The Floating Lady Murder E-Book

Daniel Stashower

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

In turn-of-the-century New York City, struggling young performer Herry Houdini is working for the ronowned magician Kellar. One night his master's astonishing illusion the Floating Lady goes horribly wrong, with Kellar's levitating assistant apparently plunging to her death. Houdini must solve the mystery and figure out how the young lady died from drowning rather than a fatal fall.

Leseprobe

TITAN BOOKS BY DANIEL STASHOWER

THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES

The Dime Museum Murders

The Floating Lady Murder

The Houdini Specter

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

The Ectoplasmic Man

THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES: THE FLOATING LADY MURDER

Print edition ISBN: 9780857682925

E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686206

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: February 2012

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2000, 2012 by Daniel Stashower

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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Printed and bound in the USA.

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THE

FLOATING LADY

MURDER

CONTENTS

1. Oh, You Wonder!

2. The Man From Mesopotamia

3. The Lion’s Bride

4. Curious And Utterly Baffling Surprises

5. I Charm The Ladies

6. Hardeen To The Rescue

7. Mr. Kellar’s Finest Hour

8. The Curse Of Kalliffa

9. The Mark Of Kendall

10. A Visit To Cousin Chester

11. Karnac In Flames

12. A Ponderous Carpet

13. A Little Something On Our Stomachs

14. Once More Unto The Breach

15. Killer On The High Wire

16. Miss Becker’s Revenge

17. The Great And Powerful Kellar

1. The Man With The Cast-Iron Stomach

About The Author

1

OH, YOU WONDER!

AGAIN, THE DREAM.

A dark curtain lifted and he saw his brother, blue and lifeless, hanging upside down in the Chinese Water Torture Cell. Harry was bobbing gently in the grayish water, his hair pulsing like seaweed, his arms folded across his chest as though settled snugly into a coffin. He could see every detail. The dark mahogany and nickel-plated steel of the cabinet. The thick glass panels. The tiny clusters of air bubbles clinging to his brother’s nose and lips. He could even hear the ominous strains of music rising from the orchestra pit. “Asleep in the Deep.”

He would take a step closer, then, as the music started, and stretch out a hand as if to touch his brother’s face. A terrible urgency would grip him as he knelt beside the front panel, peering through the clouded glass. Already he could hear the voices calling from behind, pulling him away.

A moment longer. That was all he required. In another moment, surely, his brother would open his eyes and give a sly wink. The blue-tinged lips would break into a smile as a stream of air escaped. Another moment. Just one more moment...

And then the ringing of the alarm. The dream always ended this way, leaving him confused and doleful. Perhaps next time, he thought.

The old man swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to a wash stand in the corner, trying to dispel the foggy residue of gloom. He chided himself as he made his way down the hall to bathe, and by the time he returned to his room to dress he began to feel better. Why did he let it trouble him so? He glanced at the calendar. That was it, he told himself. It seemed impossible, but another year had passed. He hoped that perhaps this year the anniversary might pass quietly. He sat down and began polishing his black wing-tips, just in case.

He had finished brushing his jacket and was considering a damp press for his collar when he heard the front door chime. He parted the curtains and peered down at the front stoop. A reporter. No mistaking it. The old man had known plenty of reporters in his time, and he recognized the type. Slouch hat, pencil behind the ear, well-thumbed note pad. In fact, it appeared to be the same man who had come out the previous year. What was his name? Matthews, was it? Yes, Matthews. Call me Jack. He’d brought another photographer with him, too.

He heard the chime again and listened for the sound of Mrs. Doggett’s footsteps galumphing through from the kitchen. Mrs. Doggett kept a clean house and did not much care for this annual intrusion of cigarette-smoking newspapermen from the city. She would show Matthews and the photographer to the parlor with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. A moment later she would return with a tray of tea and Keepa cakes, clucking all the while.

