The Last Illusion

by Unknown

  As I came out onto the Bowery I passed the front of the theater and saw that a door to the box office was now open. I went inside. A crowd had gathered around the ticket counter and voices were raised. “But we were told we’d be able to see the show for free after it was stopped!” a woman was shouting. “Who is going to give us our money back if the show is sold out?”

  I sneaked past them and tried the doors to the theater. They didn’t open but there was a passageway down the side, leading to the balcony and the boxes. I went down this, and to my delight found a door that opened into the orchestra stalls. The door closed behind me and I stood, blinking in almost complete darkness. I felt my way forward, row by row, until the orchestra pit opened up in front of me. Then I felt my way around that to the steps at the right and the pass door. It yielded to my touch and I was through to the backstage. Silence and darkness greeted me. The smell of fresh paint mingled with sawdust and stale coffee made me want to sneeze and I put up my hand to my nose to stop myself. I passed through the wings and tiptoed up the little staircase that led to the dressing rooms. There was a glimmer of light coming from somewhere on this hallway and I located the Houdinis’ dressing room by the star on the door. It wasn’t locked and I went inside. I wasn’t quite sure what I hoped to find in there. I closed the door carefully and turned on the electric light switch. Blinding light flooded the room from the bulbs around the mirror and I had to stand with my eyes squeezed shut until I dared to open them again. To be honest I still wasn’t used to the glare of electricity, having only gas at my house, which gave a softer and gentler glow.

  As I looked around, I was again struck by how Spartan the dressing room was: the counter below the mirror with its jumble of grease paints, cotton wool, and patent medicines; the rack holding Houdini’s frock coat and Bess’s page-boy outfit; the couch in the corner, a couple of rickety chairs—that was about it. None of their props, I noticed. They were all locked away safely.

  I tried the drawer in the dressing table. And then I went through the pockets in the jacket. All they contained was a card: the nine of spades. I smiled to myself. Then I noticed that the waste basket hadn’t been emptied. I sorted through cotton wool caked with vanishing cream and makeup, an empty tonic bottle, and then I hit pay dirt. An envelope, addressed to Mr. Harry Houdini, 178 E. 102 Street, New York.

  Having had such a stroke of luck, I looked inside to see if perhaps it might have contained something useful like a threatening letter from a gangster—but it was empty. No matter. I had achieved my purpose and gave myself a mental pat on the back. I made my exit from the theater without being detected. There was still a vociferous crowd around the ticket kiosk and I pitied the person inside it.

  From the Bowery I took the Third Avenue El, traveling north. It felt as if I were traveling to the ends of the earth, stuck in that hot, crowded compartment with frequent stops and plenty of jostling and shoving. On the way I had time to think about what had happened to Bess and why. I had overheard something that had sounded very much like a threat last night at the theater, when Houdini had told the young man that he was going to hand over something only to his boss. And now today Ted had told me that someone called Risey, who was a big man on Coney Island, had been humiliated by Houdini and had vowed to get even. I knew how New York gangsters bore a grudge and what kind of thing they might do to get even. So Bess had been quite right in her suspicions and had almost paid with her life. If an ax hadn’t been nearby, it would have been too late for her.

  We crawled northward painfully slowly until finally I alighted at Ninety-ninth Street station. It wasn’t a part of the city with which I was familiar and I was interested to see it had the same distinctly Jewish feel to it as the streets of the Lower East Side but without the pushcarts, cacophony of sounds, and ripe smells. I heard Russian and Yiddish spoken and passed a synagogue where old bearded men in black caps stood on the steps in heated conversation with a lot of hand gestures.

  The house the Houdinis had rented was nothing fancy—a modest brownstone on a quiet street. Children were playing jump rope on the other side, chanting the same sort of rhymes that we had chanted back in Ireland. This made me wonder whether the Houdinis had any children or, more to the point, whether Bess’s nervous condition and collapse might be due to pregnancy. I tapped on the front door and waited.

  It was opened by a gaunt-faced old woman. “Ja?” she demanded, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Is this the residence of Mr. Harry Houdini?” I asked.

