by Sesh Heri
“After Earhart disappeared,” Ade said.
“That’s right,” the blank-faced man said.
“There’s more to all those stories,” Ade said. “Several versions of each, depending upon who is doing the telling, especially the Earhart story. The best intelligence I have on that was that she was actually captured by the Japanese and is alive to this day as a war prisoner. But Earhart was doing secret research for Tesla. I know that for a fact, because I’m the one who recruited her for that mission, which, as it turned out, happened to be her last.”
“What about the Wardenclyffe incidents and the 1915 signals?”
“I can’t talk to you about those. I’ve referred you to the rumor mill. Nose around— you might find some garrulous old coot that has looser lips than mine. I’ve talked more to you tonight, and more directly, than I have in years. I’ll just tip you off this much: Our 1893 trip to Mars did involve time travel of a sort. It just isn’t mentioned in the file you read. You probably don’t have a high enough security rating to read the complete and unabridged file. If you had read the complete file, you would know that a week of time was lost during our journey, what today is called a ‘time dilation effect.’ This here, my friend, is a real Mark Twain manuscript. I’d love to read it.”
“Sorry,” the blank-faced man said. “I have to take it back with me. Orders.”
“I understand,” Ade said with genuine regret as he handed the manuscript back to the blank-faced man who placed it back into the steel suitcase. Ade sat for a moment looking dejected, but then suddenly his face lit up.
“Now that I know for certain the whereabouts of that manuscript, I’ll get access to it.” Ade said. “I know FDR will let me read it if I ask him.”
“Well, you’ll have to be the one to do the asking,”
the blank-faced man said.
“Oh, I will!” Ade said with a nod, and he took a swig of coffee from his mug.
“Here’s another thing we came across,” the blank-faced man said, bringing Mark Twain’s watch fob out of the case. “Ever see this before?”
Ade took the watch fob and looked at it.
“No,” Ade said, “but I’ve heard of it. It was given to Mark Twain by Nikola Tesla to commemorate our 1893 trip to Mars. I think that was around 1903, about the tenth anniversary of our trip. Just around the time that Majestic Seven was formed.”
The blank-faced man said, “It has been determined that the crystal set into the end of that watch fob is one made by Tesla.”
Ade grinned, turning the crystal around in the light, and said, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“We’ve been told that the crystal has been sort of ’decommissioned,’” the blank-faced man said. “It’s missing its metallic elements.”
“Well, I should think so,” Ade said. “Mr. Tesla wouldn’t have given Mr. Clemens an active power crystal. That’d be ridiculous. It would be like carrying around a live hand grenade.”
“Do you have any idea how the crystal lost its metallic elements?” the blank-faced man asked while watching the muscles of Ade’s face very closely. Ade continued to smile.
“What makes you think I’d know anything about that?” Ade asked slowly.
“Oh, I don’t know…” the blank-faced man replied, continuing to watch Ade’s face.
“Isn’t it your job just to collect Mr. Tesla’s property and send it on to its assigned destination?” Ade asked.
“Part of my job,” the blank-faced man said.
The fire crackled behind Ade’s back.
“You know,” Ade said, “what you’re asking about is above your level of security clearance. Either I’m going to have to do some shutting-up or you’re going to have to get some higher clearance. Why don’t you just tell President Roosevelt that you’ve got all of Mr. Tesla’s effects secured and you’re sending them on to Ohio?”
“I’m not ready to do that yet,” the blank-faced man said. “I want to know about it.”
“About what?” Ade asked.
“Time travel,” the blank-faced man replied.
“No you don’t,” Ade said.
“Did Tesla travel in time?” the blank-faced man asked. “Is that crystal a part off of a time machine?”
Ade handed the watch fob back to the blank-faced man.
