Harry Houdini Mysteries (2 page)

My recollection is that it was raining heavily on that particular day. Bess was working the chorus at Ravelsen’s Review on Thompson Street, and it was a source of some consternation for Harry that her position brought a slightly higher wage than he was earning at the dime museum. I caught up with him backstage at Huber’s, where he was pulling a double shift in the Hall of Curiosities.

“Intolerable, Dash!” Harry cried as he came off between shows. He was wearing a feather headdress and a leather singlet for his role as the laconic Running Deer, Last of the Comanche Wizards. His skin was slathered with copperish paste, and there were heavy streaks of lip polish on his cheeks, meant to suggest war paint. “You will have to find something better!” he continued, tossing aside a wooden tomahawk. “I am required to do a degradingly simple rope trick and spout ridiculous noises! ‘Hoonga-boonga!’ Have you ever heard of an Indian saying ‘Hoonga-boonga’?”

“I never heard of an Indian doing the Cut and Restored Rope, now that you mention it.”

“At the very least they could have employed Bess as well. She could have played my squaw.”

“Bess seems quite content,” I answered. “She prefers a singing engagement to working as your assistant. She says she’s tired of jumping in and out of boxes.”

“She said that?” He leaned into a dressing table mirror to dab at his war paint. “I suppose she is trying to put a brave face on the situation. Yes, that must be it. But at heart I am quite certain that she finds these circumstances as unacceptable as I do. It simply won’t do for the wife of the Great Houdini to be seen cavorting in some music hall chorus. I have my reputation to consider!”

“Reputation? Harry, you’re lucky to be working back at Huber’s. Albert only took you on because he needed someone who could double as a Fire-Proof Man.”

“Fire-Proof Man! Of all the indignities! Clutching at a piece of hot coal to show that one is impervious to pain! Thrusting one’s hand into a flaming brazier! Ludicrous! The Great Houdini is now reduced to a mere sideshow attraction!”

“How’s the arm, by the way?”

“Fine,” he answered, wincing slightly. “I just need a bit more practice, that’s all.” He pushed a feather out of his eyes and adjusted the headdress. “Dash, you must get me out of this booking. Find something where I can do the escape act. It is the only way I will ever break out of the small time. If you do not”—he paused and drew in a deep breath—“I shall be forced to seek other representation.”

“Other representation?” I ran a hand through my hair. “Harry, you’re welcome to seek other representation, but you’ll find that there’s a crucial difference between me and the other business managers you may run across.”

“Such as?”

“The others expect to be paid.”

Harry folded his arms, the very picture of a stoic Comanche. “I’m just asking you to show a bit more initiative, Dash.”

“Harry, I’m doing all I can. I have an appointment with Hector Platt at the end of the afternoon.”

“Hector Platt?”

“He runs a talent agency near Bleeker Street. He’s about the only one in New York who hasn’t turned me down flat in the past three weeks. You’re welcome to tag along if you think I should be showing more initiative.”

I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. For the rest of the afternoon, Harry could talk of nothing but his “rendezvous with destiny” in the offices of Hector Platt. On stage he appeared newly invigorated, and even the expression “Hoonga-boonga” was given an enthusiastic spin. Between performances he drew me aside to speak in hushed tones of the “celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt,” who would surely be the one to propel the Great Houdini into the front rank of vaudeville. “Mine is a talent that cannot easily be confined to a single venue,” Harry told me after the final performance. “The celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt may have some difficulty in choosing the proper method of highlighting my abilities.” He whistled happily as he scrubbed away the last traces of copper body paint.

In truth, Hector Platt was neither celebrated nor distinguished. He was what used to be called a blue barnacle in the show business parlance of the day, a man who tenaciously attached himself to the lower edges of the scene while serving no clear purpose. Very occasionally he would throw a week or two of work my way with one of the lesser circus tours or carnival pitches, but on the whole I considered him a last resort in desperate circumstances. I tried to explain this to Harry as we made our way across town in a covered omnibus, but he would not hear of it.

“Mr. Platt has simply not had the opportunity to avail himself of a truly top-drawer performer,” Harry insisted as we alighted on lower Broadway. “We shall both benefit from this fateful association.” He rubbed his hands together. “Lead on. Dash! Destiny awaits!”

