Nevermore (24 page)

“What’s your name, big shot?” Bremmer barked, dragging the punk back toward the waiting cab.

“Cohen,” he snarled, sounding tough. “Louis Cohen. Make sure you spell it right for the papers.” He was no more than a kid, peach fuzz sprouting on pale cheeks that had never known a razor.

“We’ll spell it right when we book you, asshole!”

The skipper, waited beside the cab, murder weapon dangling from a beefy forefinger. George Katz had his arms around a weeping Mrs. Kaplan. A couple of uniforms stared in at what lay on the backseat. “Dropper’s sneezed,” the captain grunted as Bremmer stood the teenage killer before him. “You did us a favor, kid. I couldn’t ask for a better gift if it was Christmastime.”

“Chloroform…?” Damon Runyon asked.

“Chloroform,” Sergeant Heegan repeated.

They sat in a back booth at Lindy’s. Runyon picked at the gefilte fish special with horseradish and boiled potatoes. “How’d they know?”

“Medical cotton was found in the coffin with Vickery.” The sergeant helped himself to a piece of gefilte fish from off the reporter’s plate. “The lab boys picked up traces of chloroform in it.”

“What about the others?”

“Mary Rogers was too far gone. A week in the harbor is hell on a corpse. We got lucky with Violette Speers and the Esps. They’d all been embalmed.”

“Exhumed?”

“All three. Chloroform in every one of ‘em.”

“How can they tell that?”

Heegan pinched a slice of potato. “Hell’s bells, man, I’m not the coroner. It has something to do with pink fingernail beds is all I know.”

“Not much of a lead.” Damon Runyon sipped his coffee. A born Westerner, he drank it with all his meals.

“Better’n nothing. Gives the boys something to do, checking all them pharmacies and medical supply houses.”

“What for?”

“Anyone recently buying chloroform not known to be a sawbones of some kind.”

“Long shot.”

“Routine. No shortage of shoe leather on the force.”

Damon Runyon scraped the last of the gefilte fish onto his fork. “What can you tell me about the Kid Dropper rubout?”

“Open and shut.”

“Give it to me. All the knockdown.”

Heegan grinned like a man in the know. “The chopper’s just a kid,” he said. “Only seventeen. Gave his name as Louis Cohen, but his real moniker’s Louis Kushner. Still lives at home with Ma. One-sixty-four East Seventh Street. Three miserable little rooms, and there’s three more brothers and a sister packed in there like sardines.”

“He one of Little Augie’s boys?” Runyon never looked up from his notebook.

“Nothing but a runner. Down on the books as the driver of a laundry truck. Claims he was tipped off the Dropper fingered him for the songbird what put him on the mark.”

“You buy that?”

Heegan laughed. “Wanna buy the Brooklyn Bridge? There’s a witness puts Cohen at the courthouse in the company of Little Augie and Legs Diamond two days before the trial.”

“Thanks, Heegan.” Runyon gave him a thin chill smile. “Open and shut …”

“The kid’s game. He won’t peach on his pals. No matter Little Augie left him hung out to dry. Didn’t even send a mouthpiece to the kid’s arraignment. Should’ve seen the look on the punk’s face when it dawned on him he was on his own. God loves an idiot, I suppose. You’ll never guess who the court appointed to defend him. Your old pal, the state senator.”

“The Honorable James J. Walker.”

“The very same.”

“Ah, Jimmy… . He’ll get him off.”

“No way: This one’s gonna fry.”

Dressing rooms, boarding houses, and cheap hotels shared a common melancholy, decades of transience leaving an impalpable residue of loneliness and despair. Houdini learned from years on the road how a few personal touches kept the sad eaters of soul-carrion at bay. Snapshots of Bess and Mama were tucked around the mirror frame like votive offerings. A small square Persian carpet from home made a glad pattern at his feet. Bright bouquets stood at either end of the makeup table, a reminder of his wife, who always ordered fresh flowers wherever they were showing.