“You’re a bright young man,” Ade said, “and that makes me sad, because I used to be a bright young man. Wish we could all have a time machine. I can’t help you. For one thing: I don’t know how much I can safely tell you without getting myself in hot water with FDR and several other big fish. For another thing: I don’t know how much I should tell you. Ever hear of Pandora’s Box? And for one last thing: I don’t know that I can tell you all that much anyway. I was never involved directly. You have to understand that most of my work for Majestic Seven after 1905 was very marginal. I like to think of myself as sort of a middle-man— a cosmic facilitator— I’ve been like the glue that holds one part to another. I’m a great introducer. I’m the guy that gets the ball rolling. I’m not the ball. I’m not the guy you want to talk to.”
“Who’s the guy I want to talk to?” the blank-faced man asked.
Ade stood up and turned around to look at the fire. It was starting to die down. He picked up an iron poker and jabbed at the logs.
“I knew some of Mr. Tesla’s secrets,” Ade said. “But there was another man who knew more.”
“Kolman Czito?” the blank-faced man asked.
“Mr. Czito knows many of the technical aspects of Mr. Tesla’s work,” Ade said, “but he’s not the man of whom I was thinking. There was another man who had first-hand knowledge of the temporal applications of Mr. Tesla’s theories. I’m talking about Harry Houdini.”
“He’s been dead for years,” the blank-faced man said.
Ade turned back around. He had a strange, far-away glint in his eye.
“That’s the report out,” Ade said. “But his brother is still alive.”
“Which one?” the blank-faced man asked. “There were two of them, weren’t there?”
“Two still living,” Ade said. “I’m talking about the one who is also a magician. He inherited all of Houdini’s equipment. He goes by the stage name ‘Hardeen,’ but his real name is Theodore Weiss. He lives in Brooklyn. He’s the man you want to see. He’s the guy you want to talk to.”
January 19th, 1943
House of Theodore Weiss, Brooklyn, New York
The blank-faced man rang the doorbell. His partner stood beside him. Several moments passed in silence. Then the inner, front door opened, and through the glass pane of the outer door Hardeen’s face appeared as if floating in a black void, like the message that surfaces in the little window of a ‘Magic 8-Ball.’
“Mr. Weiss?” the blank faced man asked.
“Who wants to know,” Hardeen said, not asked, with a flat, tough suspicion.
“Federal government,” the blank-faced man said, holding up an F.B.I. credential.
Hardeen scrutinized the card.
“Well,” Hardeen said, “it doesn’t look like you got that out of a box of Crackerjacks, so come in.”
Hardeen opened the outer glass door. The blank-faced man and his partner stepped into the entrance hall of the house.
“I do something?” Hardeen asked, squinting suspiciously at the blank-faced man.
“I don’t know,” the blank-faced man said. “Have you done something?”
“Yeah,” Hardeen said. “Everyday. Every damn day— if I can get away with it!”
Hardeen cackled.
The blank-faced man looked at his partner.
“Come on in!” Hardeen said. “Take a seat.”
Hardeen led them to a little parlor stuffed with old furniture. Pictures of his wife and sons were mounted on the wall. Nothing about Houdini was anywhere to be seen. The blank-faced man sat down in an armchair. His partner perched on the edge of a davenport. Hardeen swung an armless chair in front of the two men, sat down on it, an
d leaned forward.
“O.K.” Hardeen said. “Now what do two G-Men want with an old guy like me?”
“It’s about your brother,” the blank-faced man said.
“Leo?” Hardeen asked incredulously. “What the hell do you think he’s done? What the hell could he do? Cheat on his taxes?”
Hardeen cackled again.
“I’m not talking about Leo,” the blank-faced man said.
Hardeen looked back and forth at the two men. His smile faded, his mouth closed up slowly, his skin began to turn pale.
“You mean…” Hardeen’s voice trailed away weakly.
He took a breath. “What are you talking about?” he asked with that breath.
The blank-faced man kept looking at Hardeen.
“Houdini,” Hardeen said.
The blank-faced man nodded.
Hardeen seemed to visibly shrink in the presence of his two visitors. Then he suddenly rose to his feet.
