by Philip Kerr
As he left the hotel to climb into a large Rolls-Royce that was parked outside the front door, I noticed he seemed to be in a little pain. His hands were trembling and he kept on looking over his shoulder as if he thought death itself had tapped him on the shoulder.
Perhaps it had at that.
My father thanked Houdini for his efforts on our behalf, and he in turn thanked us for allowing him to stay in Room 505.
“You have afforded me a fascinating glimpse of something I felt sure I should never see for myself,” he said. “Really, it was quite, quite fascinating. And I am eternally grateful. Perhaps I shall come back here one day and investigate the matter further.”
But Harry Houdini never, ever returned to Kansas City. Because he died the following month, of acute appendicitis, at the age of just fifty-two.