The old man hurriedly fastened his collar and knotted his filetto silk tie, regarding himself in the hall mirror. He had selected his best coat, merino wool in a crow’s foot pattern, but now he wondered if it might be showing a bit of wear. Were the pockets sagging? Were the shoulders riding a bit high? He ran a hand through his hair and centered his Windsor knot. He knew, at his age, that time spent preening was time wasted. Might as well go downstairs in his robe and slippers. Still, he had standards to maintain. In the old days, they called him “Dash.”

The old man studied his reflection and wondered if there would be time to go down the hall and splash on a bit of Lendell’s toilet water. No, he thought, probably not. Already he could hear Mrs. Doggett coming to the foot of the stairs, calling up to him about the visitors in the parlor. He frowned over his cuffs and picked at a loose thread on his elbow. Ah, well. The show must go on.

They came every year, these reporters, on the anniversary of his brother’s death. Just once he wished they might spare a question or two about his own career. Say, Mr. Hardeen, you were quite a celebrated performer yourself in those days, weren’t you? You had a record-breaking run at the London Palladium, isn’t that right? But no, it would be the same old shibboleth: Tell us about your brother, Mr. Hardeen. Tell us about Houdini.

The old man paused with his hand on the bannister and wondered what he would tell them this year. He had long since exhausted his supply of boyhood anecdotes, though “Enrich of the Air” was always good for half a column or so. My brother would hang upside down from a makeshift trapeze in our yard, and he would pick up needles with his eyelashes! That one was a complete fabrication, but the reporters seemed to like it. Or maybe he could trot out that perennial favorite about the Belle Island Bridge leap in Detroit. The river had frozen over, but my brother refused to cancel the stunt. “But Harry!” I cried. “How are you going to do an underwater escape when the river is frozen over?” “That’s simple,” he replied, “we’ll chop a hole in the ice...”

No, not this year. That one was beginning to wear a bit thin. Wasn’t true, in any case. Not a word of it. Harry started putting that one about in 1906. Funny how things catch on.

The Floating Lady, perhaps. That one might be good for a column or two. Incredible story, really, if he decided to tell all of it. Certainly they would be familiar with the illusion. Was there anyone left in the world who hadn’t seen the Floating Lady by now? They call it different names—Asrah, Levitation, Lighter Than Air—but the effect is always the same. A female assistant is placed under “hypnosis” and then made to float in mid-air. These days, of course, it’s thought to be a bit old hat. Decades of endless repetition on the stage has robbed the effect of its power. They’ve even started to do it on television, where everything always looks like a cheap sideshow. But it was different back then, back when the Floating Lady was a prize worth having. That one effect in a magician’s repertoire could guarantee years of work on the Orpheum or the Keith circuit. It could make a man’s fortune.

See how she floats, as though on a gentle zephyr, borne aloft by the hypnotic force of animal magnetism. Please don’t make a sound, ladies and gentlemen, for the slightest disturbance may break the spell...

The old man stopped outside the parlor door. But would he tell all of it? Would he tell them about Kellar? About the enchanting Francesca Moore? About Servais Le Roy and that astonishing hoop skirt? He hesitated, smoothing his lapels while he tried to arrange the details in his mind. Yes, he told himself, it could work. Besides, who would be harmed if he told the story now, after so many years? All he needed was a hook—a snappy curtain-raiser to catch their attention and hold it. He frowned over the loose thread at his elbow. Ah. Certainly. Very well, then.

You see, young man, Harry and I were present when that famous illusion was created. Oh, yes. No one has ever heard this story before, because it had a rather tragic outcome, I’m afraid. The first time it was performed—the first lady ever to float in mid-air—well, she died. The trick killed her. How? Well, that’s a very strange thing.

And here the Great Hardeen would allow himself a dramatic pause. You see, young man, she drowned.

The old man smiled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to greet his interviewer.

I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews? Yes, that’s what I said. She drowned. Yes. While doing the trick. While floating. Yes. In mid-air.

