by David Khalaf
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HOUDINI’S FIRST STOP was to a post office on Wilshire Boulevard. In his mind, he had written a long and detailed explanation of everything he had done, and everything for which he would beg forgiveness from Bess. But he knew his wife, and she didn’t have patience for long explanations or flowery apologies.
In the end, his letter was simple:
My dearest Mrs. Houdini,
I have let you down in every way imaginable. I have betrayed your trust and our covenant. There are no excuses for my actions. Sometimes even knowing oneself is no safeguard against oneself.
After I face my pursuer, I will make my way to you. How we proceed after that is up to you.
Your husband,
HHH
He mailed the letter. It wasn’t as good as a confession in person, but he wanted to make sure she would know the truth in case anything happened to him when Atlas arrived.
Twenty minutes later, he was in a taxi, climbing up the windy roads above Beverly Hills. Like a forest of pine trees on a mountain, the houses were thick at the base of the hills but grew increasingly sparse as they gained elevation. This land was on the outskirts of Los Angeles and difficult to access. He couldn’t imagine anyone who would want to live in a place as remote as Beverly Hills.
As they entered the gates to Pickfair, the native shrubs of the California hillside vanished, and in their stead grew acres of pristine grass, as flat and uniform as a putting green. From the taxi, Houdini saw tennis courts, stables, and even a private in-ground swimming pool. He had never seen such a thing.
Pickfair sat at the peak of the highest hill in the area, a queen on a throne overlooking her subjects. Houdini had heard that the property was a renovated hunting lodge, but if it were, there was nothing left of its former life. The house was massive, with more windows than the magician could count. He resisted calling the giant structure a house, but it didn’t feel like a mansion either; the green roof and striped awnings were homey and inviting.
The taxi drove under the porte-cochère and dropped him off at the front door. Fear radiated from Houdini’s chest, rippling throughout his body. He took a deep breath, focused all of his attention on it and shrunk it down to the size of a pinhead. He then put the fear in a glass jar in his mind and screwed on the metal lid.
The door opened before he could even knock. The housekeeper stood there, built like a bulldog with the face to match. She had a full apron tied about her.
“Good morning,” Houdini said. “Is Mr. Fairbanks here?”
“No,” she snapped, folding her thick forearms as if in challenge.
“What about Mrs. Pickford?”
“You’re not welcome here.”
Her accent was thick; she was French, or maybe French Canadian. Houdini looked past the woman and thought he saw a shadow move inside.
“But I didn’t even introduce myself.”
“I know who you are. We don’t want your silly tricks here, Mr. Houdini.”
She spat out his name like a curse word. Obviously she was under orders not to let him in. But by whom?
Houdini peeked again past her, taking in the freshly polished marble floors of the foyer and the brightly buffed handle on the door of the coat closet. Everything was immaculate.
“You run a tight ship,” Houdini said. “And yet you’re a bit sloppy yourself.”
The bulldog raised an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“Your apron is off-kilter,” he said. “It keeps slipping, doesn’t it? It’s because of the knot you use. It comes undone too easily.”
She tugged at her apron self-consciously, straightening it out.
“There is nothing wrong with how I tie my apron.”
“If you’d allow me, I could show you a better knot.”
Houdini slid behind her quickly and pulled her apron strings loose.
“Excusez-moi!” she said.
She reached her hands behind her to swat Houdini away. In one swift move Houdini threaded the apron strings around her wrists, binding them together in a bowline knot. Before she had time to pull away, he took the remaining slack and tied a cow hitch knot to the handle of the closet door. It would hold her for a minute or two, maybe longer if she wasn’t willing to rip the handle out of the door.
She pulled against her restraints.
“Nom de bleu!” she said. “How dare you!”
“Just one of my silly tricks,” he said. “I’ll be back.”
The kitchen had all the charm of a converted English farmhouse: exposed wooden beams, pale yellow cabinets with antique fixtures, and a rustic table that looked like it had been hewn from Lebanese cedar from the days of Solomon.
Reading a newspaper at the table was Douglas Fairbanks, sporting a casual navy blazer and white pants. There was a red handkerchief in his breast pocket and his hair was slicked with pomade in a way that looked like the wind was blowing it back. He could have been on the cover of Country Gentleman.
