The Confabulist (22 page)

His team of assistants brought the cabinet onstage as he invited a committee to inspect the apparatus. A dozen men climbed onto the stage and examined the cabinet. He watched each of them closely, but saw nothing unusual. He launched into his usual patter and the cabinet was filled with water. The stocks were lowered and his ankles were locked into them. As his assistants pulled the ropes that would hoist him aloft, he noticed one of the committee men touching his moustache, as though he was pushing it back onto his face. He lost sight of the man as he was hoisted upside down.

Should he stop the trick? He hadn’t really seen anything that he could justify to the audience. But his gut told him something was wrong.

They lowered him into the water, and the locks were fastened. The lid of the cabinet had two holes that secured his ankles, and was
split through the middle of each hole and hinged on one side to open, forming a set of stocks. On the side opposite the hinge was a legitimate lock.

The lock that fastened the lid to the cabinet, however, was a gimmicked lock. When a normal lock’s key is turned it does one thing—engage the bolt. This lock did that, but it also simultaneously disengaged a second bolt that allowed the rear half of the stocks to slide backward, giving him enough room to free his feet and push himself up and out of the cabinet. It was simple and foolproof; if the lid was locked on, then the stocks had to be unlocked.

As the curtains were drawn around the cabinet, he caught another glimpse of the man who had been fiddling with his moustache. The man turned to him, his moustache gone, and looked into his eyes. He hadn’t seen him in over a decade, but there was no doubt: it was Wilkie’s man Findlay, who had poisoned him during the
Mirror
cuff escape and who had kidnapped him all those years ago in San Francisco.

Houdini did what he’d told his recruits never to do. He panicked. The air went out of him and he nearly swallowed a lungful of water. The blood in his head pounded like an executioner’s drum, and his arms flailed.

Without thinking—he had lost his reason at this point—his legs kicked the stocks back. He’d done the upside down so many times that possibly it was muscle memory at work, or maybe he was just lucky. The moment he felt the stocks release his feet a sense of calm flowed through him. Even if Findlay was there, he could still escape.

As he’d done a thousand times before, Houdini placed his hands on the side of the cell and pushed himself up, one hand and then the other, until his waist rested on the roof of the cabinet. He wriggled
out of the cabinet and slid the stocks back into place. In his bathing costume was a small pocket from which he removed a key, unlocking the lid and thus securing the stocks in their original and undetectable position. As he did this he noticed, on the floor in front of the cabinet, a newspaper. There was not normally anything inside the curtained area other than the cell.

He climbed down off the roof of the cell and picked up the paper, a copy of the
Daily Mirror
. It was folded to highlight an article several pages in. Houdini read the headline.

WILLIAM MELVILLE, FORMER
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCOTLAND YARD,
DEAD AT 67
.

The article said he died of liver failure. When Houdini looked at the paper’s date he knew better. The paper was for the next day. He smiled as he thought of his old friend Harmsworth.

He tucked the paper under the cabinet and opened the curtain. The audience cheered, and he went through his spiel, searching the committee for Findlay. He wasn’t there.

As he donned his robe he retrieved the newspaper. He went backstage to change for the elephant vanish. Grigoriev was there, and Houdini handed him the paper. He only had a few moments and was pulling his tuxedo on as quickly as possible.

Grigoriev looked at him. “How did you get this?”

“Someone put it behind my curtain. One of Wilkie’s men.”

Houdini wriggled into his shirt and began to fasten his tie. “I think this means we’re in the clear,” he said. If they had intended to
harm him, he would have been harmed. They had given him the newspaper to show him that, to demonstrate their power. Wilkie had always had a flair for the theatrical.

“Not necessarily. Maybe you are. I’m not so sure I am.”

“Why?”

“You’re still useful to Wilkie. But I know too much.”

The band was nearly at the end of its interlude.

“Everything will be fine.” He pulled on his coat and smoothed down his hair.

“I doubt that.”

“You Russians have no imagination,” he said, turning back toward the stage. “Once I’ve made this elephant disappear, I’ll do the same for you.”

MARTIN STRAUSS

1927

I
EMERGED FROM THE
116
TH
S
TREET SUBWAY STATION TO
a grey and cloudy day. I walked south and turned left onto West 113th Street. Halfway down the block was Houdini’s house. I paused outside, stared up at the narrow, brown, four-storey building that had been his home. The house was grand, but at the same time there was something commonplace about it that surprised me. I knew he was mortal—no one knew this better than I—but seeing where he lived, ate, and slept nearly made me lose my nerve.

My plan was imperfect. For all I knew, the person who had warned me to go underground, who may have been threatening me, could be in that house. Who would have more cause to do me harm than Houdini’s widow? Yet it was my intent to knock on the door and explain to her who I was.

Each of the eleven steps up to the small landing outside the front door was an obstacle of its own. When I reached the top, I took from
my pocket the piece of paper on which I’d written what I intended to say, and clutched it in front of me.

A young woman in a black dress and white apron answered the door. I glanced down at my paper, about to start reading from it, then realized that this could not be Bess Houdini.