Pardon? You’d like to hear about it? Well, it’s rather a long story, and you seemed so interested in that Belle Island Bridge leap, perhaps you’d prefer if we—no? Very well, but I must warn you that it’s been many years since I’ve thought back on the Floating Lady, and it’s possible that some of the details may have grown a bit muddled. Mr. Kellar made us both promise that we’d keep silent about the matter, out of respect for Miss Moore, so I’ve never had occasion to tell the story before. But it can hardly matter now, can it? They’re all long gone. So far as I know, even Silent Felsden has never—pardon? My apologies. I suppose I’m getting a bit ahead of the story.

I seem to recall that the newspapers were in high dudgeon over the tragedy of the U.S.S. Maine, so it must have been January, or perhaps February, of 1898. Times had been pretty hard for Harry and myself. We’d had a brief burst of notoriety the previous year when we successfully escaped from Sing Sing prison, but it hadn’t lasted long. Harry had yet to find regular work of any kind, and was a long way from achieving the worldwide fame he so desperately craved. My job in those days was to serve as Harry’s advance man and booking agent. “You will sort through the various offers and opportunities as they present themselves,” Harry had informed me, “and you will inspect each potential venue to determine whether it will be suitable for the Great Houdini.” To be candid, there wasn’t a whole lot of sorting and inspecting required. I don’t recall that a single offer or opportunity ever “presented itself” in the manner that Harry imagined. I had to go out and beat the bushes. Much of my time was spent knocking on the doors of talent scouts, sitting in the waiting rooms of booking agents, and twisting the arms of theatrical managers. I can’t say I was especially good at it. Every so often Harry pulled a week or so at one of the Dime Museums down around Union Square, and sometimes we’d do a month or two with the Welsh Brothers Circus, but on the whole we lived fairly close to the bone.

I was twenty-one years old at the time, and Harry was two years older. We were barely out of short pants in some respects, but when it came to show business, we felt like old hands. Worse, we were beginning to feel washed up. Strange as it may seem, in his youth Harry did far better as a magician and circus performer than he did as an escape artist. The “self-liberation” act had yet to find its audience, and Harry had not yet cultivated his genius for self-promotion. Whatever bookings came our way usually owed something to the bright sparkle of Harry’s wife, Bess. There wasn’t a theatrical manager alive whose icy heart failed to melt at the mere sight of Bess. I suppose you couldn’t have called her a beauty in the conventional sense, but there was something about her that just stopped you right in your tracks. Trust me on this.

One of my duties as Harry’s manager was to keep an eye on the notice columns of the New York Dramatic Mirror. That’s where I saw Kellar’s posting, and I suppose that’s how all the trouble began. I read the Mirror religiously each morning with my tea and toast, trolling for tips and opportunities, and I would remain a faithful reader for many years, long after I no longer had the need. It was a marvelous paper, filled with column after column of news bits, booking information and “situation wanted” notices. I especially loved the back pages, where the call and response of daily business was played out in tiny snippets. Toupées manufactured, discretion assured. Stage gowns fitted, credit available. Voice culture lessons, the speaking voice thoroughly trained and developed. Stage dancing, positions secured. Over time, one could track the waxing and waning of a career or touring company. Edwin Thanhouser, Light Comedian, At Liberty. Grand Annual Tour of the Brilliant Comedienne Alma Chester, Supported by a Powerful Company of Recognized Artists in a Repertoire of Splendid Scenic Productions. Wanted by Mabel Paige: A Gentleman of Reputation to Work with her in a Sketch for Vaudeville.

Truth be told, it was seldom that I came across a notice that held any promise for Harry or myself. On that particular morning, however, it appeared that our prospects had suddenly brightened. There, on page 28, beneath a booking call for Proctor’s Leland Opera House, was a thick, blocky headline reading: “Oh, You Wonder!” Beneath it were the words: “Opportunities with the Famous Magician Kellar.” A photograph of the great man stared out at me, with the familiar egg-shaped bald head and clear, searching eyes.

