Saving Houdini

by Michael Redhill

  13

  The man named Sol pulled the door open to reveal Houdini sitting in his shirtsleeves before a small mirror and a table. He had been reading a couple of letters that lay open in front of him. There was one other man in the room, dressed in a long grey overcoat. His shoes were rattier than most Dash had seen. He smiled unkindly at them when they entered the room.

  “Um,” said Dash. “Hello.”

  “Come in, come in,” said Houdini. “Would you boys like some autographs?”

  The door closed behind them. It was like someone’s furnace room, and the air in it was tight with smoke. Houdini was the only one who wasn’t smoking. His face appeared like it was in its own light. This close up, even closer than he’d been to them in the lounge, Houdini seemed to Dash more miraculously alive. He had an intelligent, catlike face, and brown, glowing eyes. There was a little grey in his hair, hair that lay in tight waves against his head.

  “Are you two brothers?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” said Dash. “He’s Walter Gibson, my friend.”

  “And your name?”

  “Dashiel Woolf.”

  “I see.” Houdini looked up at Sol and raised an eyebrow. He stood and offered his hand to Walt first. “Is your name really Walter Gibson?”

  “Yes.” He shook the man’s hand in grinning stupefaction.

  “That is the name of a very good friend of mine, you know.”

  “Is it?”

  “And you, do they call you Dash for short?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He smiled at them. “Well, that was my brother Theo’s nickname. From his Hungarian name Ferencz Dezso. We called him Dash.”

  “That is … very interesting, sir. And Walt here having your friend’s—”

  “Are those your real names?” asked the third man. He had deep-set eyes inside a blocky, rectangular face.

  “Our real—Oh yes, sir, yes!” said Dash. “I don’t know Mr. Houdini’s brother’s name, honestly! And he is Walter Gibson. I’ve met his parents. That’s what they call him.”

  Houdini frowned. “Do your parents actually call you ‘Walter Gibson,’ Walter Gibson?”

  “They call me Walt, sir.”

  “Well, Walt,” said the third man. “Say your piece and make like an egg—scramble.” He laughed at his joke and then looked anxiously at his host.

  “Oh, Gordon,” said Houdini, “I’ve just thought of a book I’d like to lend you.”

  “Yes, Harry. What is it? I’d be very interested to know the book you are thinking of.”

  “It’s a biography of the great magician and snake-oil salesman, Katterfelto. Would you come by my hotel later and pick it up, perhaps? I’m at the Mont Royal.”

  “Well, yes, I believe I could do that.”

  “What time later tonight would suit you? Say ten o’clock?”

  The man called Gordon considered this for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “I believe I could make it around then.”

  “Excellent,” said Houdini, rising and limping past the boys to the door. “I look forward to it.”

  Gordon lurched out of his seat. He was being excused. His face looked panicked for a moment and then he reassembled it. He tugged his coat straight and touched the tip of his cap as he went past. “Well, I will try to make it, Harry. And I do, yes, I rather look forward to explaining my personal method in more detail, as you so kindly suggest.”

  “Thank you again.” Houdini closed the door silently on Gordon. He whispered something in Sol’s ear.

  “I’m Sol Jacobson,” the man said to the boys, smiling kindly. He wore a grey fedora like no other person Dash had ever seen, like he must have been born wearing it. There was a hand-rolled cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth.

  “Hello, Mr. Jacobson.”

  He gestured to a seat. “Let us get to know one another. I am Harry’s manager. And his friend. Are you friends?”

  The boys looked at each other, and without hesitation they both said, “Yes,” although Walt said it first.

  “Well, then,” said Sol Jacobson, “you will understand it is my job to protect Harry from silly things, shenanigans, little tricksters. And just, you know, look at him—” He looked over at Houdini fondly and Houdini batted his eyes. “He is a wee slip of a man with a fragile constitution.”

  “Oh, stop it now,” said Houdini. “Let them say their piece. You have a piece, don’t you, gentlemen? I can feel it.”