Bess had gone out for an hour’s shopping, what they used to call “a stroll between turns.” The familiar rattle of eggs boiling atop the old hot plate they’d traveled with since their carnival days dispelled the pangs of solitude. Had he been able to set his mind at rest, the brooding magician would have ordinarily devoted free moments to reading. Always sensitive to his standing in show business, Houdini chafed at being spotted fifth in a nine-act bill. Getting the star’s dressing room didn’t compensate for seeing the name of an Irish tenor above his own on the program.

A year ago, when he last appeared in Hoboken to promote the opening of his film
The Man from Beyond,
six motorcycle policemen met his car at the ferry and gave him an escort to the Roosevelt Theater, sirens blaring. The mayor himself introduced the magician to a sellout house. From that to fifth billing in a year’s time. No crystal ball revealed the future with greater clarity.

Since the war, vaudeville had clearly changed. The trend today veered toward the sentimental; songs and comedy, that’s what they wanted. Many vaude houses alternated Hollywood films with the live entertainment. The new magic of the movies, a camera its enchanted wand, one crank making impossible wonders commonplace. His was a more demanding art, born of ancient traditions. How long before the flickering light from the silver screen eclipsed them all?

Houdini knew mounting a full-evening show remained his only possible salvation. He’d lost a bundle in the movie business. His Hoboken Film Development Corporation was up for sale. The big show remained the only answer.

The magician gave it a lot of thought, deciding to divide the production into three acts, the first to feature standard magic. Maybe some of the great classic illusions he’d bought in Europe. Finish with the Needle trick. Act two would be escapes. A strait jacket; perhaps an idea he had about being quick-frozen into a block of ice. The Upside Down remained his most popular attraction; a guaranteed lollapaloosa end for act two.

The third act occupied the greatest portion of his thoughts; something altogether new. Over the past year and a half he’d delivered many public lectures denouncing fraudulent mediums. Houdini planned to spice up these sermons with showbiz razzle-dazzle, surefire bits like revealing the secret behind the rope-tie escapes of the Davenport Brothers and other tricks used at fake séances to delude a gullible public.

It would be a wow finish. A flag-waving finish. Leave ‘em wanting more.

A knock at the door brought the curtain down on his jubilant musing. “Yes?” Houdini snapped.

The house manager stuck in his head. “Something arrived for you, Mr. Houdini. Special messenger.” He reached in an arm, extending a flat twine-bound package wrapped in brown paper. The magician took it with a distracted nod of thanks.

Lingering behind the half-open door, the house manager cleared his throat with obvious embarrassment. “I … er, tipped him two bits.”

Houdini flipped back a quarter. “Thanks, Lloyd,” he said. “Half a buck next time.”

“Right …” Lloyd withdrew with a wink, closing the door noiselessly.

The magician slit the string with his penknife. The package was addressed simply: Houdini, Roosevelt Theater, West Hoboken, N.J. No return address. He unwrapped the brown paper on his lap.

Inside lay a fat book, bound in red morocco with gilt-edged pages. A white card of the finest stock rested on the cover, embossed with the ankh of ancient Egypt and with a name; Opal Crosby Fletcher. Houdini turned it over. In ink, she had written:

Osiris—

For your edification … Isis

The magician looked at the book. Gold-tooled lettering spelled out the title along the spine: The Collected Works of Edgar A. Poe.

D
AMON
R
UNYON SPOTTED
S
IR
Arthur Conan Doyle on his way into the men’s bar set up in the billiard room of the Fifth Avenue home of Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Astor. The women’s bar was located in the library. The reporter leaned against a pillar along the colonnade surrounding the main ballroom. There by invitation with hundreds of others for a charity entertainment, an “All-Star Cabaret” to benefit the Lenox Hill Neighborhood Foundation, Runyon preferred his entertainment in nightclubs or at ringside. Still, it promised to be a good show. Headliners from Broadway and vaudeville had donated their talents.