“My God!” Hardeen cried. “My God!” He turned away and covered his face with his hands. He started to cry. His shoulders heaved. Then he suddenly threw his hands to his sides, and spun about. His face had turned blood-red with rage.
“My God, you’ve found something,” Hardeen shouted. “Haven’t you! Haven’t you!” There was no questioning tone in his voice; he was making a declarative accusation. “I’ve been at you guys for years to get with it and get the goods! And now you’ve finally got to the bottom of it!”
“Bottom of what?” the blank-faced man asked.
“Of what?” Hardeen bellowed. “Of his murder! Of my brother’s murder!”
“We’re not here about that,” the blank-faced man said quietly.
Hardeen seemed to shrink visibly again, to go pale again. He slumped back down into his chair.
“You’re…you’re not,” Hardeen said. He had been delivered two thunder-strokes in quick succession.
“I thought your brother died in an accident,” the blank-faced man said.
“An acci—“ Hardeen stopped. “Who did you say you were?”
“Special division of the F.B.I.,” the blank-faced man said.
“And you think it was an accident?” Hardeen asked between clinched teeth. “After all my letters— after all my calls to J. Edgar— I get…this?” Hardeen waved his hand at the two men in enraged, disgusted contempt.
“I’m sorry,” the blank-faced man said. “I’m here about another matter. I haven’t been briefed on your brother’s case. But I’ve always heard that his cause of death was accidental.”
“That’s the story,” Hardeen said bitterly. “That’s the story that had to be told so that my sister-in-law could get her insurance payments and so that me and the rest of our family could all stay alive! That’s the story I’ve been shoveling out for the last sixteen years while I’ve been waiting for you guys to come up with something! And now you tell me you know nothing about it!”
The blank-faced man said, “I didn’t come here to give you grief.”
“Yeah?” Hardeen asked. “Well, I got it. Up to here!”
Hardeen made a slashing gesture at his throat. “Look, like I told you guys a hundred times before, I’m not interested in prosecution! I just want to know who was behind it all! I want their names! Their names! I’ll handle the rest— all by myself.”
The blank faced man replied, “As I said, we’re here about something else, although, who knows? It may tie in to your concerns.”
“Tie in?” Hardeen asked, his rage giving way to realization, wakefulness, and intense curiosity.
“That’s right,” the blank-faced man said. “Tie in. Did Houdini ever mention the name of Tesla to you, Nikola Tesla?”
Hardeen’s head went back like someone had thrown cold water in his face.
“Tesla,” Hardeen repeated.
“Yes,” the blank-faced man said. “Tesla. Nikola Tesla. Or anything about Mars— the planet Mars— the Mars Club?”
Hardeen slowly turned his head to one side.
“Say, who did you say you guys were?” Hardeen asked.
“Special division of—“ the blank-faced man started to say.
“That don’t mean nothing!” Hardeen said. “Show me all your cards.”
The blank-faced man reached inside his coat and brought out a deck of cards. He fanned them out face up.
“Pick a card,” the blank-faced man said.
Hardeen reached over and removed the king of diamonds.
“I think I know how this trick is done,” Hardeen said. He held up the king of diamonds, and looked over the top edge of the card to the window and street beyond. At the same time, he concentrated on the periphery of his vision. In a moment, the card seemed to flare up, as if it were glowing with light. Hardeen shifted his gaze downward and looked— not at the surface of the card— but into its depths. A clear, stereoscopic image of a face appeared on the back of the playing card— the image of the blank-faced man— floating against a blue background. Next to the face floated a pyramid formed of seven gold rays of light emitting from an eye— the symbol of Majestic Seven. Below this floated the number 27811323981732 and the words, “Assignment: Gold Pigeon.”
Hardeen closed his eyes and then opened them again. The image was gone. The back of the playing card now only displayed an abstract pattern of lines and dashes.
“That’s a neat trick you boys have there,” Hardeen said, handing the playing card back to the blank-faced man. “Got any more?”
