by Sesh Heri
“Miss Davies—“ I started.
“You will remove this— this Wall of China from my presence!”
“Miss Davies, you are absolutely right,” I said.
“You will take down this— this…what did you say?”
“I said you are absolutely right.”
Miss Davies paused. I don’t believe anyone had ever agreed with her before. I guessed this, and decided that what she really craved was some agreement.
“You are so right,” I went on. “Against my better judgment I have let my assistants convince me that I needed this wall. But I have always felt that it was an unjust imposition on my fellow players. Haven’t I felt that, Bess?”
“Oh,” Bess said, “your feelings have been very warm on that subject.”
“But—“ Miss Davies started.
“Oh,” I said, “Please allow me to introduce my wife, Beatrice.”
Miss Davies glared down at Bess, and then snapped her face back to me.
“We were speaking of this detestable wall!” Miss Davies spat.
“It is clear I have been completely wrong,” I said, “not to take action about these feelings that I’ve had. It is clear to me now that I haven’t kept a firm hand in my affairs.”
“Oh,” Miss Davies sneered, “that is quite obvious.”
“I will order the wall torn down immediately.”
“Well!” Miss Davies said, sitting down at her dressing table. She applied powder to her face with a pink puff, and said, “I am glad you are finally behaving like a man.”
“Yes,” Bess said. “It’s refreshing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Even I am refreshed. Only—“
“Only what?” Miss Davies snapped.
“Well,” I said, “it is only that I recall with some irony that the one great singer with whom I have ever performed— I refer of course, to the great Caruso— he actually preferred the wall. Oh yes, I know it is unbelievable, but true. Caruso actually preferred the wall and ever afterwards he insisted on just such a set for all of his performances.”
“I’ve never heard of any such thing,” Miss Davies snorted.
“Oh, of course not,” I said. “It is one of Caruso’s best kept secrets. That incredible subtle vibrato of his— how do you think he achieves it? The wall, Miss Davies, the wall.”
“But—“ Miss Davies started.
“And,” I went on, “Caruso discovered at that time of my performance with him one of his greatest secrets— what he called his ‘Column of Air.’”
I looked over at Bess. Her eyes widened, and the corners of her mouth began to form a smile. This expression of hers I know so well. It says: “The old flim-flam man is at it again.”
“Yes, his ‘Column of Air,’” I mused. “What a conception of genius. Only Caruso could have thought of it.”
“’Column of Air?’” Miss Davies asked with uncertainty.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “Are you sure you’ve never heard of it?”
“I’m certain of it,” she said.
“Caruso’s ‘Column of Air” is his scientific discovery of the law of oxygenation. He found that a human being needed five metric tons of air a day to stay in top health. The average human only takes in four metric tons.”
“Metric tons?” Miss Davies asked skeptically. “I have never heard of such terminology.”
“It is all quite on the forefront of science,” I assured her. “Caruso found a way to inhale six and a half metric tons of air per day. He found that it increased his lung capacity by half, and this had direct bearing upon his ability to sustain notes with the utmost precision.”
“Metric tons,” Miss Davies pondered.
“Edison supplied the measurements,” I said. “And since we were in England he used the metric.”
“Edison?” Miss Davies queried. “England?”
“And so Caruso and Edison created the ‘Column of Air’ right there in the theatre where we were playing. I was quite astonished, I must say. It increased my lung capacity too, allowing me to do the most strenuous underwater escapes. Now, I will not delay a moment longer. I will tell my assistant Collins to tear down this wall!”
“Mr. Houdini,” Miss Davies said, standing. “One moment.”
“Of course,” I said, and glanced over to Bess, who, stone-faced, gave me the wink. I had set the hook.
“This ‘Column of Air,’” Miss Davies said.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Would it be possible— would such a thing be possible to recreate in this thea-tuh?”
“Well…it would be possible,” I said. “I have the specifications in a notebook. It would mean extra work for my assistants, and, of course, the major draw-back— this detestable wall would have to remain standing. I just don’t see how I could continue to allow such a thing in my good conscience as a man…”
“Now, now, now,” Miss Davies said. “Let us not be hasty. Let us not be too hasty here. The wall is detestable— but. For the good of the art…for the good of the art, we must all make sacrifices. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, certainly,” I said.
“Then you must try,” Miss Davies said. “You must try your best to recreate Caruso’s ‘Column of Air.’ Do you think you can do it? Can you do it?
Miss Davies was almost voracious.
“I believe I can,” I said.
“Then if you believe you can, you can!” Miss Davies said. “I insist that you create Caruso’s ‘Column of Air’!”
“Very well,” I said. “I will try.”
“Don’t try! Do!” Miss Davies said. “Be a man!”
“I will,” I said. “I will do. I will be a man.”
I bowed deeply and went out. Bess and Mr. Ebey followed me.
Ebey said, “What a performance! In all my days! I have never seen anyone handle Miss Davies the way you did. Why, she’s an unholy terror. I dread it when she comes to town, but the audiences love her.”
“Somebody’s got to love her,” I said.