I shrugged and led Harry down a narrow, winding alley off
Bleecker Street. Beneath a yellow boot-maker’s lamp we came upon a door with the words “Platt Theatricals” etched on a pane of cracked glass. I pushed open the door and climbed a dark flight of stairs with Harry at my heels. At the first landing we found a door hanging open on broken hinges. I rapped twice. Hearing a gruff summons from inside, I entered the office.

Hector Platt sat in a high-backed wooden swivel chair, regarding us through the lenses of a brass pince-nez. He liked to think of himself as a country squire in the European fashion, and to that end he wore leather riding boots and silken cravats. An untidy scattering of papers littered the surface of his oblong desk, with a brown clay pipe smouldering in an ashtray within easy reach.

“Hardeen,” said Platt in his booming bass drum of a voice. “Haven’t seen you in a good four months. Where’ve you been? You can’t possibly have been working all that time!”

“As a matter of fact, my brother and I have been touring with the company of Mr. Harry Kellar,” I said primly. “We’ve only just returned and have elected to rejoin the New York season. You are undoubtedly familiar with the recent successes of my brother, Mr. Harry Houdini.” I gestured to Harry, who stepped forward to shake Platt’s hand. “Although the stresses of the recent tour have been considerable, my brother has decided that he is willing to entertain suitable offers at this time.”

Platt’s lips curled as he reached for his clay pipe. “I am gratified to hear it,” he said, tamping the pipe bowl with the end of a letter opener. “However, I am obliged to report that news of your brother’s triumphs has not yet reached our offices.”

“Indeed?” I stroked my chin at this strange lapse. “Well, if you would care to examine our press book, you will find ample testimony to the drawing power of the Great Houdini. No less a journal than the
Milwaukee Sentinel
was inspired to remark that—”

Platt waved the book aside. “I’ve seen your cuttings more
than once, Hardeen. It might be more profitable to learn of your recent attainments. Tell me, what was it that you and your brother were doing during your time with Mr. Kellar?”

It was a sore point, as Platt undoubtedly realized. At that time Harry Kellar was the most celebrated conjurer in the entire world. He did not require the services of additional magicians in his company, so Harry and I had served as minor assistants in some of the larger production numbers. I had quite enjoyed my role in the background, but Harry had chafed at his small handful of assignments. Chief among these was a novelty number that required him to don a leopard-pattern loincloth and heft large weights as Brakko the Strongman.

“Our duties were varied,” I said, examining my fingernails with a careless air, “and I may say in all modesty that Mr. Kellar was most reluctant to see us depart.”

“Was he, indeed?” Platt’s smile broadened as he sent up a cloud of noxious black smoke. “I do hope that he will be able to carry on. Now, Mr. Hardeen, I seem to recall that you and your brother have some experience performing a magical act of your own devising. I regret to say that at present I have no need of a magical act.”

“It is not simply a magical act,” I said. “My brother has devised an entirely new form of entertainment, one that is certain to place his name in the very forefront of popular entertainment.”

Platt unclipped the pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Not the escape act,” he said wearily, closing his eyes. “I told you last time, there is simply no audience for such a thing.”

Harry, who had showed uncharacteristic restraint during this exchange, now stepped forward and grasped the edge of Platt’s desk. “I would be very pleased to offer a demonstration of my abilities,” he said. “I guarantee that you will find it worth your attention.”

Platt waved the back of his hand. “Please, Mr. Houdini. I do not allow every passing entertainer to audition here in my office. I should have no end of singers warbling the latest tunes
and Shakespeareans declaiming from
Hamlet
. It wouldn’t do to encourage such behavior.”

Harry smiled as if Platt had made a delightful witticism. “Singers are a penny to the dozen,” he said. “Actors can be found on every street corner. The Great Houdini, as my brother has said, is entirely unique. I fear that mere words cannot convey the power of what I am able to achieve upon the stage. Only a demonstration will suffice. Have you a pair of regulation handcuffs?”

“Handcuffs?” Platt leaned back in his swivel chair. “No, Mr. Houdini. I do not happen to have a pair of handcuffs lying about.”