  She stared at me blankly. Then she said in heavily accented English. “Not here.”

  “Do you know where I might find him?” I asked. “It’s Mrs. Houdini I wanted to see. I’m a friend of hers, and I was very upset when I heard what happened to her last night at the theater. I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

  “Theo?” the old woman turned back and called into the passage, and then rattled off something in a language I couldn’t understand.

  A young man appeared behind her. At first I thought it was Houdini, then I saw that although the resemblance was striking, this man was younger and bigger.

  “Can I help you, miss?” he asked, his hand folded defiantly across a massive chest.

  I repeated my request. “I know Bess would want to see me,” I added.

  He frowned at me. “I never heard her mention your name,” he said. “I’m Harry’s brother’s Theo. They call me Dash, but then you’d know that, wouldn’t you—seeing that you’re such a good friend of Bess’s?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. And something I had recently read in a newspaper popped into my head. “You were part of the act, weren’t you?”

  It was a lucky stab in the dark but he nodded. “Yes, it used to be Harry and I who performed the Metamorphosis, but I was glad to hand it over to Bess. I didn’t fit into that trunk so good.”

  “I can see that.” I smiled and so did he.

  “Lucky for me, you could say,” he said, his smile fading. “That might have been me trapped in there last night and I used to fit in that trunk so tight there was no room to breathe to begin with. I’d have been a goner.”

  “I was there, watching from the wings. It was frightening,” I said.

  “I don’t know what could have gone wrong.” Theo frowned. “That ain’t never happened before. Harry’s always so careful to double-check the equipment. And of course it would have to be Bess who got stuck in there. She panicked, of course. That makes it worse.”

  “I hope she’s fully recovered,” I said. “Is she resting or can she receive a guest?”

  “She’s not here,” Theo said, staring at me, unblinking.

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  Theo shook his head. “Some doc’s got her under sedation. She was in a bad way last night. Harry was real worried about her.”

  “Is your brother here or is he with her?”

  “He’s with her,” Theo said, “if he’s not at the theater, checking on the props and making sure nothing else goes wrong. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t want me to join him in the act tonight. There’s no way Bess is going to be fit to go onstage.”

  That, of course, would ruin everything. It seemed I had to see Bess today somehow or I’d be out of a job again.

  “Would you tell Bess I called?” I said, biting back my frustration. “My name’s Molly. Molly Murphy.”

  “I’ll tell her if I see her,” he said. “They might keep her there for a while.”

  “And where would ‘there’ be?”

  He shrugged. “Some doc’s place. That’s all I know.”

  It appeared that all I could do was to go home and wait until Bess Houdini contacted me. And if she was sedated and under a doctor’s care, she was hardly likely to be in a mental state to think about her dear friend Molly whom she had hired to protect her husband.

  It was now way past midday and my stomach reminded me that I’d had nothing to eat. I told myself that I should probably save the money and try to hold o
ut until I got home, but when I passed a corner delicatessen I gave in and bought myself a pastrami sandwich. Pastrami was another new food for me. I ordered it after asking for ham and getting a funny look from the man behind the counter and the patrons. It wasn’t half bad either, served with sour pickles!

  The journey back to Greenwich Village seemed to take an eternity. It was stiflingly hot in carriage and the atmosphere grew worse as more and more people crowded in. If I’d been the kind of young lady who swooned, I’d have definitely done so. As it was I sat in my corner and tried to make enough space to fan myself with the empty envelope.

  My muslin was a crumpled mess and soaked with sweat by the time I reached my front door. I let myself in and stood in the hallway, relishing the cool darkness. A long drink of water and then a cold wash were in order. Then I noticed that something was stuck in my letter box.

  Inside was a note written in a shaky hand.

  Molly, I must speak with you immediately. I am at a private clinic at 95th Street and Park Avenue. Could you come right away?

  It was signed “Bess.”

