“How about you, Hardeen?” asked Kellar. “You’re a handsome chap. Skillful on stage. You could hold a big show together, I bet. Don’t tell me you’re set on becoming an escape artist, too.”
“Not exactly, sir,” I said, watching as my brother hopped over the ledge and began swarming up the exterior of the dome, clinging precariously to a copper vein. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept either. Someone has to keep an eye on him.”
“What did I say?” cried Baum. “The fellow has brains!”
“I think you’re both making an enormous mistake,” Kellar said. “But I’ll respect your decision. If you ever need me, you may rely upon Harry Kellar.” He looked out over the city, lying still under the new snow. “God. Was there ever anything more peaceful than New York on a snowy Tuesday morning?”
“It is beautiful,” said Le Roy.
“It’s better from up here,” Harry shouted down to us. “I can see for miles in all directions.”
“Harry—be careful!”
“But it’s gorgeous! Come up, Dash!”
“Not me.”
“I can see the Statue of Liberty from here! Come on, Dash. Don’t be an old lady!”
Kellar lifted his brows, smiling. “As you said, someone has to keep an eye on him.”
I shrugged. “All right, Harry. How do I get up there?”
“Simple! Right foot on the gargoyle, left on the drain-spout. Grab the copper seam and lift yourself up slowly. That’s it. Slowly. Good! You see?”
“Harry, this is crazy.”
“Small steps, Dash,” he said, reaching down for my hand. “Everything in small steps.”
1
THE MAN WITH THE CAST-IRON STOMACH
MONSTROUS.
The old man shifted on his walking stick and gazed sadly at the vast expanse of stone before him. It was not only vulgar but also profane, a bizarre collision of ego and some misplaced sense of piety. It offended every notion of taste and decency. The sheer ostentation might have brought a blush to the cheek of Croesus. Naturally, Harry had thought it was lovely.
Why couldn’t he have allowed himself to be buried like a normal person? With a small, tasteful marker of some sort? No, not Harry. He had to go out with a flourish. A thousand tons of granite had been spoiled to create this eyesore, along with a considerable amount of Italian marble. What had they called it at the time? A Greek exedra? That presumably described the curved stone bench that invited silent contemplation. But how to explain the stone figure of the kneeling woman sobbing at the graveside? Over the years, the old man had given her the name Beulah. “Hello, Beulah,” he would say, patting her fondly on the shoulder as he passed. “How are the pigeons treating you today?”
His feet were tired from the long walk, and the old man gave out a soft groan as he lowered himself onto the bench, gazing up at the solemn bust of his brother. Here was the crowning touch, he thought to himself. Harry in all his glory, stonefaced in death as he so often was in life, gazing magisterially over the other, presumably lesser, inhabitants of the Machpelah Cemetery. What would Rabbi Samuel Weiss have made of this display? Thou shalt not worship graven images.
With his eyes fixed on the marble bust, the old man reached into the pocket of his brown tick-weave jacket and withdrew a silver flask. Well, he thought, lifting the flask in a brisk salute, another year gone, Harry. Here’s to you, you pompous old goat.
I miss you.
Mrs. Doggett was waiting on the porch when the old man returned to the house in Flatbush. “Those men are here,” she said in a voice heavy with exasperation. “Again.”
“Those men?” he asked.
“The reporters. From the city.”
“Ah.”
“It’s the same two men,” she continued. “One of them is a photographer. They’re in the parlor, smoking like wet coal. I don’t know why you speak to them every year. It only encourages them.”
“You know why I speak to them,” he answered, tugging at his French cuffs. “He would have wanted it that way.”
“Him,” she answered. “Always him.”
Mrs. Doggett continued to give voice to her displeasure as she led him into the front room. Newspaper reporters ranked just below potted meat and Estes Kefauver in her esteem. Newspaper reporters who smoked were to be especially despised, more so if they also made slurping noises when they drank their tea.
