The Last Illusion

“Risey—he’s a big noise on Coney Island. He was badmouthing Houdini and calling him a fraud, so Houdini challenged him and locked him in a trunk at Vacca’s theater. Risey panicked and they only just got him out in time.”


I nodded, digesting this. So Risey, a shady character, had been made to look a fool by Houdini.

“And Risey was heard to say that Houdini better not show his face anywhere near him again,” Ted added.

“I see,” I said. “Well, I assure you that I am not working for anybody. The first time I came to this theater was with my young man and we witnessed that horrible scene with Scarpelli. My intended went onstage immediately after the tragedy happened to see if he could help. I went with him. Bess Houdini saw all the blood and had hysterics. I took her away and calmed her down and she became instantly attached to me. She came to my house to thank me and invited me to come and watch the show. That’s the whole truth.”

Ted stared at me again, then nodded. “Maybe it is, and then again maybe it isn’t. I’ve always found that women make the best liars.”

“So you’re not going to give me the Houdinis’ address?” I asked. He was now beginning to annoy me—partly because he could see through me, I suppose. “I just thought it would be the friendly thing to do to go and check on Bess, seeing that I was there as her guest last night and I was supposed to be meeting her for lunch today, an appointment which she obviously won’t be well enough to keep.”

This last was a lie, of course, that came to me in a flash of inspiration.

“They’ve taken a house up in Harlem, from what I hear,” he said, “but as to the address, you’d have to ask Mr. Irving, and like I say, he’s in no mood to talk nice to anybody today.” He turned away, then looked back at me. “Your best bet would be to come back to the theater tonight. Houdini will be doing his act whether his wife is fit to join him or not.”

This made sense, but it was Bess I wanted to see and I had seen how protective Houdini was of her. She was now my client, as far as I was concerned. She had hired me to do a job and from what I had seen last night, that job had become all the more urgent.

“Why don’t you write her a note and I’ll make sure that one of them gets it,” Ted said, seeing my frustration.

“That’s not going to be any use for my luncheon appointment today, is it?” I said. “Still, I suppose it’s better than nothing.”

He handed me paper and a pencil and I wrote, “So sorry about what happened last night. If you’d like to talk about it, you know where I live. Yours fondly, Molly.” I suspected that Ted would snoop and read it so I left it at that.

As I came out onto the Bowery I passed the front of the theater and saw that a door to the box office was now open. I went inside. A crowd had gathered around the ticket counter and voices were raised. “But we were told we’d be able to see the show for free after it was stopped!” a woman was shouting. “Who is going to give us our money back if the show is sold out?”

I sneaked past them and tried the doors to the theater. They didn’t open but there was a passageway down the side, leading to the balcony and the boxes. I went down this, and to my delight found a door that opened into the orchestra stalls. The door closed behind me and I stood, blinking in almost complete darkness. I felt my way forward, row by row, until the orchestra pit opened up in front of me. Then I felt my way around that to the steps at the right and the pass door. It yielded to my touch and I was through to the backstage. Silence and darkness greeted me. The smell of fresh paint mingled with sawdust and stale coffee made me want to sneeze and I put up my hand to my nose to stop myself. I passed through the wings and tiptoed up the little staircase that led to the dressing rooms. There was a glimmer of light coming from somewhere on this hallway and I located the Houdinis’ dressing room by the star on the door. It wasn’t locked and I went inside. I wasn’t quite sure what I hoped to find in there. I closed the door carefully and turned on the electric light switch. Blinding light flooded the room from the bulbs around the mirror and I had to stand with my eyes squeezed shut until I dared to open them again. To be honest I still wasn’t used to the glare of electricity, having only gas at my house, which gave a softer and gentler glow.

As I looked around, I was again struck by how Spartan the dressing room was: the counter below the mirror with its jumble of grease paints, cotton wool, and patent medicines; the rack holding Houdini’s frock coat and Bess’s page-boy outfit; the couch in the corner, a couple of rickety chairs—that was about it. None of their props, I noticed. They were all locked away safely.