Houdini's Last Trick

by David Khalaf

CHAPTER THREE

  HOUDINI OPENED THE front door and saw straight through to the brownstones across the street. He stepped out into the hot breath of Manhattan’s summer night and his forehead instantly glistened from the humidity. When he craned his neck to listen for the sounds of retreating footsteps, he heard only the putter of automobiles in the distance and the sound of laughter from the nightclub over on Eighth Avenue. Otherwise, there was nothing.

  The magician stepped back inside. He turned and found himself face-to-face with another man. Houdini dropped his cigarette.

  “Shut the door,” the man said. “Quickly.”

  The man was cloaked in a long back overcoat. It was too hot to be wearing anything so heavy, but even so, the man’s face was as pale and glassy as the lake in Central Park in winter.

  Houdini closed and locked the door. When the man saw this, his shoulders dropped and he allowed himself a deep breath.

  “That’s quite a trick,” Houdini said, trying to keep his voice even. “And I should know.”

  The man had a diminutive frame and was rather somber looking, in his late sixties with the kind of long, sharp face meant for scholars or librarians. He wiped the lenses of his wire spectacles, then touched a white skullcap on his head, as if to assure himself it was still there.

  “We are both performers, of a sort,” the man said. “Only our audiences are different.”

  He had an Italian accent. Houdini picked up the dropped cigarette; he tried to do it casually but kept his eyes on the man.

  “Don’t be afraid,” the man said. “My name is Giacomo.”

  He extended his hand, and Harry stared at it as if it were a bear trap. Finally he shook it.

  “I’m Harry Handcuff Houdini.”

  When they touched, Houdini’s fear disappeared like a puff of smoke. He remembered being afraid of the man, but he didn’t feel it anymore; the emotion had simply evaporated.

  “Giacomo doesn’t sound like a Jewish name,” Houdini said, nodding to the man’s skullcap.

  “Oh, I’m not Jewish,” he said. “Although my boss was.”

  He removed his overcoat to reveal robes entirely of white. Hanging around his neck was an ornate crucifix made of gold. Even Houdini, a nonreligious Jew, recognized the man standing in front of him. It was the Pope. Pope Benedict XV.

  Houdini gave a slight bow but then thought better of it.

  “Forgive me,” Houdini said, “but I don’t know the proper protocol. Do I bow or kneel? Are you called ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Your Highness’?”

  “I require no formality from you,” Benedict said. “Though many ask to kiss my ring.”

  “Then I too would like that honor,” Houdini said.

  The Pope held out his left hand, and on it was the papal ring, the Ring of the Fisherman. He leaned over and kissed it.

  Houdini had met many famous people throughout his career, popular vaudeville performers like Hadjji Sachla, the Sleeping Fakir, and silent film stars such as Rudolph Valentino. He had even met congressmen and a Supreme Court justice. But the Pope was someone altogether different.

  “That was quite a performance tonight,” Benedict said. “I had my doubts you would ever surface from that coffin.”

  So did I.

  Houdini pocketed the cigarette.

  “You were there? I’m sure I would have seen you.”

  “I prefer to go unnoticed.”

  Houdini saw that the Pope’s hands were still clenched tightly, as if they refused to forget something that the man himself was trying hard not to remember.

  The magician motioned to the couch for the Pope to sit down. Benedict’s face was lined with worry, and he looked as if he could use a drink.

  Houdini pulled a Bible down from the bookcase and removed from its hollowed-out pages a bottle of fine cognac he had purchased from a restaurant owner three years ago, the night before Prohibition had gone into effect. Although Houdini himself rarely drank, he kept it around for guests.

  “I’m glad you have some use for the Good Word,” Benedict said.

  Houdini poured two fingers and passed it to the man. He accepted it gratefully.

  “One thing I like about you Americans,” Benedict said, “is that you don’t feel obligated to adhere to the letter of the law.”

  It occurred to Houdini that the Pope was attended by no one. No guards, no advisors.

  Benedict took a long, deep whiff of the cognac, and Houdini had the sense he wasn’t merely assessing the quality of the drink.

  “I get sick of wine,” Benedict said. “But my attendants don’t let me drink anything from outside the Vatican.”

  “Why is that?” Houdini asked.

  Benedict shrugged.

  “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  He stated it so matter-of-factly, Houdini nearly laughed.

  “Who would want to kill you?” Houdini asked. “You’re the man who weakened the blow of the Great War. You rallied for peace. Your humanitarian efforts saved the lives of thousands. Millions, maybe. You’re beloved. And you’re powerful.”

  “Two things others would have for themselves,” Benedict said. He stood and peeked out the windows, then pulled shut all of the curtains.

  “I know who you are,” Benedict said.

  “Half the world knows who I am.”

  “No, they do not,” he said. “I know that you may be a flamboyant performer on stage, but in reality you are a quiet man who can’t wait to get home to be alone with his wife. I know that you enjoy thinking and reflecting, so much so that hours go by unnoticed. I know you can see things about yourself that others cannot see about themselves. I know that magic is not your real talent.”

  It was the kind of vague talk that Houdini had witnessed time and again with spiritualists on the vaudeville circuit. They spoke just enough to grab your interest, but not so much as to trip themselves up.

  “Are you a fortune teller?” Houdini asked. “Because I have no patience for them.”