The old man was no longer listening. He had come to expect this annual visitation from Matthews of the Herald, and he had passed a quiet hour at his brother’s exedra preparing himself. This year, he had decided, he would try something different. At the start of the interview, he would allow Matthews to believe that he had gone senile. What’s a man to do, Mr. Matthews? You just can’t get good fish paste any more. That’s what’s wrong with this country, my lad. And you can tell that to Mr. Estes Kefauver when you see him.
Nothing more than a reverse bait and switch; a little something to keep himself entertained. He would wait until Matthews began stealing glances at his watch and then spring the trap. What’s that, Mr. Matthews? You need to be getting back to the city? What a shame. I was just about to tell you what happened to Lucius Craig. You remember him, do you? Yes, his disappearance was something of a scandal at the time. Left half the society matrons in New York brokenhearted, as I recall. I read an article just the other day speculating as to what might have become of him. Should have asked me. I’ve known for years.
Interesting man, Mr. Craig. There were some who believed he could speak with the dead. I saw him do some amazing things myself. Spirit messages. Disembodied voices. That sort of thing. I always wondered if—pardon? You want to know what happened to him? Well, Mr. Matthews, I guess there’s no easy way to say this.
And here the Great Hardeen would pause and gaze sadly into the distance. You see, Mr. Matthews, I’m afraid my brother and I made him disappear.
Permanently.
The old man smiled to himself, then pushed open the parlor door to face his interviewer.
What’s that, Mr. Matthews? You’d like to hear the story? But I thought you and Mr. Parker had to be getting back—? No? Well, I can’t blame you for wanting to know the truth of the matter. It was front page news at the time and one of the many secrets that the Great Houdini vowed to take to the grave. Me, I’ll be content to go to my grave unburdened. Let me see if I can remember how it began. Ah, yes. Biggs. It all started with Biggs.
I seem to recall that the newspapers were filled with accounts of Commodore Dewey destroying the Spanish fleet, which I suppose places things in the late spring of 1898. Harry would have just turned twenty-four at the time; I was two years younger. As always, our finances were at a low ebb. We had recently been fortunate enough to pull a couple of months as touring assistants with Mr. Harry Kellar’s illusion show, but at the close of the season we were once again at liberty. We came back to New York, where Harry had been forced to sign on as a platform magician at Huber’s Fourteenth Street Museum. It was steady work but strictly small-time, and Harry considered it beneath him. I spent my days making the rounds with his leather-bound press book under my arm, trying to scare up suitable opportunities among the more reputable music halls and variety theaters. I was not wildly successful in this regard, and more than once I abandoned my duties in favor of Ganson’s Billiards Hall on Houston.
My recollection is that it was raining heavily on that particular day. Bess was working the chorus at Ravelsen’s Review on Thompson Street, and it was a source of some consternation for Harry that her position brought a slightly higher wage than he was earning at the dime museum. I caught up with him backstage at Huber’s, where he was pulling a double shift in the Hall of Curiosities.
“Intolerable, Dash!” Harry cried as he came off between shows. He was wearing a feather headdress and a leather singlet for his role as the laconic Running Deer, Last of the Comanche Wizards. His skin was slathered with copperish paste, and there were heavy streaks of lip polish on his cheeks, meant to suggest w
ar paint. “You will have to find something better!” he continued, tossing aside a wooden tomahawk. “I am required to do a degradingly simple rope trick and spout ridiculous noises! ‘Hoonga-boonga!’ Have you ever heard of an Indian saying ‘Hoonga-boonga’?”
“I never heard of an Indian doing the Cut and Restored Rope, now that you mention it.”
“At the very least they could have employed Bess as well. She could have played my squaw.”
“Bess seems quite content,” I answered. “She prefers a singing engagement to working as your assistant. She says she’s tired of jumping in and out of boxes.”
“She said that?” He leaned into a dressing table mirror to dab at his war paint. “I suppose she is trying to put a brave face on the situation. Yes, that must be it. But at heart I am quite certain that she finds these circumstances as unacceptable as I do. It simply won’t do for the wife of the Great Houdini to be seen cavorting in some music hall chorus. I have my reputation to consider!”