“You’re certain? Perhaps a good set of Palmer manacles or a nice solid pair of Lilly bar irons? I would also settle for leg restraints or thumbscrews.”

“Mr. Houdini, I do not keep such things about my person. What sort of establishment do you suppose I am running?”

Harry’s face fell. “It will be difficult to demonstrate my facility with handcuffs if no handcuffs are forthcoming,” he allowed.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Platt, squaring a pile of documents on his desk. “Now, gentlemen, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I have some rather pressing—”

“Mr. Platt,” I said, struggling to regain some purchase on his attention, “I beg that you give my brother some chance to demonstrate his value as an entertainer. I offer my assurance that he is the most exceptional performer in New York today.”

“I must find a solution,” Harry was saying, musing aloud over the strange absence of restraining devices in Platt’s office. “I suppose that I could provide my own handcuffs in these situations, but people would naturally assume that they were gaffed in some way. What to do?”

Platt ignored him. “Hardeen, I’ve already told you that I don’t place any stock in the entertainment value of a man who escapes from things. It’s a silly notion. I know that you and your brother are fair magicians, but I don’t have any need of
magicians just now.” He paused as a new thought struck him. “Is Mr. Houdini’s wife seeking opportunities at present? I might have something coming open in the chorus at the Blair.”

“She is fully booked at the moment,” I said. “My brother and I—”

“Yes, yes,” said Platt heavily. “I know all about you and your brother.”

“I suppose it is a question of advertising my intentions in advance,” Harry murmured to himself. “I could post a notice or handbill to the effect that the Great Houdini intends to accept any and all challenges to escape from regulation handcuffs. Then people would be forewarned to provide their own restraints. That might resolve the difficulty.”

“Are there any other opportunities that might be suitable?” I asked Platt. “Anything at all?”

Platt reached across the desk for a folded sheet of paper. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “But don’t despair, Hardeen. If your brother truly is the most exceptional performer in New York, the other agencies are undoubtedly clamoring for his services.” He unfolded the paper and ran the pince-nez over the print.

“Perhaps there could be a trained locksmith on hand as I took the stage,” Harry was saying. “He could confirm that the handcuffs had not been tampered with or altered in any way. It would lend an official touch to the proceedings. The Houdini Handcuff Challenge. That would look well in print.” He glanced at me. “Don’t you agree, Dash?”

“Harry, perhaps we might confine our attention to the matter at hand. Mr. Platt is consulting his books to see if—”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing,” said Platt, tossing the folded sheet onto the desk. “Unless, of course, your remarkable brother happens to have a cast-iron stomach.”

“Pardon?”

“A cast-iron stomach. The Portain Circus has an opening in two weeks’ time. I’m looking to send a man with a cast-iron stomach.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

“A stone-eater,” Harry said impatiently. “An omnivore.” He made an exaggerated chewing motion. “Someone who will eat whatever the audience throws at him.”

“Precisely,” said Platt. “I have the honor to represent Mr. Bradley Wareham, who earns a fine living in this manner. At present, however, he is indisposed.”

My hand went to my midsection. “A stomach complaint, by any chance?”

“Not at all. A gouty foot, as it happens.” Platt snatched a handbill from amid the clutter on his desk. “Mr. Wareham is proving to be a difficult man to replace. Listen to this: ‘For the amusement of all present the Man with the Cast-Iron Stomach will ingest all manner of small objects presented to him by the audience, including rocks and gravel, potsherds, flints, bits of glass, and other savories. Upon conclusion of the display, this Gustatory Marvel will allow onlookers to strike his stomach to hear the rattling of the strange objects within.’” Platt lowered his pince-nez and regarded us with a bemused expression. “I don’t suppose this is an act you might be willing to undertake.”

“Certainly not,” I said. “The talents of the Brothers Houdini lie in an entirely different sphere of—”

“Would I be able to take my wife?” Harry asked.

“Harry!” I cried. “What are you thinking? You’re not a—”

“The Portain Circus is a very reputable organization,” my brother said evenly. “If I could establish myself in the company, I might be able to win a spot more in keeping with the usual run of my talents. Moreover, I would be able to rescue Bess from her servitude in the chorus line at Ravelsen’s Review.”