  “Go directly to the truth,” said Jacobson, “Dash and Walter.”

  “Well, sir, you see,” began Dash, “I’m kind of in trouble, and I thought maybe you might be able to help me.”

  Jacobson’s face took on a hard set. “This wouldn’t be a request for money, would it?”

  “Just show him,” said Walt, barely moving his mouth.

  “Show me what?” asked Houdini, and he was perhaps one percent less friendly in his tone. “What have you got?”

  Dash stood up and took the newspaper clipping out of its envelope. He unfolded it and put it picture-side up in Houdini’s palm. Houdini read down the first column. Then he studied the photograph.

  “That was five minutes ago,” said Dash.

  Houdini blinked. “I see,” he said. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”

  “It was given to me.”

  “By whom?”

  “A boy. Not him,” he said, gesturing at Walter. “Another boy.”

  “And where did he get it?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dash.

  Jacobson took the paper from Houdini and looked at it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “Harry” he said, “where is that tie you wore tonight?”

  “On the divan.” He accepted the paper back, and Jacobson went to get Houdini’s tie. It was dark blue with silvery stars scattered over it.

  “You wear this tie frequently enough at your lectures, Harry. Anyone could have done a clever mock-up.”

  “The paper looks very old. It smells old.”

  “One week in a teapot will do that.”

  Houdini had not taken his eyes off of the boys. “Let them remove their jackets, perhaps.”

  Jacobson hesitated, but then he held his hand out for their suit jackets. “You have three minutes,” he said.

  “Two,” said Houdini, studying the newspaper clipping. “Or perhaps just one.” He handed it back to Dash. “That’s quite an excellent fraud.”

  “Fraud?”

  “Well, Sol is correct. I’ve given this lecture many times before, so the type for the story could have been set in advance. What with darkroom advances these days, it’s entirely possible someone could have taken that photograph within the last two hours and had a good counterfeit made up in time. It’s very clever, I warrant. But even so, that is the tie I wore tonight … and I think I see the bottom of the banner that was hanging at the back of the room. Very clever indeed.”

  Dash said, “This newspaper is eighty-five years old.”

  Houdini seemed to be looking over Jacobson’s shoulder at a spot on the wall. “A mist of water,” he said with a distracted air, “a few coffee grounds, a little grubbing and an iron.”

  “It’s not fake. That is us—Walter and I—in the picture.”

  “Walter and me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So be it, then,” said Jacobson, interrupting. “You say it’s real, but I say it’s suppertime, and not too early for a rye. And we have”—he looked at his watch—“exactly one hour before Bess comes looking for you.”

  “Oh, let them say what they’ve come for first.”

  “I vote for beefsteak,” said Jacobson.

  “We’ve heard most of it, I’m sure.” Houdini returned his attention to them. “Are you selling this? It’s a short-lived trick, though, isn’t it? The Gazette will come out in the morning and prove it.”

  “It will prove it. This is tomorrow’s paper, the day before it comes out.”

  “All right, then, well done. Do you want a doll
ar for it?”

  “No!” said Dash. “I don’t want money.”

  “Then what do you want?” asked Houdini. “Applause?”

  “Someone gave me this newspaper clipping. In 2011.”

  “Two thousand eleven what?”

  “Years. The year 2011. Eighty-five years from now, someone gave me this newspaper and then I was in a magic trick that went wrong. And I ended up here, in 1926, and found him walking down the street in Toronto. And he’s in the picture. Look.”

  The magician looked warily where Dash had placed his finger.

  “And that cufflink? It’s mine. Look, I’m wearing them right now. I was wearing them when I left my house.”

  “In 2011.”

  “Right.”

  Jacobson, who had sat for Dash’s speech, now stood again, slapping his legs. “Well! It sounds like a matter for science, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Houdini, collecting his things. “Thank you very much for your visit.”

  “No!” cried Dash.

  “You two can come with me,” said Jacobson. He went out the door expecting them to follow, but neither boy budged.