“Oh,” the blank-faced man said, “we have lots of tricks.”
“I bet you do,” Hardeen said. “Like to see a few of them some time. You should’ve showed me your trick when you first came in. It would’ve saved us all a lot of time and trouble.”
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do that,” the blank-faced man said.
“I know all about MJ-Seven,” Hardeen said. “I did a few jobs for your organization over the years. Nothing spectacular. Not like Houdini. But then, I could never top him. Who could? You want to know about the Mars Club? There’s nothing I could tell you about that. You probably know more than I do.”
The blank-faced man said, “We’re more interested in Houdini’s work with Tesla when the two of them became involved with time travel.”
“You think this ties in?” Hardeen asked.
“To the possibility of murder? Maybe,” the blank-faced man replied. “We have information that leads us to suspect that Houdini kept a journal about it all.”
“About the time travel?” Hardeen asked. “Yeah. Yeah, he kept a journal of sorts. Not a diary. It’s more like a story. He wrote it over a period of years and finished it about a year before he died. It’s a handwritten book, in Houdini’s own hand. He had a name for it. He called it The Key to All Locks— or sometimes he’d just call it Eighty-two.”
“Why Eighty-two?” the blank-faced man asked.
“Good question,” Hardeen said. “I wondered that myself for many years. Houdini would never tell me. I knew it referred to some kind of code. Houdini was always using codes and making codes. He made codes and ciphers for MJ-Seven and the Secret Service. I finally figured out this much: the number eighty-two is a code for the words lock and key. Houdini’s handwritten book is both lock and key to a very big mystery— maybe the biggest mystery— time, fate, destiny— whatever you want to call this thing we’re all tangled up in— this thing we all try to understand, but never really understand— our own existence. That’s what Houdini’s book is— lock and key— Eighty-two.”
“Eighty-two reveals the methods of time travel?” the blank-faced man asked.
“I said it is both lock and key,” Hardeen replied. “You have to decipher it for yourself. I think each person who would read it would find something unique in it. It’s like the book speaks directly to whoever reads it. It’s written on many different levels of understanding. I think some of its secrets can only be revealed by decoding ciphers embedded in its text. It’s deep waters, very deep waters, too deep f
or me. Houdini told me that he let a rabbi read it once, and after the rabbi read it, he told Houdini, ‘Don’t you ever show that to anyone ever again!’ By that time I had already read it, though I don’t think it mattered much, because, as I said, a lot of it was way over my head. Only somebody like Houdini who had actually approached the Door would fully understand it.”
“The ‘Door’?” the blank-faced man asked.
“That’s what Houdini called it,” Hardeen said. “’The Door.’ It was the entrance to all the dimensions of time, space, and mind.”
“Do you know what happened to this book?” the blank-faced man asked.
“I got it,” Hardeen said. “Right down in my basement. Come on.”
Hardeen rose from his chair and led the two men back to the foyer and down a hall to a basement door. He opened the door and descended the steps, the two men following down behind him.
“Guess I always knew you guys would show up one day and ask for Eighty-two,” Hardeen said. “I would’ve volunteered it, but it never occurred to me that it might tie in. I never made the connection. But now it’s so clear. I was thinking fake mediums all the time. Maybe I should’ve been thinking— Martians— or time travelers.”
Hardeen had reached the basement which was cluttered with wooden crates and pasteboard boxes. He turned around to look at the blank-faced man.
“It’s over here,” Hardeen said, stepping toward a far corner beyond the furnace. “I never keep it in one place very long. That’s how I’ve kept it from being stolen all these years.”
Hardeen stopped in front of a metal trunk, painted red with the name “HOUDINI” stenciled on it in white. He opened the trunk. It was filled with ropes, locks, keys, tools. Hardeen pulled back a false bottom of the trunk and brought out a book— a thick journal with a lock. He handed it to the blank-faced man.
“Here,” Hardeen said. “Read it— if you’ve got the guts.”