I need hardly say that the name of Harry Kellar was as familiar to me as my own. Without question he was the most famous magician in America, and perhaps the entire world. Indeed, at that time there were many who ranked Kellar ahead of Bosco and Signor Blitz as the greatest conjuror of all history. His staging of an illusion entitled “The Witch, The Sailor, and The Enchanted Monkey” had been the sensation of the previous season, and the catch phrase “Oh, You Wonder!” had been on the lips of every member of his vast audiences.

My heart quickened as I read the small print beneath the photograph. “Staff required for ’98–’99 Season,” it read. “Apply Dudley McAdow, Mgr., 131 B’way.” I folded the paper into thirds and reached for my coat and Trilby. Our troubles were over, I told myself. I felt certain Harry would be overjoyed by this news.

With my heart aglow at the prospect of steady employment, I hurried to my mother’s flat on East 69th Street. In those days, Harry and Bess lodged with Mother as a matter of economy, while I kept a room at Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house seven blocks away. Finances being what they were, it would probably have been better for all concerned if I had stayed at home as well, but I could not bring myself to do so. I felt that a man of twenty-one ought to be cutting the apron strings and making his own way in the world, though my brother held quite a different view. Also, I fancied myself as something of a dashing rake at the time, and I feared that living at home might place unwelcome restrictions on my social life. That particular concern, I regret to say, was unwarranted. Apart from the occasional night of theater with my friend Biggs, and a periodic hand of whist with fellow lodgers at Mrs. Arthur’s, my social calendar was not overburdened. I spent a great deal of time at the library.

I arrived at East 69th Street to find my mother hovering over the stove as always, preparing the cabbages and carrots for a goulash. The air was heavy with paprika.

“My darling Theodore!” Mother called as I came through the kitchen door. “Sit! Sit! I will bring you a plate! You could use a little something on your stomach!”

It was a familiar greeting. In my carnival days I often had occasion to work with a 412-pound man named Hector Armadale. Hector was a delightful fellow and a wonderful storyteller, and it was always my hope that I would find an opportunity to bring him home to my mother, just to see if she would insist that this professional fat man could “use a little something on his stomach.”

“Good morning, Mama,” I said, setting my hat on the sideboard. “Thank you, but I won’t take anything to eat just now. I have already had my breakfast.” I nodded at my sister-in-law, who was stirring a pot of heavy porridge oats. “Good morning, Bess.”

“Good morning, Dash,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Why are you so bright and eager this morning?”

“I come bearing the promise of steady employment,” I replied, brandishing the Mirror. “There might be something here for all three of us!”

“Thank heaven,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mama and I have been taking in extra sewing, but—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But this could be the solution to all our worries, if only he can be made to see it that way. Where is the justly celebrated self-liberator, by the way?”

“You mean the all-eclipsing sensation of the stage? The man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel described as the ‘most captivating entertainer in living memory’?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s still in the bath.”

“He’s running a bit late this morning,” I said, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Normally the smell of Mama’s porridge is enough to—”

“Actually, Dash, you might want to go check on him.”

“Pardon?”

“He—he’s in training. He’s been in there an awfully long time.”

“Oh.” I stood up again. “I’ll just go and make sure he’s still with us.”

“Yes, run along, Theodore,” Mother said. “Tell your brother his breakfast is getting cold.”

“Among other things,” Bess said.

I hurried down the center hall to the water closet and gave a quick rap on the door. Receiving no answer, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

As Bess had indicated, Harry was having a long bath, as one might have expected from one so fastidious in his personal grooming. What might have struck the casual observer as odd, however, was that my brother was entirely submerged beneath the waterline, and there were large chunks of ice floating on the surface.

I should perhaps explain that it was not unusual for my brother to bathe in ice water. He had recently hit upon the idea of leaping from bridges, fully tied and manacled, in order to win free publicity for himself. It was his hope that a regimen of cold immersions would inure him to the shock of the frigid river waters. At the same time, these long sessions in the family bathtub gave him an opportunity to build up his lung power.