“But Caruso’s ‘Column of Air’?” Mr. Ebey asked. “Do you have time to build it?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The “Column of Air’. Can you make it in time?”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“What do you mean?” Mr. Ebey asked.
“There is no ‘Column of Air.’” I said. “That was just a bunch of hokum to mollify Miss Davies. I just made it up.”
“Just made it up?” Mr. Ebey gasped.
“Of course,” I said. “It’s pure nonsense.”
“Then— then— what are you going to do? Miss Davies expects something,” Mr. Ebey said.
“I’ll get my assistants to set up some electric fans in the wings,” I said. “And I’ve got a megaphone in a trunk that I can clamp to a music stand in front of one of the fans. That will be Caruso’s ‘Column of Air’— that and some scientific mumbo-jumbo I’ll have my assistants spout to Miss Davies. Just listen to the old bat’s lung capacity increase.”
Mr. Ebey grinned with silent laughter which he would not allow himself to voice. Finally he composed himself and only said, shaking his head, “Houdini…Houdini!” He walked away.
Bess looked at me with a special smile of her own.
“Houdini…Houdini!” she said.
I gave her a long kiss, and she melted.
“Let’s get you some coffee,” I said, coming up for air.
“I don’t need any coffee now,” she said.
“What do you need?” I asked.
“Another kiss,” she said. And I gave her one, and she gave me one back.
“Come on now,” I said, “go get one of those ushers out there to bring you some coffee. I’ve got to get dressed for rehearsals.”
“You don’t need a rehearsal,” she said.
“You know it’s for the orchestra and the stagehands and Mr. Ebey who will be out front. Now be good and run along.”
“I’ll run a
long, but I won’t be good,” she said, and she turned and walked away.
Collins and Vickery took only minutes to rush over to the train station and back in the theatre’s transport truck. All the boys grouped about the loading door, and, one to another, rapidly and gingerly handed the replacement glass inside. We got the glass to the back of the stage where the water cell lay dismantled.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s get the glass set. The orchestra is already out there warming up.”
The boys worked at their top speed with Collins expertly directing every move. They got the glass set into the front frame of the cell in just a couple of minutes. But just as Collins was sealing the glass in with strips of rubber, he stopped his work.
“Mr. ‘oudini,” Collins said. “Look at this.”
I knelt down on the floor beside Collins and looked to what he was pointing. There was a faint but perceivable scratch in the mechanism of the secret catch which released my feet from the stocks of the cell. It looked as if someone had taken a hard, sharp object and had tried to jam the mechanism by applying a great deal of pressure.
“Somebody’s been trying to jam the release catch,” Collins said.
“Somebody’s been trying to kill me,” I said. “If I had gone into the cell with this catch jammed, I would’ve drowned. There’s no way I could’ve opened the catch in time. Unpack the duplicate stocks. We’ll use them and junk these. I don’t trust this release catch anymore. Wait— look at this.”
I pointed to a faint scratch that led away from the fake outside bolt which was part of the catch. The scratch went down off the side of the stocks.
“This scratch lines up with where the crack started in the glass,” I said to Collins.
“She tried to jam the catch,” Collins said, “but her hands slipped and broke the glass.”
“She? Her?” I asked.
“Miss Davies,” Collins whispered.
“Miss Davies didn’t do this,” I said. “This is the work of someone who knew how the cell operates.”
“But that’s just us,” Collins said, still whispering. “All the boys and Mrs H.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “Somebody else knows now. Somebody who wants me dead. Who besides Miss Davies have you seen back here this morning?”
“Mr. Ebey,” Collins said, “and some stage hands.”
“How many stage hands?” I asked.
“Three,” Collins said. “A tall one, a fat one, and another fellow in a cap. He was very well-built, like you; you know, muscles. And he had a mustache— a sort of handlebar.”
“I want to see Mr. Mustache,” I said. “Where is he?”
Collins looked about over my shoulder and whispered, “Well, if he isn’t right over there by the ladder to the cat-walks. And he’s looking straight at you and me.”
I stood up suddenly and spun about to look directly at the stagehand. Surprise flashed on his face.
“You!” I shouted.
The stagehand jumped back, spun around and grabbed hold of the rungs of the ladder to the cat-walk.
“Hey!” Collins shouted. “Mr. ‘oudini is talking to you, man!”
The stagehand rapidly climbed the ladder.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Collins shouted.
“Would you look at him go!” Vickery said. “That’s a circus acrobat if ever I saw one.”
The stagehand was climbing the rungs of the ladder so rapidly he was nearly half-way up to the cat-walks.
“Come down from there!” Collins shouted.
The stage-hand kept ascending the ladder. I watched him go up, an odd feeling turning around in my gut. His movements were far too precise, far too purposeful.
“Hey! You!” Collins shouted upward again.
“Quiet,” I said to Collins. “We’ve got some serious trouble. We’re going to have to call the police.”
The stagehand had made it to an overhead catwalk. He began to cross it, until he stood directly over us by about fifty feet. We looked up at him. He looked down at us, his hands moving rapidly at the catwalk’s railing. He was untying a rope.