Fairbanks turned at the sound of Houdini and smiled as if the man were a house guest.
“Good morning.”
He then returned to the newspaper. Houdini stood there a moment, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t fear holding him back, but something else: His pride resisted apologizing to the ungrateful man whose life he had saved.
An honorable man owns his mistakes, regardless of who he has wronged.
“I’ve come here to apologize,” Houdini said. “I’ve wronged you terribly.”
Fairbanks refused to look up from his paper.
“I know.”
“You do?”
Houdini was at a loss of what to say.
“Of course,” Fairbanks said. “All this talk—about you wanting to team up to use our talents for the greater good, to thwart those who would use their gifts for evil. But then you attempt to ruin the greatest artistic achievement of my life.”
“You’re talking about the movie,” Houdini said.
“Of course I’m talking about the movie! For all your mischief, you’ve failed to humiliate me. I’m going to use your stunt to my advantage. We’re reshooting parts of the movie today. There’s going to be a wonderful scene in which the hero is being hanged for larceny in the palace courtyard. Hungry lions pace below, waiting to devour his body. But the thief escapes his death by unbinding his hands, pulling himself out of his noose, and then using the rope to swing across the temple courtyard and slide down one of the grand palace banners. Sound familiar?”
“It’s very clever of you,” Houdini said.
“Yesterday’s stunt will all seem intentional. Except for the part where you took too long to escape, and left the star of the movie hanging from a sign, about to plummet to his death. How very unprofessional of you. I doubt anyone will want to hire you again.”
Hotness flashed through Houdini and he clenched his fists to keep himself in check. No one had the right to criticize his work, least of all the man who nearly messed it all up. But he refused to let himself be baited into anger; that wasn’t what he was there for.
“You misunderstand me,” Houdini said. “That’s not why I’m here to apologize.”
“Then what?”
“I came to apologize because of your wife.”
Fairbanks set down the paper. Fire burned in his eyes.
“What about my wife?”
“Because of the way he treated me.”
Houdini and Fairbanks looked up. Pickford was standing in the doorway in a silky pink robe. Her hair was tied back with a matching bow.
“How he treated you?” Fairbanks asked.
Pickford walked in and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Not only did he try to ruin your movie premiere,” Pickford said. “But he was positively rude to me after you stormed off. There I was, forced to manage the crowd all on my own, and he simply laughed and refused to even explain himself. Isn’t it true, Mr. Houdini?”
Her eyes glared at him. Her eyes pleaded with him.
“I
have committed worse crimes than that, Mrs. Pickford.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said, “but I don’t care to hear about them.”
“But it’s only right to explain myself,” Houdini said.
“We don’t want your explanations,” Pickford said. “We want nothing else from you. Quite frankly, Mr. Houdini, I’m bored of you.”
She pulled the ribbon loose and allowed her hair to cascade down her shoulders, her beauty turned up to full throttle.
“Now if you don’t mind, please leave us be.”
Her expression was fierce but Houdini saw the pain behind it. Even angry, she was beautiful. Houdini felt all of his attention being pulled toward her; he forced his eyes downward.
“Atlas is coming,” Houdini said. “You’ve promised to help if I brought him here.”
“You heard my wife,” Fairbanks said. “She’s bored of you.”
“But you promised.”
Fairbanks offered him a smile dripping with pity.
“Promises are the tent poles that keep a friendship standing,” Fairbanks said. “But since we have no friendship to support, the tent poles are meaningless. Now go, Mr. Houdini, and never come back.”
Houdini felt his ears tingle with Fairbanks’s words. He might be able to resist one of them, but combined their powers were overwhelming. His compulsion to leave was too great to ignore.
“Yes, of course I’ll go. Good day.”
Fairbanks was already staring back at his newspaper, but Pickford’s eyes remained on him until he turned away.
He walked through the foyer, past the housekeeper who was still tied to the door handle. Houdini pulled her apron strings and loosed her, stepping out of the way as she spit at his feet, then followed with a string of expletives in French.
The door slammed shut behind him as he walked down the driveway, and then the gates shut behind him as he exited the property.
Houdini was shut out of Pickfair, shut out from the people he meant to befriend. And it was all his fault. Now he was alone again, with an object of immense power, and a man of colossal strength on his way to get him.
