The Last Illusion

Then at last came the trunk illusion. I went to retrieve it from the wings. A stagehand helped me carry it into position. Houdini removed his jacket and hung it up. Men were invited up onto the stage to inspect the trunk, try the locks, and then to bind Houdini hand and foot. When he was trussed up like a chicken, the bag was pulled up over him and drawn closed. Then he was placed in the trunk and the locks were snapped shut. I wheeled out the cabinet from the wings, displayed that it consisted of nothing more than a three-sided frame, covered with fabric, then turned it to conceal the trunk from the audience. The drumroll started. I crossed the stage to take up my position near the watching men on the opposite side of the stage, to divert eyes from the trunk until the right moment.

The previous night Houdini had popped out of the trunk almost before I had time to cross the stage. Tonight I turned, gestured toward the trunk, stood, and waited. I was conscious of the drumroll increasing in volume and intensity. He’s stringing it out to heighten the suspense, I thought, remembering how I had held my breath during the moments of drama when I had been in the audience. Always keep them surprised, he had told me.

I heard the announcer reminding the audience that there was only enough air in that trunk for someone to survive for a few minutes, and someone struggling to free himself from bonds within the thick fabric of that bag would use up the air all that faster. A minute had to have passed. Two minutes. Three. I could sense the restlessness in the crowd. I glanced across at Mr. Irving, standing to the side of the stage. He too was looking worried. But this was Houdini. It was reputed he could hold his breath longer than any other human being. He had supernatural powers. He was in league with the devil.

“I really think this has gone on long enough,” one of the men onstage said. “The poor fellow obviously can’t get out. We tied the bonds too tight. Open the trunk.”

I sensed the agony of indecision in the face of Mr. Irving.

“Open it up! For God’s sake open it up!” Voices were coming from the audience.

“Who has a key?” Mr. Irving demanded.

“I know where the key is.” I ran to Houdini’s frock coat and reached for the inside pocket. My fingers touched what felt like two keys. Clearly he hadn’t been taking any chances at one getting mislaid this time. I was so tense by now that my fingers refused to obey me, fumbled, and got caught up in the jacket lining. I forced my hand to obey me, grabbed both keys, and rushed across the stage to the waiting men. They had already wheeled aside the cabinet. The trunk lay there, still locked and untouched.

“Here.” I handed Mr. Irving the key and he knelt beside the trunk. At any second I expected to hear a laugh and to see Harry Houdini appear from somewhere else in the theater.

“I fooled you good and proper that time, didn’t I?” he’d say.

Mr. Irving tried the key. “It doesn’t fit,” he said.

“There’s a second key. Try this.” I thrust it into his hand. He put it into the lock and jiggled it. Then he tried the second lock. “This one doesn’t work either,” he said, throwing them down. “Someone get the ax again. We’ll have to break it open.”

I watched in fascination, still half expecting this to be a stunt. Someone ran backstage, found the ax, and handed it to Mr. Irving. “Hold it steady, Ernest,” he commanded, and swung at the first lock. After several attacks the locks swung open and he lifted the lid. The dark velvet bag lay in the trunk, not moving.

“For God’s sake get him out of there!” someone shouted.

Stagehands rushed forward to help the volunteers and the manager to lift the bag from the trunk and place it on the stage. One of the men was fumbling to undo the knot that held the bag tightly shut. “It won’t open. Get a knife!” he shouted.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” the manager had to ask for the third time in a week.

Someone came running back with a knife and slit the string that held the mouth of the bag shut. At last he had it free and wrenched open the bag. Then I heard a gasp from those around me and stared down in disbelief and horror.

A complete stranger lay in the bag, tied up with rope, eyes wide open in surprise, not moving.





Eighteen


At first the audience thought this was a good stunt. Some of them started to applaud, but the applause petered out as the manager stood up again.

“He’s dead,” he said in a stunned voice. “Somebody go for the police.”

There was a shriek from the stage box. “Where’s my husband? What’s happened to him?”

“Yes, where is he?” other voices echoed. “Where’s Houdini then?”

“Find Houdini. Don’t let him leave the theater!” the manager shouted. “Lock all the exits. Bring up the houselights.”

There was an eerie silence as the lights came on in the auditorium and then chaos broke out. I had been standing by the body so I hadn’t noticed that Daniel had come onto the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please.” He held up his hands for silence. “Take your seats. Nobody move. I’m Captain Sullivan of the New York police, and this is now a police matter. Nobody is going anywhere until my men arrive. I ask for your complete cooperation. Ushers, would you please man the doors.” He turned to the manager. “Is there a telephone available?”

“In my office.”

“Then go and call police headquarters and tell them that Captain Sullivan wants the detective on duty here immediately with a team of men. Tell them there has been a murder.”