  Twelve

  I have to confess that I uttered some words that should never escape from a lady’s lips. Actually some swear words that a lady shouldn’t even know. But I was alone and I figured they were justified at this point. This day had been one annoyance after another. And now to find that I would have to make that same unpleasant train journey all over again was a last straw. But it had to be done if I wanted this job. And I did want the job. Having witnessed the two accidents with my own eyes, I was itching to sink my teeth into this kind of case. And nobody ever said a detective’s work was easy. I took off my crumpled dress, washed it out, splashed cold water over my body, then put on a blouse and skirt before setting out once more.

  It was now midafternoon and the heat radiated from the sidewalks and the brick of the buildings. It was like walking through an oven. I passed a horse that had collapsed while pulling a cart loaded with barrels. Small boys stood around staring curiously while the driver cursed and attempted to free it from the harness as it lay dying. I stared at it with pity, wishing there was something I could do, but dead horses were an all too frequent sight in New York in summer. As my train bore me northward again I thought longingly of Central Park and the boating lake and ice cream sodas and I told myself that when I was a married lady, I wouldn’t have to venture out on hot afternoons if I didn’t want to.

  When I alighted, I came down the steps to a lively scene. Small boys had set off a fire hydrant and were running through the jet of water, squealing with glee while a constable tried to drive them off, and grownups stood around shouting encouragement and applauding. I stood watching for a while, enjoying the feel of the spray floating toward me, before I dragged myself off. I turned back once, as the scene brought back memories of my childhood in Ireland. I recalled a small skinny girl running through the spray as giant waves crashed onto the beach, daring my brothers to follow me. Then, of course, I remembered the beating I had received afterward for running around in my underclothes and for leading my brothers astray. Life was not all easy, even in those days. I sighed and set off to find the address on Ninety-fifth Street and Park.

  I suppose I was expecting a hospital, but the red-and-white brick house wasn’t bigger than those surrounding it. In fact I would have walked right past it if a polished brass plate to one side of the front door hadn’t caught my eye. It said ASHER CLINIC. Dr. Frederick Asher. I rang the doorbell and it was opened by a nurse in a smart, crisply starched uniform.

  “Yes?” she said, appraising me and my somewhat crumpled skirt and cheap straw hat.

  “I believe you have a Mrs. Harry Houdini here at the moment?”

  “No,” she said. “There is nobody of that name here. I’m sorry.” She went to close the door.

  “Wait.” I attempted to put my foot into the closing door. “This is the address she gave me in her note. I was told her doctor wanted her to stay here and rest.”

  The nurse was staring at me in that impassive way that only nurses can stare. Suddenly it dawned on me. Houdini wasn’t their real name. I tried to recall the conversation in the dressing room. Bess had laughed when I suggested that her husband was Italian. She had said that he was Jewish and Houdini was his stage name and his real name was . . .

  “Weiss!” I said triumphantly. “Do you have a Mrs. Weiss?”

  “We do,” she conceded, “but the doctor has ordered complete rest and I am under instruction to admit no visitors.”

  I fumbled in my purse and produced the note. “She wrote this to me today and asked to see me.” As I handed it to her I wondered how Bess had managed to have the note delivered to me past this dragon.

  She took the note and examined it. “Please wait here,” she said. Clearly I was not to be admitted. There was no shade on the sidewalk as I stood and waited, getting more annoyed by the second. Was she going to keep me waiting so long that I gave up and went away? Then I saw someone coming toward me and recognized the well-cut suit, the homburg, and neat blond beard at the same moment that the man recognized me. It was Dr. Birnbaum, an alienist from Germany whom I knew quite well.

  “Miss Murphy,” he exclaimed, tipping his hat to me. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

  “Dr. Birnbaum. How good to see you,” I replied.

  “What brings you to this part of town?” he asked in his clipped German accent. “I hope you are not attempting another dangerous assignment?” He laughed at this, remembering, I presume, the time when he had helped to rescue me from an insane asylum.

  “I am attempting to visit a friend who is a patient at this clinic,” I said. “My friend sent me a note this morning, asking to see me, but I seem to be unable to get past the dragon of a nurse at the door. She has left me standing in the hot sun for at least ten minutes.”

