The Last Illusion

I tried to control my frustration as I came out and went to sit in Washington Square for a few minutes to calm down. Nothing seemed to be working out today. I turned the pages of the scrapbook, staring at the pictures and willing the words to make sense. Here and there I picked out a name, but it seemed that in German half the words in a sentence started with a capital letter. Houdini shaking hands with the Kaiser. That much I could understand, and some kind of picture of a courtroom, under which he had written, “Houdini triumphs again.”


The branches of the tree above me moved in a sudden breeze and the sun shone full on the page of my book, bringing the characters in the sketch on the page into harsh focus for me. It was a group standing onstage and a face at the back of that group stirred something in my memory. I had seen that face recently, or a face that resembled it. Somewhere else in the scrapbooks, perhaps? I flicked through page after page, but the face didn’t appear again. I scanned the article, trying to pick out a name I recognized but in the end I had to give up, frustrated. So I’d have to wait for Leopold to translate for me this evening after all. And I never was good at being patient.





Twenty-eight


So what to do next? Go to the theater and find out about Signor Scarpelli’s residence or visit the press that published The Dramatic Mirror magazine? It was not the sort of weather to go rushing around any more than necessary. The humidity today made it feel like wading through a Turkish bath. Actually I had never been in a Turkish bath since they are strictly reserved for gentlemen, but I had read about them. Every step seemed an effort. Clothing stuck to me in an unbecoming manner. I could feel the sweat trickling down the back of my neck and my hat felt like a deadweight on my head. Patchin Place was so close by. I could go home, have a cool splash of water, and a cold drink. I stood up, tempted, then turned resolutely to my task. Theater and magazine were not too far from each other—one on the Bowery, the other on Pearl Street.

I decided on the magazine first. Theater folk are notoriously late risers and I’d probably find the place deserted until at least eleven. So I caught the trolley south down Broadway. Although it was crowded, its sides were open and it was more pleasant traveling than in the closed carriages of the El. As we neared the southern tip of Manhattan we picked up a hint of cooler breeze coming in from the ocean. As I alighted I stood, breathing in the air with a hint of sea tang and picturing myself standing on the cliffs at home, feeling that cool, salty wind in my face. How long ago that all seemed now, as if it was a distant dream.

As I went into the office of The Dramatic Mirror a loud clatter of machinery was coming up from the basement, so that I had to shout my request to the young woman who came to greet me.

“An article by Houdini?” she shouted back. “Yes, he often writes for us.”

“Do you have his latest articles here for me to look at?”

“May I ask what this is about?” she asked.

I decided this was a time for straight talk. “You’ve heard that he has disappeared and has probably been kidnapped,” I said.

“Yes, I read it in the papers. Shocking, isn’t it? Whatever next?”

“I am a detective, working with Houdini’s family and the police on trying to trace him. We’d appreciate any help you can give us.” I produced my card that read, “P. Riley Detective Agency. M. Murphy Co-Owner.” I had taken the liberty of having the cards printed after Paddy Riley died and I was left holding the baby, so to speak. So I wasn’t really co-owner, just owner by default.

She looked at the card, then at me. “Wait here please,” she said. “I’ll get Mr. Goldblum.”

She went into a back office while the machinery downstairs clattered on. I wondered how anyone could get work done with that sort of noise nearby, but then the whole city was full of workshops and small factories. It was hard to find a quiet backwater like Patchin Place.

Mr. Goldblum looked tired and stooped. “You’re asking about Houdini, miss?”

“I am. I know he wrote regular articles for your magazine. I have the latest edition but I wondered if there were any articles you’ve received from him that are not yet published.”

“We have an edition going to press, even as we speak. You can hear the noise, no doubt.” He gave a tired smile. “And, yes, he has an article that will appear in that edition.”

My hopes rose. “May I see it?”

“It would still be down with the typesetters, but I expect I could retrieve it. But may I ask on whose authority you are here and what you hope to achieve?”

“I’m here with the full backing of the Houdini family and the police,” I said, although this wasn’t quite true. In fact, Daniel had said in no uncertain terms that this wasn’t my case any longer, but Chief Wilkie and the Secret Service counted as police, didn’t they? “And as to what I hope to achieve—we can leave no stone unturned to find Mr. Houdini. It’s just possible that something he saw or did in Germany has put him into this current danger. Some kind of feud with another magician, maybe.”