“Reputation? Harry, you’re lucky to be working back at Huber’s. Albert only took you on because he needed someone who could double as a Fire-Proof Man.”
“Fire-Proof Man! Of all the indignities! Clutching at a piece of hot coal to show that one is impervious to pain! Thrusting one’s hand into a flaming brazier! Ludicrous! The Great Houdini is now reduced to a mere sideshow attraction!”
“How’s the arm, by the way?”
“Fine,” he answered, wincing slightly. “I just need a bit more practice, that’s all.” He pushed a feather out of his eyes and adjusted the headdress. “Dash, you must get me out of this booking. Find something where I can do the escape act. It is the only way I will ever break out of the small time. If you do not”—he paused and drew in a deep breath—“I shall be forced to seek other representation.”
“Other representation?” I ran a hand through my hair. “Harry, you’re welcome to seek other representation, but you’ll find that there’s a crucial difference between me and the other business managers you may run across.”
“Such as?”
“The others expect to be paid.”
Harry folded his arms, the very picture of a stoic Comanche. “I’m just asking you to show a bit more initiative, Dash.”
“Harry, I’m doing all I can. I have an appointment with Hector Platt at the end of the afternoon.”
“Hector Platt?”
“He runs a talent agency near Bleecker Street. He’s about the only one in New York who hasn’t turned me down flat in the past three weeks. You’re welcome to tag along if you think I should be showing more initiative.”
I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. For the rest of the afternoon, Harry could talk of nothing but his “rendezvous with destiny” in the offices of Hector Platt. On stage he appeared newly invigorated, and even the expression “Hoonga-boonga” was given an enthusiastic spin. Between performances he drew me aside to speak in hushed tones of the “celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt,” who would surely be the one to propel the Great Houdini into the front rank of vaudeville. “Mine is a talent that cannot easily be confined to a single venue,” Harry told me after the final performance. “The celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt may have some difficulty in choosing the proper method of highlighting my abilities.” He whistled happily as he scrubbed away the last traces of copper body paint.
In truth, Hector Platt was neither celebrated nor distinguished. He was what used to be called a blue barnacle in the show business parlance of the day, a man who tenaciously attached himself to the lower edges of the scene while serving no clear purpose. Very occasionally he would throw a week or two of work my way with one of the lesser circus tours or carnival pitches, but on the whole I considered him a last resort in desperate circumstances. I tried to explain this to Harry as we made our way across town in a covered omnibus, but he would not hear of it.
“Mr. Platt has simply not had the opportunity to avail himself of a truly top-drawer performer,” Harry insisted as we alighted on lower Broadway. “We shall both benefit from this fateful association.” He rubbed his hands together. “Lead on, Dash! Destiny awaits!”
I shrugged and led Harry down a narrow, winding alley off Bleecker Street. Beneath a yellow boot-maker’s lamp we came upon a door with the words “Platt Theatricals” etched on a pane of cracked glass. I pushed open the door and climbed a dark flight of stairs with Harry at my heels. At the first landing we found a door hanging open on broken hinges. I rapped twice. Hearing a gruff summons from inside, I entered the office.
Hector Platt sat in a high-backed wooden swivel chair, regarding us through the lenses of a brass pince-nez. He liked to think of himself as a country squire in the European fashion, and to that end he wore leather riding boots and silken cravats. An untidy scattering of papers littered the surface of his oblong desk, with a brown clay pipe smouldering in an ashtray within easy reach.
“Hardeen,” said Platt in his booming bass drum of a voice. “Haven’t seen you in a good four months. Where’ve you been? You can’t possibly have been working all that time!”
“As a matter of fact, my brother and I have been touring with the company of Mr. Harry Kellar,” I said primly. “We’ve only just returned and have elected to rejoin the New York season. You are undoubtedly familiar with the recent successes of my brother, Mr. Harry Houdini.” I gestured to Harry, who stepped forward to shake Platt’s hand. “Although the stresses of the recent tour have been considerable, my brother has decided that he is willing to entertain suitable offers at this time.”