  He stroked at that neatly pointed beard in a characteristic gesture. “It so happens that I am here to visit with Dr. Asher. Let us see what we can do, shall we?”

  He rapped loudly on the door with his sliver-tipped cane. The same dragon nurse opened the door. When she saw who was standing there, her demeanor changed instantly. She was all smiles, almost coy. “Good morning, Doctor. How very good to see you again. Dr. Asher is expecting you—please do come in.”

  “There is the small matter of this young lady who is about to expire of heatstroke if she is left in the street much longer.” Dr. Birnbaum looked back to me.

  “I’m afraid Dr. Asher said no visitors today,” she said abruptly. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting out here. I got waylaid. A difficult patient trying to get out of bed.”

  “Ah, that would be the young man that Dr. Asher has summoned me to see,” Dr. Birnbaum said. “The one who thinks he is a bird? Maybe you should take me straight to him. He sounds like a fascinating case.”

  “Certainly, Doctor, if you’ll come this way,” the nurse said, glanced back at me once, then started to walk briskly across the foyer. Dr. Birnbaum motioned quickly for me to follow him into the building. I needed no second urging and slipped into the cool darkness of the marble foyer. The nurse continued up the stairs, her back to me. Dr. Birnbaum followed her. I waited just inside the front door, my heart pounding, not sure what to do next. Find out which room Bess was in, obviously. It wasn’t a very large building. It shouldn’t be too hard. There would probably be some kind of office or command center in which the patients were listed, but I ran the risk of bumping into another nurse there. It was also possible that the patients’ names were on their doors.

  I crept up the first flight of stairs and saw plain wood doors adorned with no nameplates. The landing was pleasingly furnished with bright pictures on the walls, wicker rocking chairs, and a large potted plant—more like a hotel than a clinic.

  On the floor above me I heard a door open, and men’s voices: Dr. Birnbaum had obviously met Dr. Asher. Then the door closed and I could hear the voices no longer. They were both safely occupied in a patient’s r
oom. That left only the dragon woman to be outsmarted. Sure enough, I heard light tapping of feet coming across the floor above me, then starting to come down the stairs. I ducked behind the potted plant. The nurse passed me, her starched skirts almost brushing my bare arm. I held my breath but she continued down to the ground floor, then I heard the sound of a door closing. I was safe for a moment. Cautiously I opened one door after another. Some rooms were empty, some contained sleeping patients. One contained an old lady who sat up excitedly as I came in. “For heaven’s sakes!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing on this train, Mabel?”

  I gave her an encouraging wave and hastily retreated again. Then I tiptoed up the next flight of stairs to the third floor. There was a broad skylight in the middle of the ceiling, sending rainbow colors onto the polished wood floor below. If Mrs. Houdini was supposed to have quiet, then her room would surely be at the back of the building. The second door I tried revealed a small, dark head curled up amid white sheets. What’s more, she was alone. I heaved a sigh of relief, slipped inside, and closed the door behind me. Bess didn’t stir. Then, of course, it occurred to me that sedation means sedation. She might remain asleep all day and I was wasting my time.

  It was a pleasant room, with a more homey feel than a hospital. The window was open to admit any breeze and looked out onto a small back garden with a big sycamore tree. Birds were chirping and the city seemed far away. I went over and stood beside the bed. Her eyes were closed and I watched the sheet rise and fall with her rhythmic breaths. Now that I was here I didn’t like to wake her; in fact I reasoned that trying to wake her from an induced slumber might do more harm than good. But she’d asked to see me as soon as possible, hadn’t she? She had taken the trouble to write that note from a hospital bed when she was in a most distressed state. I paced the room uncertainly. If I made it successfully down to the front door without being caught, the chances of my gaining reentry were nil.

  At that moment the whole thing was decided for me. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs, tapped across the marble foyer, and straight to the door of the room. I looked around for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere, no curtain, no closet. I half considered trying to slide under the bed, but there was no time. The door was flung upon and Houdini himself entered. He saw me standing beside Bess, obviously looking guilty, and with a roar of rage he leaped at me.