I glanced at my Elgin pocket watch and waited as two minutes ticked past. How long would Harry stay down? How long had he been down before I arrived? I perched on the edge of the tub and stared down at my brother. His eyes were closed, his hands were clasped across his stomach and his expression was entirely peaceful. A tiny trickle of air bubbles escaped from the corner of his mouth. I looked again at my watch. Three minutes.

I took off my jacket and unfastened my shift cuff. Reaching down, I dipped my hand in the water and tapped my brother on the shoulder. Harry opened his eyes and let out a watery cry of delight, sending up a rush of air bubbles. “Dash!” he cried, breaking the surface abruptly. “Did you see me? I believe that may have been a new record!”

“Harry, you need to be a bit more careful,” I said, noting the bluish tinge of his lips. “How long have you been in there?”

“Oh, not long,” he said carelessly. “But that was certainly one of my better sessions. I believe I might have stayed down there another minute or two if you hadn’t startled me. It’s a question of mind control, really.” He rose dripping from the tub and reached for a towel. “I’ve been reading the most fascinating little monograph about the fakirs of India. It seems that they can suppress their breathing altogether when the conditions are right. What did they call it? Kakta? Kafta? Never mind. I understood what they were driving at. It has to do with the power of the mind.” He vigorously towelled himself dry and slipped on a robe. “It seems that if one can learn to focus the mind’s energy upon a single—say, Dash, what are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I’m the only talent agent in New York who makes house calls,” I said, thrusting the Mirror notice at him. “Cast your eyes on that!”

“A job?” Harry asked. “At last! I was beginning to think I’d never—” He snatched up the paper and scanned the item. “What?” he cried, his features darkening. “Impossible! It won’t do at all!”

“But—why—?”

“I wouldn’t even consider such a thing!” He tossed the paper aside. “The very idea is preposterous!”

“But Harry—?” I picked up the paper and looked again at the Kellar notice, wondering if there had been some mistake.

“Not at present, in any event. That sort of thing might do for you, Dash, but the Great Houdini must look elsewhere.”

I followed him down the hall to his bedroom, where he persisted in giving voice to his ill opinion as he dressed in his familiar black suit, starched white shirt and red bow tie. The peroration continued as he led me back along the corridor to the kitchen. We arrived just as mother was serving up a steaming bowl of porridge oats, a dish I have never been able to tolerate. I noted with rising alarm that a place had now been set for me.

“Sit down, boys,” Mother said, pouring out a fresh pot of tea. “It will be cold soon.”

“Mama,” I said weakly. “I told you that I’d already had breakfast at Mrs. Arthur’s.”

“And did Mrs. Arthur give you a nice cup of wheat grass tea?” Mother asked sweetly.

“No, but—”

“Was there a slice or two of brown toast?”

“No, but I—”

“And does Mrs. Arthur give you fresh cream with your porridge?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“Then you haven’t had breakfast.” Mama touched the back of my chair and beamed at me. It was a smile that would brook no resistance. “Sit, Theodore,” she said.

With a sigh, I shrugged my shoulders and took my seat. Harry was already tucking a napkin under his chin. “Why do you fight it, Dash?” he asked, amused by my evident discomfort. “You can’t possibly expect to do a full day of work without one of Mama’s breakfasts.”

“I’ve already done a day’s work,” I replied. “You’re just too pig-headed to acknowledge it. You just aren’t—” I broke off as Mother leaned in to fill my tea cup. “Thank you, Mama. You just aren’t prepared to be reasonable, Harry.”

“What’s this all about, Dash?” asked Bess, who had now taken her place next to Harry. “You never did show me the notice.”

I passed across the newspaper I had rescued from the floor. “ ‘Staff required,’ ” she read. “Why, that’s wonderful! Harry, whatever is the matter with you? Mr. Kellar’s magic show is the finest in the world! It’s perfect for us! He travels for months at a time, often to exotic foreign countries! Australia! China! Russia! Can you imagine? There might be as much as a full year of steady work for us. Perhaps more!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” I said. “He won’t hear of it.”

“I just don’t think it’s quite the right opportunity for us,” my brother said, staring down into his tea cup.