  These frauds always infuriated him.

  “Not in the slightest,” Benedict said. “Don’t be upset.”

  The Pope held out his hand toward Houdini in a calming manner, and in a puff all of the magician’s anger evaporated. He only had the memory of being angry.

  “You’re doing that, aren’t you?” Houdini said. “How?”

  “I have a talent,” Benedict said. “Like you. But not like you.”

  Benedict folded his hands in his lap like guns being holstered.

  “My talent is my empathy. My gift is to alleviate suffering. During the Great War, I could feel the pain of the world, the severe agony it was causing millions of people. The world’s anguish was so strong it nearly killed me. From that point on I’ve made it my mission to champion peace in the world to alleviate the suffering of man—it is the greatest work I can do for our Lord.”

  A smile danced across the man’s face.

  “But then I didn’t come to convert you.”

  Benedict sipped his cognac before setting down his glass.

  “You’re a magician with a great talent,” he said. “I’ve come to you for help because I need you to do what you’re best at…making things disappear.”

  Benedict pulled out a chain he had hidden under his frock. Attached to the chain hung a small conical object of polished wood, with circular glass insets on each end, like a handheld kaleidoscope or maybe a prism.

  “This has been stored in the pope’s private vault for nearly two hundred years. One month ago, someone tried to break into the vault. This is the only item inside. I sense guilt and distrust all around me. Someone has betrayed me. There is no one at the Vatican I trust.”

  Benedict took off the chain and handed the object to Houdini.

  “What is it?”

  “Some of my predecessors called it a tool. Others called it a weapon. It was made by someone like us. Someone of great talent.”

  The magician turned it over in his hand. It was much heavier than it looked, as if
it held some secret inside.

  “What does it do?”

  “You’re familiar with the Age of Enlightenment?” Benedict asked. “This is what started it.”

  Houdini looked through the narrow end and saw only the parlor through the glass. It seemed so simple. So fragile.

  “It is called Newton’s Eye, and it was created by Sir Isaac as his legacy to the world. As the most creative mind of his day, Newton sought a way to share his talent with others, to create a society of great creators and thinkers. That’s what the Eye does: It allows those with a great talent to reproduce it in others.”

  Houdini set the object on the table between them. It seemed to be staring at him.

  “As you can imagine, anything with that much power starts fights,” Benedict said. “People were killing for it, people were dying for it. The Eye was stolen, then recovered, and eventually went into hiding. It fell into the hands of Pope Pius VI, who tried to destroy it but was unable. It has been locked in the papal vault ever since.”

  It seemed to Houdini like a sledgehammer would do the trick, but he assumed they had tried that.

  “The Eye comes with three instructions,” Benedict said. “The first: Never show it to anyone.”

  “You’ve already broken that rule,” Houdini said.

  “One thing you’ll like about me,” Benedict said, “Is that I don’t feel obligated to adhere to the letter of the law either.”

  Benedict finished his cognac is one big gulp.

  “The second rule: Never attempt to use it.”

  “And the third?”

  Benedict stared at the Eye intensely.

  “Protect it at all costs.”

  Houdini picked up the Eye and held it out for Benedict to take, but the man shied away, as if it were cursed.

  “This is the only way to protect it now. There’s a creature of evil after me, Houdini. A dark beast I feel watching me around every corner. I’ve been running for weeks. I don’t think I’ll escape.”

  Houdini again held the Eye out, but the Pope wouldn’t take it.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts and ghouls,” Houdini said. “And certainly not dark beasts.”

  “You don’t need to believe in them,” Benedict said. “You only need to believe that I do.”

  He leaned over and closed the magician’s hand around the Eye.

  “Keep this for me. Please. It should stay in the hands of another great talent. Guard it until I come back. And if I don’t, find somewhere safe to store it.”

  The man seemed genuinely afraid, and there was a gentleness to him that seemed sincere. Houdini could easily do this favor. He had a hundred secret hiding places in his brownstone.

  “Why me?” Houdini asked.

  “Frankly,” the Pope said, “You’re one of only two still alive.”

  Benedict removed a scrap of deerskin and gave it to Houdini, who unfolded it. There were six names scribbled on the skin, by a hand that couldn’t be the Pope’s. Whoever wrote that chicken scratch had barely learned to read and write. Three of the names were crossed out, presumably dead. Of the other names, one was the Pope’s, and one the magician’s.

  “Where is this from?”

  Benedict shrugged on his coat and shook Houdini’s hand.

  “I need to get back to the Vatican. The rumor is I have pneumonia, but people are bound to start asking questions soon.”

  “Are you safe?” Houdini asked. “Traveling alone?”

  Benedict smiled and removed a ring from his pocket. It looked like an exact duplicate of the Ring of the Fisherman he was already wearing.

  “You are not the only man with illusions.”

  He slipped on the ring and instantly Houdini seemed not to see him. It wasn’t that he vanished so much as stepped out of view. Houdini had the sense he was still there, and yet couldn’t quite pin his vision on him.

  “Goodbye, magician, and thank you. Remember the three rules.”

  The door opened and shut. Benedict was gone.

  Houdini weighed the Eye in his hand; it was as heavy as the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Never show it to anyone. Never use it. Protect it at all costs.