“Get out of the way!” I shouted, pushing Collins aside. Both of us jumped and a large sandbag crashed to the floor with a smash on exactly the spot where we had been standing.
“You son of a bitch,” I whispered.
I went up the ladder so fast, the rungs blurred before my face. I was shouting down to Collins, “Call the police! Get the police!”
I got up to the cat-walk and saw the stagehand making his way across to the other side. I rushed across the narrow planking and grabbed the stagehand by the back of his shirt. He spun about and slugged me in the face. I went backwards and almost lost my footing. I caught myself at the railing before I went over. The stagehand had already slipped down the ladder and out of my sight.
“He’s coming back down!” I shouted below. “Other side! Grab him!”
I looked down. The stagehand was rapidly descending toward the crowd of my assistants who had circled about the end of the ladder below. He was going right in to their waiting, outstretched hands.
Then I saw an incredible sight. The circle of my assistants exploded back and away from the end of the ladder. At the center of the explosion was the stagehand swinging his arms. He made short work of Collins and Vickery, and the other boys fared no better. I shot down the ladder, listening to the sounds of their groans.
When I got to the bottom, Collins was standing back up, rubbing his jaw. Vickery and the others were dashing out the loading door and into the alley. Collins and I ran to the loading door and looked out. The boys were running in pursuit of the stagehand, but he was rapidly outdistancing them. Then the stagehand reached the end of the alley, and— incredibly— we saw an automobile pull up with its top down. The stagehand did a flying leap into the auto’s back seat and the driver up front gunned the engine and shot away.
The boys in the alley stopped in their tracks, and Collins and I stood at the loading door, dumbfounded.
“Mr. ‘oudini?” Collins queried.
“I don’t know, Collins,” I said. “I don’t know, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
Vickery and the others slowly walked back to where Collins and I were standing at the loading door. When Vickery climbed back up on the platform where we were standing he asked, “How did he know to have that car waiting for him?”
Vickery wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and I noticed his hand. It looked like it had paint on it.
“That’s a very good question,” I said. “But I have another one: what’s that on your hand?”
Vickery looked down at his hand, and said, “Why, I don’t know.”
“Collins,” I said. “Let me see your hand.”
I looked at Collins’ hands. They had that same kind of paint on them. I looked up at Collins’ face.
“Your chin,” I said.
“What?” Collins asked. “Did the beggar cut me?”
“No,” I said. “You’ve got that same stuff on your chin that you have on your hands.”
Collins touched his chin with his forefinger, and then brought his forefinger away and scrutinized its tip.
“Greasepaint!” Collins said in disgust. “The beggar was wearing greasepaint.”
A uniformed policeman came up to us from backstage.
“What’s the problem?” the policeman asked.
“No problem after all,” I said. “Terribly sorry to have bothered you. It turns out we have just been the butt of a practical joke by one of our stagehands.”
“Practical joke, eh?” the policeman asked,
“It’s a show business tradition,” I said. “Right boys?”
“That’s right,” Collins said.
“Right, boss,” Vickery and the other boys said.
“I don’t think I’d be out of line to put a couple of tickets in your hand, would I, officer?” I asked.
“Well…” the policeman said, smiling.
I p
ut two tickets in the policeman’s hand.
“I’d like to show you something,” I said to the policeman. I took out a New York City policeman’s badge from inside my coat.
“I’m with special forces in New York,” I said. “If you need anything, just call on me at the theatre, all right?”
“Well,” the policeman said, “I don’t need anything, but give me a chance, and I might think of something.”
“That’s what I like,” I said, “a man who thinks.”
The policeman laughed, and said, “I’ll bring the wife to the show.”
“Look forward to it,” I said.
The policeman looked around at my assistants, and then said, “Well, everything seems all right here, so, so long.”
The policeman walked slowly back through the theatre toward the wings. The orchestra was playing the introduction.
“I don’t think he was buying what I was selling,” I said. “But, no matter. He’s on his way.”
“But, Boss,” Vickery said, “why did you cool off the copper?”
“Don’t ask questions,” I said. “Don’t any of you ask any questions— just wash that stuff off your hands and faces. Wash real good. And then get the cell assembled. We’re running late.”
I couldn’t possibly answer Vickery’s question. The suspicions going through my mind about the stagehand were things I could voice to no one. I went to my dressing room and looked in the mirror. That same greasepaint that I had seen on Vickery and Collins was on my chin. I took off my coat, my collar, and my shirt, and washed my whole face. Bess came into the dressing room.
“What was all that shouting for the police?” she asked.
“We thought we found who damaged the cell,” I said.
“Who?” she asked. “Not Miss Davies. Not the great Miss Davies.”
“No,” I said. “She wouldn’t lower herself. We think it was a stagehand. But he got away.”
“What about the police?”
“An officer came,” I said. “I sent him on his way. I decided we’ll handle the matter ourselves confidentially.”
I had my shirt and collar back on.
“How do I look?” I asked.
“Good,” Bess said.