“Harry,” I said with considerable heat, “you and I are only one step removed from taking up our old positions at the tie factory. It’s the only steady work we’ve had in months. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a tie cutter for the rest of your life?”

“No, Dash, but neither can I throw myself at every job you find in your newspaper. You’ll have me working as a carnival busker next. Besides, I think that Mr. Kellar’s day has passed.”

“Indeed?” Bess folded back the newspaper and began to read. “ ‘Mr. Kellar has been entertaining in Philadelphia, New York, and Chicago for the past three seasons. He perplexed the natives of Philadelphia for 323 consecutive performances at the Temple Theater; he amused New York for 179 consecutive performances at the Comedy Theater on Broadway; and at the Grand Opera House in Chicago he found it worth his while, last summer, to give 103 consecutive performances before bringing the run to a close over the strenuous objections of the management.’ ”

“Sounds like a career in trouble,” I said with lifted eyebrows. “The poor man can probably barely keep body and soul together.”

“Eat your porridge,” said Harry.

“ ‘Mr. Kellar’s fame is scarcely less luminous upon distant shores,’ ” Bess continued. “ ‘In recent years he has appeared before Queen Victoria at Balmoral Castle, Emperor Napoleon at the Palace of St. Cloud, the Czar of Russia at the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg, and Dom Pedro II of Brazil at the Imperial Palace of Rio de Janeiro.’ ”

“That’s absurd!” cried Harry. “Napoleon has been dead for more than fifty years!”

“I believe it may have been a reference to Napoleon III,” I said.

“Oh. Well, it’s misleading, in any case.”

“ ‘The principal appeal of Mr. Kellar’s entertainment consists of the rare and startling phenomena to which his own original and collective brain has given existence,’ ” Bess resumed. “ ‘His work seemingly sets at naught all natural laws. It is replete with mysticisms and those occult deeds ordinarily ascribed to the redoubtable Prince of Darkness. Yet everything is simply done, and Mr. Kellar frankly disclaims any supernatural agencies. There is no entertainment similar to it in the country, nor is there any word in the English language which can properly describe it. It is entirely sui generis.’ ”

“What?” asked Harry.

“Sui generis,” I said. “Means ‘in a class by itself.’ ”

“Why doesn’t he just say so!” Harry reached for a slice of toast. “Sui generis, indeed.”

“ ‘Mr. Kellar is as entirely different from the work of the commonplace magician as the electric light outshines its coal-oil predecessors,’ ” Bess continued. “ ‘His phenomena are unique, amusing, and full of utter impossibilities developed from his own inner consciousness. The man himself is a marvel. He has traversed every part of the civilized as well as the uncivilized globe. He speaks with ease all the modern languages, and half a dozen besides of Asiatic and African dialects. He charms you by a grace of manner that is bewitching; he entrances by the subtle power which he so greatly possesses, and mystifies and bewilders you by the deftness and dexterity with which he executes his remarkable feats. He is simply a marvel beyond the comprehension of the ordinary mortal.’ ”

Bess neatly folded the newspaper and placed it beside her plate. “Mr. Kellar would seem to have a very spirited press agent,” she said.

“Or perhaps an energetic younger brother,” I suggested.

“His day has passed,” Harry repeated. “The man is still performing the Enchanted Fishery! I ask you!”

“Harry,” said Bess, placing her hands flat on the table. “Out with it. Opportunities like this one don’t come along every day.”

Harry picked up his teaspoon and polished it with his napkin. “Bess,” he said to the spoon, “you must defer to my experience in these matters. My long years upon the boards have given me a certain amount of expertise when it comes to—”

“Harry,” Bess said again. “Out with it.”

My brother stirred his tea, carefully avoiding her eye.

Bess simply folded her arms and waited him out. It didn’t take long. Harry stirred his tea for another minute or so, whistling a carefree tune and trying to appear unconcerned. Still avoiding Bess’s eye, he began to hum and rap his fingers on the table. Then he gave a heavy sigh and his resolve crumpled. The truth was that my brother could withstand a long submersion in icy bathwater far better than his wife’s disapprobation.

