The Last Illusion

“A great pity,” the man said. “But you will let her know that we called to offer our services, won’t you? And our best wishes to the rest of Houdini’s family. I take it his family is still in residence?”


I was about to say that his brother had now gone, but I could feel a warning voice in my head. “That’s right. So you can see that Bess is well looked after. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I must go back to her bedside. It was good of you to call. Good night.” And I shut the front door. They didn’t try to stop me. But when I went and looked from an upstairs window, I saw them still lingering in the street.

Had I sensed danger? Were they really who they claimed to be or were they trying to find a way to gain entry to the house? I made sure the big bolt and chain were on the front door and then checked that the lower windows at the front of the house were all locked. As I went back to Bess I felt quite shaky. I just wished this whole wretched business were over.





Twenty-seven


I said nothing to Bess about the visitors. I made her some hot milk and she took the sedative powder her doctor had prescribed for her, then I found a bed for myself in a room across the hall from her. As soon as she dozed off I went in there and took with me the magazines and scrapbooks. The house had not yet been converted to electricity and I read in the softer, hissing light of the gas bracket. The most recent scrapbooks documented Houdini’s time on the Continent and most of the articles he had clipped from newspapers were in German. Sometimes there were pictures accompanying them and I stared at them, looking for faces that I recognized. But in the half darkness it was hard to distinguish features, other than large mustaches or beards. Underneath the articles Houdini had often written his own comment, most of these in German or Hungarian. Finally I closed the books in frustration. I would need to find someone to translate for me.

What was I looking for? I really didn’t know. All I could surmise was that a skilled illusionist had pulled off the remarkable stunt so smoothly that I, standing a few feet away, had not been aware of it. A skilled illusionist who had recently been in Germany and who was now in the pay of the German secret service. And who was also a skilled killer. I scanned through the German text for names I might recognize, but the Gothic type was so different that I didn’t know what I was reading. Eventually my eyes started watering from the poor light and the exhaustion of the day caught up with me. I turned out the gas and looked out of the window before I went to sleep. I couldn’t see the constable from my window, but I thought I saw the shadow of a man standing across the street. I hoped he was Mr. Wilkie’s agent, sent to keep watch over me. I tried to reassure myself as I fell asleep.

In the morning I woke to the sun streaming in through my window and the sound of horses’ hooves as the milk wagon made its way down the street. I felt surprisingly refreshed and ready to take on the world. Bess was still blissfully asleep but Houdini’s mother was up and bustling around the kitchen. She had made little pancakes that she served to me with sour cream and nodded again with approval as I ate heartily.

“What we do now?” she asked as she sat opposite me with a cup of coffee. “What happens to us?”

“We have to wait, I suppose,” I said. “Wait until there’s any news of your son.”

“He is dead. This is what you think, no?” she asked.

“I really don’t know,” I said. “I am still hoping for the best.” But I wasn’t quite sure what the best could be. One man was dead and Houdini had been spirited away in a trunk. The trunk had been found floating in the East River. So the chances of his still being alive were slim, but I didn’t want to give up hope.

“I’m going to keep looking for him,” I said. “Maybe you can help find out what happened to him.”

I went upstairs and brought down the scrapbooks. “I can’t understand German,” I said. “Can you help me translate?”

She glanced at the newspaper cuttings then shook her head. “I speak some German, but I don’t read it. Yiddish I can speak. Hungarian I can speak. But in my town they did not educate girls to read German. My son Leopold—the doctor. He could maybe help you. He is an educated man.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you give me his address?”

She gave it to me, but then asked, “How can these old newspapers help you find my son? He is not in Germany. He is in New York.”

“I don’t know, but at the moment we can’t leave any stone unturned.”

“Please?” She frowned at the image I had used.

“I mean that we just have to try everything. I’ll go and see your son Leopold this morning.”

“Please say his mother sends love and asks why he does not come to see us? We need him. He is our comfort.”

“I’ll tell him.”

I took Bess some breakfast and woke her gently. Her big eyes shot open at my touch. “Any news?” she asked, attempting to sit up.