  “We stowed away in a train fulla pigs and hid from the police to get here!” Walter said in a heated tone. “We came from Toronto. We don’t have anything to eat or anywhere to sleep.”

  “So you are fanatics, then,” said Houdini with distaste.

  “Mr. Houdini,” said Dash, “I know you just told all those people to be careful about spiritualists and people like them—”

  Houdini’s eyes darkened. “And?”

  “And, well, I’m sure you’re right! But, but … what if there are other things, things you can’t understand—”

  “I am mainly interested in what I can understand, Master Woolf, but I am in the business of mystifying others, and I can tell the difference between an enigma and a sham. Now, if you boys will excuse me—”

  Dash felt his jaw trembling. “I thought you were the greatest magician who ever lived!”

  “What has that to do with anything?” asked Jacobson, standing in the doorway again.

  “I thought he would help me!”

  “Oh, pish-tosh. No one is falling for this.”

  Dash turned on Jacobson, seething. “And if you were really his friend, you’d get him to listen!”

  “I am his friend,” said Jacobson, “and I am getting him to dinner.”

  “Come on!” Dash said to Walter. “Let’s go.”

  They got up to leave, but Houdini stopped them. “Where are your parents?”

  “Mine are in Toronto,” said Walter.

  “So are mine,” said Dash. “In 2011. In a theatre. Waiting for me to be unvanished. EXCEPT I’M STUCK HERE IN 1926!”

  “Oh for goodness’ sake—fine,” Houdini said. “Sol, perhaps you could locate the man who was authorized to take pictures this evening and have him come to my hotel in one hour.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Prince of Wales. I keep two hotels in every city,” he said to the boys. He pulled his suit jacket on. “Are you really runaways?”

  “Walter’s parents don’t actually know where he is right now. They think he’s having a sleepover.”

  “And yours? Where are they, really?” Dash didn’t reply. “All right, get them some supper,” he said to Jacobson. “And I believe I will have a walk and a think before coming back. Does the hotel have a telephone for public use?”

  “I believe they do. And I will also make sure Gordon Whitehead receives a couple of books at the front desk at the Mont Royal, with your regrets that you are unable to meet him.” He gave a little bow.

  Houdini steepled his fingertips under his chin, like an Asiatic king.

  Jacobson showed the boys out. There was one of those Fords waiting for them in the curving driveway in front of the Student Union. Jacobson got into the passenger seat beside a driver wearing thick glasses and a cap. Jacobson said the name of the hotel and then the car started off. It was a much more comfortable mode of transport than hiding behind pigs.

  Jacobson turned in his seat and looked at his guests. He wore a not unfriendly look. But it wasn’t friendly either. “So. A rather long trip, then.”

  “Yes,” Dash said.

  “Harrowing, one would say.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose I will have to call your parents, Master Gibson. What am I to tell them?”

  “I left them a note saying I had a sleepover.”

  “That is bound to fall apart. Better tell them something they can believe that’s closer to the truth.”

  “That we were kidnapped?”

  Jacobson narrowed his eyes severely. “I don’t suppose your parents have a telephone, do they?”

  “They’re on a trunk line.”

  “All right. You had better leave this to me.”

  14

  In a matter of minutes, driving straight along Sainte-Catherine, they arrived at the Prince of Wales Hotel. It was an unprepossessing building, just a couple of stories high and made of solid grey stone. There was a bar on the corner.

  Inside, it was quietly luxurious, and Jacobson took the two of them into the restaurant behind the bar, a small, velvety room redolent of roasted meat. It was past nine now, but the restaurant was packed and loud. Jacobson spoke to the maître d’—Marcel, he called him—and the boys were shown to a cozy banquette with leather seats. The way the booth was curved meant they’d be sitting side by side, watching the activity in the busy room.

  The man who brought them to the table swept a napkin off Dash’s plate, opened it with a neat flip of the wrist, and settled it on his lap, then repeated the performance for Walt. Around the shining white plates was arrayed a bewildering assortment of cutlery. Forks of every size, some with only three tines, many delicate-looking spoons as well as a very large one, and a strange-looking pair of tongs with big square flat heads at the ends, like a pair of silver playing cards.