“Yes?” she said.

I folded the paper over. “I’m here to see Mrs. Houdini,” I said, aware of how nervous I sounded.

The maid looked surprised, which I thought odd. Did I have the wrong house?

“Come in,” she said, opening the door and leading me down a small hall decorated with photos of Houdini and a large bust of the man himself. Despite his death his presence was everywhere, and I had to resist the urge to run away.

At the end of the hall was a sitting room, and the maid motioned for me to take a seat. There was already a woman there, her eyes on the floor, hands folded in her lap. She looked up, startled, then relieved. She was not Bess Houdini either.

I sat at the opposite end of the room from the woman. When the maid had left, she looked at me. “Did you get a letter too?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“No,” I said.

“Why are you here?”

I didn’t want to say why. “I have business with Mrs. Houdini.”

“I got a letter saying she had something for me.”

The maid entered again with two more women, each appearing somewhat uneasy, and I stood up as they came in, but no one spoke. We sat there in uncomfortable silence, and then the maid came back with another woman and another and another until there was myself
and ten women in the room. It seemed that each of them had received a letter or telegram from Bess telling them she had something for them from Houdini, instructing them to come at an appointed time to collect it.

I became aware that each of these women was both young and beautiful. I doubted if I’d ever been in the company of ten more attractive women in my life. None of them could hold a candle to Clara, though. I missed her like you miss the dead, with a terrible finality that made me panic every time I looked directly at it. If I only took it in sideways it was almost bearable. The hint of a hem of a dress might invoke a pleasant memory, a specific smell might take me to a moment with her that buoyed me, and if I was careful to take that instant snapshot and not dwell, then it was like Clara was still with me. But if my mind lingered, it would remember that she was not. Then the loss of her would sink me.

We all sat there for some time. It seemed that we were being made to wait on purpose, that the tension created by our uncomfortable coexistence was intentional. I reminded myself that whatever was happening I was not technically a part of it.

The maid returned carrying a box. One of the women, with a blond bob, leaned forward. The maid shielded the box from her view and stood next to me in the corner of the room.

Bess Houdini walked through the door. She was a tiny woman, barely five feet tall, and despite being over fifty looked at first glance like a child’s doll. She was dressed all in black, and her dark hair was styled with care. Her movements were precise, as if they required great effort, and I saw her left hand shake slightly before she steadied it.

A shapely brunette who looked to me like I’d seen her in a movie
at some point stood up and stepped forward as if to embrace her. “Oh, Bess, I’m so sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”

Bess waved her hand through the air like a knife, warding her off. The woman stopped herself, arms outstretched, then retreated. Bess stared at her, her face hard and unmoving. The woman’s mouth hung open, dumbstruck, and then she closed it.

No one was spared Bess’s gaze. She went from one woman to the next, forcing them to look at her directly, not stopping until they looked away again. They all knew what was happening, it seemed. I didn’t, but I could tell that whatever was taking place was a serious matter.

Eventually Bess turned to look at me. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. Then she reached into the box the maid held and removed a bundle of letters tied together with string. She read the label and crossed the room toward one of the women. She held out the bundle and the woman took it, blushing when she realized what had been given to her. Then Bess stepped aside and the woman stood and walked toward the door, her footsteps accelerating once she was out of our sight and down the hallway.

Bess returned to the box and retrieved another bundle of letters and calmly presented them to the tall brunette, whom I was now positive I’d seen in a film. The woman grasped the letters, and Bess hung on to them an instant longer than she needed to. The woman pulled them away and rose to her feet, towering over Bess. Conscious of the previous woman’s footsteps, she walked with measured steps across the room and down the hall, shutting the front door quietly behind her.

One by one each woman was given a package of letters, and
each of them left the room in silence. As the last woman departed, Bess’s shoulders dropped, and the echo of the door closing seemed to knock her over. She collapsed to her knees and let out a sob. The maid didn’t move, and gave me a look that made it clear I shouldn’t either.

The three of us stayed where we were. It was as if we were each in our own separate rooms, trapped by an unseen force. Then Bess pulled herself to her feet and shuffled over to a chair. She waved a hand at the maid, who left the room.

“Who are you?”

For her to absolve me she needed to know the truth. “Martin Strauss.”

Bess bit her lip. Then it hit her. “Martin Strauss?”

“I’m the man who punched your husband in the stomach in Montreal.”

“Why are you here?” She sat up straight.

“To tell you I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I don’t even know why I hit him.”

She relaxed a little. Perhaps she had thought I was here to do her harm. I still wasn’t sure what I had just intruded upon, but the situation was more complicated than I’d anticipated.

The maid returned with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She placed the tray next to Bess and exited the room.

Bess poured herself a glass but didn’t offer me one.

“You didn’t kill him,” she said.

“But the papers said—”

“My husband had several substantial life insurance policies,” she said. “One of which paid double indemnity for accidental death.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Strauss, he died as the result of a burst appendix. No matter how hard you may have hit him, it wouldn’t have caused his appendix to burst. But a burst appendix is not considered an accident by the insurer, unless caused by something unnatural.”