

“I believe you are aware of Mr. Beck’s reputation in your business. You have an audition tomorrow at the indicated time. I have every reason to believe he will offer you a contract for the next season’s circuit at rates you will find to be very attractive. I also believe that the police in the cities you will be visiting will be happy to allow you to break out of their facilities, which should provide you very good notices in the papers. I also anticipate that you will, from time to time, find a moment or two to assist my men and to teach them some of the more pertinent tools of your trade. And if and when we need something specific, we will call.”

Houdini looked again at the card. Martin Beck was the owner of one of vaudeville’s largest theatre consortiums. He’d been trying for years to get someone like Beck to notice him.

“You have yourself a deal, Mr. Wilkie.”

“I thought as much.” He stood, they shook hands again, and Wilkie walked to the door. Before opening it he turned toward Houdini. “I trust that this conversation, and our arrangement, will stay between the two of us? It is, after all, called the Secret Service for a reason.”

“Of course. I have never had any trouble keeping a secret.”

As things turned out, however, he would have other things to worry about than the keeping of secrets. Wilkie kept up his end of the bargain: the next day Martin Beck signed Houdini on for the year at thirty dollars a week, and before long he was one of the biggest acts in vaudeville. His jailbreaks were set up by Wilkie’s men, often against the wishes of the local police officials, who had no wish for their security to be exposed. After a while, though, their reluctance
dissipated. Whether it was because word had gotten around that his visits were not optional, or because they warmed to the good publicity it generated, he didn’t know. What he did know was that the newspaper accounts of his jailbreaks drove the crowds into the theatres.

The arrangement worked to everyone’s benefit. Whenever he did a jailbreak at a police station, he’d give the police a cursory lesson on lock picking and safecracking, and every once in a while one of Wilkie’s men would turn up at a show, wanting to know some detail of how a counterfeiter was producing a bill or the various techniques of cardsharps. He often got the feeling that they already knew the answers to their questions, but it hardly seemed prudent to point out how one-sided their arrangement was. Wilkie had provided him with an opportunity. He’d made the most of it. Without his skills, without his publicity and showmanship, he’d still be performing with the California Concert Company. He, not Wilkie, had invented Houdini, and he had become Houdini so well that there was no stopping him.

One afternoon in 1901, following a show in San Francisco, Houdini was approached by three men. Two of them were sharply dressed, and he could tell immediately upon shaking their hands that they were gamblers. They introduced themselves as Simpson and Wallace, and the third man, whose hand surpassed the other two’s grace and dexterity, said his name was Findlay. He stood out from the other two, saying little.

Their proposition was simple. They wanted him to help them break into a casino—not to rob it but to plant marked cards. For this
they offered him a hundred dollars. Wallace, who was the shorter of the two gamblers, did most of the talking. Simpson was an oddly shaped man of average height whose arms appeared too long for his body. He’d somehow managed to trim his moustache unevenly, so that one side of it curved upward. It gave him a look of perpetual mirth.

“We’ve seen your show, Mr. Houdini, and we know it’d be a quick matter for you to pop open the lock and get us in,” Wallace said, his voice hushed. He looked around and produced a roll of money from his pocket. Findlay stood back a few paces and made a pretense of rolling a cigarette.

Houdini looked at the money. He didn’t desperately need it. “You’re right, gentlemen, what you propose would present little challenge to me.” He had no issue with gambling—he had himself indulged more than once and Bess had nearly killed him in his sleep one night after he’d lost sixty dollars in a game of craps. He knew enough about casinos to know they weren’t on the level, and cheating a cheater was no problem to him. He almost relished the idea. But there was something about this he didn’t like. It was, for starters, breaking and entering, even if he didn’t go in, and he reasoned that if he were going to turn to crime it wouldn’t be with these three men.

“I’m afraid, however, I can’t help you. I only wish to break out of jail cells I’ve voluntarily entered.”

Simpson chuckled and then stopped. He looked at Wallace.

“Is it an issue of money?” Wallace asked.

“No, it’s an issue of morality. I don’t mind you cheating a casino; in fact I wish you luck. But I do not use my abilities for criminal pursuits.” Houdini tipped his hat to the men, wished them a good
day, and began the short walk back to the hotel where Bess was waiting for him. As he passed Findlay, who hadn’t moved since introducing himself, Findlay raised his eyes to meet his, and it seemed to him that something menacing was conveyed between them. On his walk back to the hotel he had the feeling he was being followed, but on the three or four occasions he looked behind him he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

Just before midnight, he received a telephone call that there was an urgent telegram from New York at the front desk for him. His first thought was that his mother had fallen ill, and he dressed and left the room without hesitation. As he rounded the corner in the hallway, however, he saw the unmistakable bewildered smile of Simpson. He felt something hard and metal press into his back.

“That’s a revolver, if you’re wondering,” Wallace said. “We’ve decided you’ve reconsidered our proposal.”

There was no sign of Findlay, but Houdini was sure he was somewhere, probably stationed as a lookout. As they descended the stairs he felt a great sense of relief pass over him—the telegram was a hoax and his mother was likely safe in bed. She missed his father, he knew. She talked about him often, as though he was still alive. “Ehrie,” she might say, “your father will like this a lot.” But he could see her sadness. He would tell her that he would take care of her, but even he didn’t really believe it. He mourned his father as much as she did.

