Kelley took the cuffs, walked over to the stage stairs, and slammed them on the tread. The cuffs fell open. “Regulation cuffs such as these?”
The audience jeered and hissed.
“Mr. Houdini, you claim you are the Handcuff King. Yet you refuse to wear these handcuffs, the result of five years’ labour by Birmingham locksmith Nathaniel Hart using good British steel and bought with British gold. Hart says no mortal man can pick this lock. If you are unwilling to try, then you are not the Handcuff King.”
He was trapped. Without examining the handcuffs closer he couldn’t agree to the challenge—there were a hundred ways to make a cuff unopenable. But he couldn’t very well refuse. He was lost for words and happened to look into the wings. Standing with his arms crossed, a cigar drooping from his lip, was Alfred Harmsworth. Houdini recognized him as the owner of the Daily Illustrated Mirror.
Harmsworth nodded at him just slightly, and Houdini knew that he had to accept Kelley’s challenge.
“I am sure that you and the Daily Illustrated Mirror will understand that a pair of handcuffs such as these will require me to prepare myself. I therefore agree to your challenge, set for four days from now. I will do my very best to open your handcuffs, Mr. Kelley. Houdini has never yet failed.”
Harmsworth was waiting for him as he came offstage. He was a tall, heavyset man with a child’s face and shrewd eyes. At thirty-eight years of age he was fast becoming the most powerful man in British publishing. He’d come from poverty and understood what the masses wanted and how to give it to them. He could control what people thought, how they remembered events, how history was written.
“Scared of a pair of handcuffs, are you?”
Houdini half smiled, unsure of what Harmsworth was up to. “They’re not regulation cuffs.”
“No, they’re not. So we’re on?”
Houdini paused. Harmsworth could be a dangerous enemy. “I don’t see as how you’ve left me any choice.”
Harmsworth laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I have.”
Houdini said nothing. He took a coin from his pocket and began to work it back and forth in his hand, starting at his thumb and progressing to his pinky finger and then back again with increasing speed.
“This will make both of us,” Harmsworth said. “The publicity will solidify the Mirror as the foremost paper in London and you as the foremost performer. You should be thanking me.”
The song the orchestra had launched into when he entered his cabinet was one of his favourite waltzes, “On the Beautiful Blue Danube.” Houdini listened to it in the dark, with four thousand people watching. He thought about all the challenges he’d faced and met with hard work and ingenuity. And luck. He hated the idea of luck, because luck allowed for the idea of chance, and chance admitted the possibility of failure. For every way most men knew to unlock a lock Houdini knew of three. He had backup methods for his backup methods. Only by killing chance had he been able to make this life for himself.
But he also knew that circumstances largely beyond his control had contributed to his success. It was six years since he’d broken out of a police holding cell in Chicago, engaged in what he often thought of as his greatest talent—publicity. One of the officers who handcuffed him was Lieutenant Andrew Rohan, who told Houdini to leave the station and never come back. “We don’t want you in our jail,” he’d said.
Two weeks later Rohan came to see him with a proposition. He took him to a nondescript building that could have housed an inept accountant or an unsuccessful lawyer or a clientless tailor. Once inside, he was taken up a side staircase to a sitting room with a large fireplace and several chairs positioned around a circular table. Rohan motioned for him to sit and then left. After a few minutes the door opened again and a tall man entered, wearing a pin-striped suit and spectacles. He was clean-cut with a well-waxed moustache, and walked across the room with a casual grace and confidence.
“Good afternoon,” the man said, extending his hand for Houdini to shake and then sitting opposite him. “I’m John Wilkie.”
Houdini knew the name. Years ago, as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune, Wilkie had written an account of having witnessed the apocryphal Indian rope trick. Every magician knew it was a trick that didn’t exist and had never been performed, but which the more credulous members of the public read as fact. Multiple reports of seeing such a trick soon spread across the world, and the article became an object lesson, for magicians, of what, if properly convinced, people will say, and even believe, they have seen.
“You’ve become a magician?”
Wilkie shook his head. “Amateur, I assure you. I have turned my attention to other areas. I am the director of the Secret Service.”
Houdini was speechless. He knew that Rohan had been upset with him, but it was all part of an act. “I haven’t done anything illegal. The jailbreaks were approved by the police.”
Wilkie smiled. “You misunderstand, Mr. Weisz. You’re not in trouble.”
“It’s Houdini. Harry Houdini.”
“Exactly. We know all about you. Born Erik Weisz on March 24, 1874, in Budapest. Interestingly, when you came to America the spelling of your name was changed and your date of birth is recorded as April 6. Why is that?”
“I don’t know. My parents changed the spelling of all our names, and the birthday must be a mistake.”
“But now Ehrich Weiss has become Harry Houdini. Born in Appleton, Wisconsin, on April 6, 1874.” Wilkie reached into his pocket, pulled out an American passport, and slid it across the table toward him.
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 an
ticipate 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 Fi
ndlay 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.”
The Confabulist Page 8