“You don’t understand, Bess!” he cried in a sudden rush. “It isn’t fitting! The Great Houdini is no mere stagehand! The Great Houdini is not a simple lackey to be ordered about at the whim of Mr. Harry Kellar! I am an artist! I am an original! I am the man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel called the ‘most captivating entertainer in living memory’! I will not beg for scraps from the table of Mr. Harry Kellar!”

Bess looked over at me and nodded. At least now the cards were on the table. “Harry,” she said in a much softer voice, “think of the experience. Think of the contacts. It could be the break you’ve been needing.”

“It is impossible,” he insisted. “Besides, he is a mere magician! I am an escape artist! I am the world’s foremost self-liberator!”

“Harry,” I said, pushing away my bowl of porridge. “So far as we know, you’re the only self-liberator on the face of the earth. We’ve been over this before. No one knows quite what to make of your act. Sure, you’ve had some good notices, but it’s hard to build a career on a few scattered successes. The Kellar show could give us all some seasoning.”

“Seasoning!” he snorted. “Mama, do you hear that! Dash thinks I need seasoning!”

“Is that right, dear?” asked Mother, who had little time for idle chat when there was a goulash on the stove.

“Seasoning! As though I were a pepper roast!”

By way of a reply, Mother nudged my porridge bowl back in front of me. “Eat, Theodore,” she commanded.

“Seasoning!” Harry said again. “Imagine!”

I lifted my tea cup and watched to see what my sister-in-law would do. She was a woman of many talents—an excellent singer, a graceful dancer, and perhaps the finest magician’s assistant ever to carry a dove pan or clatter box. But of all her gifts, by far the greatest was her remarkable ability to manage my brother’s various moods and tempers. I watched as she carefully assessed her husband’s latest display of pique and considered her options. After a moment, she picked up a slice of brown toast from her plate and nibbled at a corner. “I suppose you’re right, Harry,” she said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.

Harry lifted his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “Indeed I am,” he said quietly.

“He is?” I asked.

“Certainly,” Bess said. “After all, Harry has a certain reputation to consider. It wouldn’t do for a man of his considerable renown to be seen as a mere assistant. What was it your father used to say? About a man and his reputation?”

“He said that a man’s reputation is his greatest treasure,” Harry declared.

“Indeed.” Bess took a sip of tea. “Quite right. We won’t discuss the matter any further.”

I regarded her with some fascination.

“Best not to say another word on the matter.” She gazed serenely into her tea cup. “And yet...” she added, as though a new thought had struck her, but then she thought better of it and let her voice trail off.

“What is it, Bess?” Harry asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Let’s not speak of it.”

“No, tell me, Bess,” Harry insisted. “We must have no secrets between us.”

“Well,” she said, with considerable reluctance, “it’s just that I’ve read so much about Mr. Kellar, and I seem to recall—no, let’s not speak of it. I’m sure you know best, Harry.”

“Bess.” Harry reached across and took her hands. “Please tell me what you are thinking. Although you lack a man’s training and experience, I believe that you possess a certain—a certain naive wisdom that is always refreshing. Please, tell me what troubles you so.”

My sister-in-law gave a demure sigh. She may have even fluttered her lashes. “Very well,” she said. “When Mr. Kellar was a young man, he served as an assistant to a very well-known magician, did he not?”

“He did,” Harry confirmed. “The Wizard of Kalliffa.”

“But it wouldn’t be quite accurate to describe their relationship as that of master and apprentice, would it? They were really more like father and son, were they not?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Harry, warming to the subject. “The Wizard came to regard Kellar as his heir.”

“I see,” said Bess. “So in many ways, Mr. Kellar’s career has served as the continuation of a great magical pedigree. A form of show business royalty, you could say.”

“I suppose so,” Harry allowed.

“Yes. A pedigree. I find myself wondering, could it be that Mr. Kellar has reached the stage of his own life where he finds himself ready to pass the mantle to some worthy newcomer? Is it possible that he is looking about for some eager and talented young man who shows himself willing to work hard and honor the great traditions of the craft?”