They moved down the stairs and through the lobby of the hotel, and Findlay fell in step beside him.

“Is the gun really necessary?” he asked Findlay, even though it was in Wallace’s possession.

Findlay didn’t answer him. They kept walking in silence, Findlay
on one side, Simpson on the other, Wallace behind him. Houdini ran through several possible escape scenarios. Each ended with him getting shot. He decided to remain calm and see what happened. He guessed that they would take him to unlock the casino and then let him go.

“I’m wondering, do I still get the hundred dollars?”

This seemed to confuse Simpson, but it brought a slight smile to Findlay’s face.

“After all the trouble you’ve put us to? No, I don’t think so,” Wallace said.

“How about fifty?”

“How about you spring open the door and I don’t shoot you?”

The cable cars had stopped running, and there were few people out. A man crossed the street, his path destined to intersect with theirs, and Wallace pressed his gun into Houdini’s spine, a reminder to behave. The man nodded to them as he passed, and then appeared to recognize Houdini. Findlay saw this too, and slowed his pace to put himself between the man and Houdini. Houdini couldn’t see if anything happened, but Findlay returned to his side quickly and they continued their walk.

They reached the casino after about twenty minutes. They stood across the street for a few minutes while Findlay and Wallace cased things out, then motioned him toward a wooden side door, leaving Simpson on the street as lookout.

Wallace shoved him toward the door. “Open it.”

Houdini took a quick look at the lock. It was a standard pin and tumbler. He could open it in under thirty seconds. He reached his hand into his inside pocket for his picks.

Wallace raised the gun at him, which startled Findlay—his hand flew into his coat with a speed and precision Houdini hadn’t expected, but stopped short of drawing what he assumed was a gun.

“Easy! I’m just getting my tools. You didn’t think I opened locks with my mind, did you?”

Wallace lowered his revolver, though only slightly, and Findlay regained his stony visage. Houdini took out his picks and turned back to the lock. The way Findlay had gone for his gun made him suspect that he was exceptionally dangerous. Would they kill him after he opened the door? They wouldn’t risk a gunshot here, but whatever else happened, he couldn’t let them take him somewhere else. He needed more time to come up with a plan for escape.

Escape. Only this time there was no trick to it. To get out of this he would have to act quickly and improvise as he went. This made him nervous as the gun was pointed at him.

“What’s the deal with your man Simpson?” he asked, placing his pick into the keyway.

“Simpson?” Wallace asked.

Houdini understood that the three of them were using fake names. “It’s just that compared to you two he seems a bit of an amateur.”

Wallace shrugged. “He’s good with cards. And every army needs soldiers.”

Houdini saw Findlay raise an eyebrow at this. Findlay was clearly the man in charge, but he was content to let Wallace believe he was running the show.

A plan began to form. He would break into the casino and lock them out. They couldn’t pick the lock—that was why he was here in
the first place. For once, breaking into something would save him. As long as he was inside he’d be fine. It would require a little luck, for Findlay to be distracted for a half second. He would have to wait for the right moment and hope that he would know it when it came.

He worked the lock and felt it give. He turned his tension wrench a little and the lock was defeated. But he didn’t turn it all the way. Findlay was watching him intently, so he pretended to be having trouble with the lock. He took his pick out and stared at it as though it contained some great secret.

“Is there a problem?” Wallace asked.

“No, it’s just giving me a little more trouble than I expected. I’ll have it open in a minute.”

There were footsteps on the street. Houdini waited until Wallace and Findlay shifted their attention, just for an instant. He torqued open the lock, shouldered the door open, darted into the casino, turned, and slammed it shut. The lock engaged behind him, and he smiled. The men outside tried the door. When it didn’t open, there was a moment of silence.

“Sorry,” he heard Simpson say. “I just came to say all’s clear.”

“What are we going to do now?” Wallace said.

“We’re done,” Findlay said. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d introduced himself.

“No,” Simpson said, and then Houdini heard a gunshot. Had Findlay or Wallace shot Simpson? He looked down at his left hand and saw a red hole in the flesh between his middle and ring finger, followed by tremendous pain. They’d shot him through the door.

“Goddammit!” Wallace shouted.

He began to panic. His hands were his livelihood. A magician with a crippled hand was finished. They might as well have shot him
in the face. A rage began urging him to pull open the door, grab one of their guns, and fight the three of them. Someone pushed at the door again, but it held. More silence. Had they gone?

The casino had only a few lights lit, but he could see that there was no exit wound in his hand. It appeared to be a small-calibre bullet, and it hurt like hell. He moved each of his fingers, and everything seemed to be intact. The bullet was lodged in the fleshy crevice between the knuckles on his middle and ring finger. As long as it didn’t become infected he’d probably be all right.

As a feeling of relief began to set in he thought of Bess. He could have died tonight. These were men with real guns that held real bullets, and it was clear that they had little regard for his well-being. His throbbing hand was proof of that. A slight difference in the shooter’s aim might well have been the end of him.