Platt’s lips curled as he reached for his clay pipe. “I am gratified to hear it,” he said, tamping the pipe bowl with the end of a letter opener. “However, I am obliged to report that news of your brother’s triumphs has not yet reached our offices.”
“Indeed?” I stroked my chin at this strange lapse. “Well, if you would care to examine our press book, you will find ample testimony to the drawing power of the Great Houdini. No less a journal than the Milwaukee Sentinel was inspired to remark that—”
Platt waved the book aside. “I’ve seen your cuttings more than once, Hardeen. It might be more profitable to learn of your recent attainments. Tell me, what was it that you and your brother were doing during your time with Mr. Kellar?”
It was a sore point, as Platt undoubtedly realized. At that time Harry Kellar was the most celebrated conjurer in the entire world. He did not require the services of additional magicians in his company, so Harry and I had served as minor assistants in some of the larger production numbers. I had quite enjoyed my role in the background, but Harry had chafed at his small handful of assignments. Chief among these was a novelty number that required him to don a leopard-pattern loincloth and heft large weights as Brakko the Strongman.
“Our duties were varied,” I said, examining my fingernails with a careless air, “and I may say in all modesty that Mr. Kellar was most reluctant to see us depart.”
“Was he, indeed?” Platt’s smile broadened as he sent up a cloud of noxious black smoke. “I do hope that he will be able to carry on. Now, Mr. Hardeen, I seem to recall that you and your brother have some experience performing a magical act of your own devising. I regret to say that at present I have no need of a magical act.”
“It is not simply a magical act,” I said. “My brother has devised an entirely new form of entertainment, one that is certain to place his name in the very fore-front of popular entertainment.”
Platt unclipped the pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Not the escape act,” he said wearily, closing his eyes. “I told you last time, there is simply no audience for such a thing.”
Harry, who had showed uncharacteristic restraint during this exchange, now stepped forward and grasped the edge of Platt’s desk. “I would be very pleased to offer a demonstration of my abilities,” he said. “I guarantee that you will find it worth your attention.”
Platt waved the back of his hand. “Please, Mr. Houdi
ni. I do not allow every passing entertainer to audition here in my office. I should have no end of singers warbling the latest tunes and Shakespeareans declaiming from Hamlet. It wouldn’t do to encourage such behavior.”
Harry smiled as if Platt had made a delightful witticism. “Singers are a penny to the dozen,” he said. “Actors can be found on every street corner. The Great Houdini, as my brother has said, is entirely unique. I fear that mere words cannot convey the power of what I am able to achieve upon the stage. Only a demonstration will suffice. Have you a pair of regulation handcuffs?”
“Handcuffs?” Platt leaned back in his swivel chair. “No, Mr. Houdini. I do not happen to have a pair of handcuffs lying about.”
“You’re certain? Perhaps a good set of Palmer manacles or a nice solid pair of Lilly bar irons? I would also settle for leg restraints or thumbscrews.”
“Mr. Houdini, I do not keep such things about my person. What sort of establishment do you suppose I am running?”
Harry’s face fell. “It will be difficult to demonstrate my facility with handcuffs if no handcuffs are forthcoming,” he allowed.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Platt, squaring a pile of documents on his desk. “Now, gentlemen, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I have some rather pressing—”
“Mr. Platt,” I said, struggling to regain some purchase on his attention, “I beg that you give my brother some chance to demonstrate his value as an entertainer. I offer my assurance that he is the most exceptional performer in New York today.”
“I must find a solution,” Harry was saying, musing aloud over the strange absence of restraining devices in Platt’s office. “I suppose that I could provide my own handcuffs in these situations, but people would naturally assume that they were gaffed in some way. What to do?”
Platt ignored him. “Hardeen, I’ve already told you that I don’t place any stock in the entertainment value of a man who escapes from things. It’s a silly notion. I know that you and your brother are fair magicians, but I don’t have any need of magicians just now.” He paused as a new thought struck him. “Is Mr. Houdini’s wife seeking opportunities at present? I might have something coming open in the chorus at the Blair.”
The Floating Lady Murder Page 22