Harry put down his spoon and regarded Bess with narrowed eyes.

“And wouldn’t it be a shame,” she continued, “if Harry Houdini, who is easily the brightest light of his generation, should miss this opportunity because he was too proud to answer a simple newspaper notice?”

“Bess—”

“Tell me, Harry, how did the young Harry Kellar first come to the attention of the Wizard of Kalliffa?”

Harry turned his head away from us, as though he had caught sight of something fascinating in the wallpaper. “He answered a notice in the newspaper,” he said softly.

“ ‘Staff required,’ ” said Bess. “That’s all the notice says. It seems foolish that we should not even trouble to see what positions Mr. Kellar is looking to fill. We have no other engagements at present, and no other calls upon our attention. Wouldn’t it be simple enough to present ourselves at the theater and see what opportunity awaits?”

Harry turned back toward us. “There may be something in what you say.”

“A man must keep an open mind in this day and age, Harry. Wasn’t that another of your father’s lessons?”

“Yes,” he agreed, gathering conviction. “Indeed it was.”

“Well, then,” said Bess. “It’s decided.”

As it happens, I can’t recall my father ever having said anything about keeping an open mind, and it must be said that open mindedness was not his greatest strength. At that stage, however, as Harry became caught up in his wife’s reasoning, she could just as easily have convinced him that our father had desired us to colonize the ocean floor.

“Dash, we shall call at the theater this afternoon!” Harry cried, springing to his feet. “We shall show him the substitution trunk! Mr. Kellar will be positively dazzled! Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if he places us at the head of one of his touring companies! After all, a talent such as mine doesn’t come along every day! Mr. Kellar would be wise to have me as a colleague, rather than a competitor! Come along, Dash, we must get the trunk out of the store room!”

Bess poured herself another cup of tea, then looked up to find me staring at her with frank admiration. “Dash,” she said with a smile, “you’ve hardly touched your porridge.”

She may have lacked a man’s training and experience, but— as Harry had suggested—she possessed a certain naive wisdom that was always refreshing.

2

THE MAN FROM MESOPOTAMIA

“HARRY,” I SAID, AS OUR HORSE-CART TURNED ONTO BROADWAY, “would you care to explain why you’re rubbing beef fat onto your shoe?”

“Uh...” he gave me a sidelong glance. “For luck.”

“For luck? You’re slathering animal lard onto your shoe for luck?”

“An old show business custom.”

We were riding in the back of the neighborhood milk cart, having bribed the delivery man, Bert, into hauling our magic trunk down to the theater district. Along the way Harry had insisted that we stop at a local butcher’s shop, where he had darted inside in a state of high animation. Moments later he had emerged carrying a small brown parcel, which proved to be a strip of moist beef tallow. “Just the thing,” he told us, as he energetically rubbed grease into the leather of his shoe.

“Harry,” said Bess, with a note of exasperation in her voice, “there is no show business custom involving beef tallow. Would you please tell us why you’re doing that?”

“Very well,” said Harry, tossing the brown wrapping aside, “but you may think it a bit odd.”

Bess peered up at him through the netting of her hat. “Odd? Do you suppose so?”

Harry wiped his hands on his handkerchief and settled himself against a milk canister. “It has to do with Brownie.”

“Brownie?”

Harry nodded vigorously. “The story goes that when Kellar was a boy, he ran away from home and worked a series of odd jobs—selling newspapers, sweeping offices, delivering parcels.”

“Sounds familiar, Harry,” I said.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Mr. Kellar seems to have spent his boyhood working various jobs as an errand boy, just as you and I did. At one stage he was working as a farm hand in Buffalo when he saw a notice in the local paper announcing that the Wizard of Kalliffa needed a boy assistant. Young Harry was terrified that someone else might get the position, so he ran all the way to the wizard’s home—two miles, as I recall.”

“We know the story, Harry. What has that to do with beef tallow?”