  Jacobson came over and sat, and Marcel reappeared with a telephone on a silver tray, like he was going to serve it as an appetizer. A waiter appeared pulling a long, black wire, and he plugged it into the phone. It was quite a production, and everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating to watch it.

  “Monsieur will make a telephone call?”

  “It’s a Toronto number,” said Jacobson.

  “It can be done.”

  Walt told Marcel his phone number: HO 3276.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” the maître d’ sang into the receiver. He held it in front of his mouth like a microphone. “Comment allez-vous ce soir? Bien, merci! Donc, Toronto, s’il vous plaît. Oui: ash–oh, trente-deux, soixante-seize.” He waited a moment before passing the phone set to Jacobson.

  Jacobson put it up against his ear. They could hear the phone ringing through the receiver.

  “Yes,” he said. “May I speak to Mrs. Gibson?” He held the earpiece away from his head. There were some fierce clicking noises. Then a voice came on and said a tinny hello. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Gibson,” he continued. “Good evening to you. My name is Sol Jacobson and I am calling you on a telephone from inside the Prince of Wales Hotel in Montreal. Yes, Montreal, Canada. Why, yes, it is an excellent connection. I am Mr. Harry Houdini’s Canadian manager. Yes, that Harry Houdini, madame. I am calling because I am here in Montreal with your son. He is very well, there is no need to be worried. No, madame, he is not at a sleepover, he was involved in a harmless mix-up earlier today and found himself, quite unexpectedly, on a train. Yes, a train to Montreal. He is with me right now. Well, the way he explained it, he and one of his friends went down to the train station at lunchtime. Yes, Union Station. They were trying to make some pennies by helping people with their bags.”

  Walt gave Dash a wide-eyed look.

  “Yes. And you see, they were helping some old dear with her bag, you know, up the steps and into the compartment, when the train began to leave the station. And they were terrified to jump, so … yes, I know, absolute
ly. You can never take your eyes off them. Just the same, quite enterprising, don’t you think? Admirable. Harry and I thought they showed some fine initiative, not to mention some good sense staying safe on the train until they could find some adult help.” They heard Mrs. Gibson talking on the other end. “Well, Mrs. Gibson, you are quite correct. It was lucky that I ran into them. And I will have them out on the next one. However, I must tell you, there are no more trains for Toronto this evening, and so I will, with your permission, keep them at Harry’s hotel until we are able to get them homeward bound. And he has suggested, I should say, that they even stay for one of his shows, seeing as they’ve come this far.”

  Both boys were watching Jacobson with wonder.

  He passed the phone to Walt. “You’d better talk to her.”

  “Hi, Mum,” he said into the phone. “Yes. I’m very sorry! Yes, a little.” Dash heard a muted voice from the other end. “I know,” said Walt. “I don’t know what I was thinking either. I will. I don’t know. He looks like his pictures, I guess.” Then he said, very quietly, “I love you too.” He handed the phone back to Jacobson.

  “Well, then,” Jacobson said into the phone, “that settles it. You can reach us here at the Prince of Wales Hotel if you need to. Yes, thank you, Mrs. Gibson. Beg pardon? Oh, well, I can administer that if you feel it’s necessary. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Goodbye, then. Goodbye.” He gestured for Marcel to come get the phone. The maître d’ bustled over and carried the apparatus away.

  “Thank you for doing that,” Walt said.

  “If you are going to the trouble to make something up, gentlemen, at least put some effort into it.”

  “Are we really going to see the show?” Dash asked.

  “Perhaps. If you are not a pair of con men.”

  “We’re not!”

  Jacobson stood and put his hat on. “I will leave you two to your suppers,” he said. “You’re in rather far now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Dash. He couldn’t meet Jacobson’s eyes as he left the table. He exhaled deeply. “Are you in a lot of trouble?” he asked Walt.

  “What do you think?”

  “Grounded for the rest of your life.”