Damon Runyon followed the knight into the impromptu bar. A haze of cigar smoke drifted between the crystal chandeliers. Billiard balls clicked. Peals of laughter outside drowned out Ed Wynn’s distant punchline. Scores of gentlemen in tuxedos and evening dress stood about, stiff and formal as the stuffed penguin diorama at the natural history museum across the park. Damon Runyon asked the bartender to pour him a cup of black coffee and surveyed the crowd. Having just accepted an invitation to join in a game, Sir Arthur leaned against the middle of three billiard tables, a brandy snifter warming on his palm.

The reporter observed Conan Doyle and his partner select cue sticks, following the intricacy of their play as they stalked about the table, lining up shots. Sir Arthur made a brilliant three-figure break. His opponent applauded. Players from the other tables offered congratulations. Damon Runyon left his cup on the bar and approached through the crowd.

“Nice shot,” he quipped out of the side of his mouth, shaking the knight’s hand. “Runyon of the
American.”

“I remember you, Mr. Runyon.” Sir Arthur chalked his cue. “Our pleasant luncheon in Philadelphia.”

“Firpo knocked out Willard in the eighth. I have it from Tex Rickard that a title bout is set for September. If you’re in town, I’ll save you a seat. Watch old Iron Mike work his magic.”

“Iron Mike…?”

“It’s what the Manassa Mauler, that’s Dempsey, the heavyweight champ—”

“I know the name of the world champion!” Sir Arthur’s brusque manner betrayed his short temper. “England is not some isolate outpost removed from all civilization.”

“Civilization you’ve got in spades …” Runyon faked a quick laugh. “Anyway, Iron Mike is what Dempsey calls his right hand. Offer’s still good for the ducat.”

“Well, sir, I greatly appreciate your generosity. I will be in New York in September. A championship prizefight sounds capital.”

“Be World Series time, too. Maybe you’ll take in a game?”

“By Jove, that would be splendid!”

“I can’t guarantee splendid, but I’ll give you two-to-one it’s the Giants at the Polo Grounds.” Damon Runyon tapped a cigarette on his thumbnail. “They just took a doubleheader from the Cards.” He stuck the Sweet Caporal between his thin lips and tipped it into the flame from his lighter. “Having any luck with the Poe caper?”

Sir Arthur chuckled. “An abstract problem, at best.”

“Not so abstract for Houdini’s assistant,” Runyon said, filtering his words through a long, slow exhale. “The magician nominated you for the Sherlock role, maybe the chickens are coming home to roost.”

“I take that colloquialism to mean you consider Mr. Houdini or myself to be in jeopardy?”

“You made all the papers. Even mad killers read the news.”

Harry Houdini hurried up the broad marble steps to Mrs. Vincent Astor’s mansion. The orchestra’s jumpy syncopations resonated with the strains of “I’m Just Wild About Harry” from the ballroom within. He was scheduled to go on in a half an hour and looked forward to his turn, planning some sleight-of-hand, a disappearing watch trick and, of course, finishing with the Needles. Entering, the magician surprised a couple necking behind a bone-white statue of Poseidon. They ignored his startled gasp.

The encounter triggered a prudish embarrassment common to his generation. An angry pink flush colored Houdini’s cheeks and neck. He fumed, finding no one at the cloakroom to help him. It was a hot summer night and he came without a topcoat, but wanted to check his black homburg. A millionaire family can’t afford proper help? He pushed inside the narrow room, sighing in exasperation.

Rows of rented wooden coatracks bulged with sable, fox, and marten. Houdini edged between the ranks of fur, looking for a place to hang his hat. Not one man had checked his coat here. This discovery brought on a smile. Had Bess come along, she’d doubtless be wearing her silver fox.

“Looking for someone…?”

The familiar silken voice made him jump. Isis! He took a step backwards into a soft cloud of sable. “M-Mrs. Fletcher,” he stammered.

“Such needless formality, my dear Osiris. We know one another far too well for such sham.”

“It is you who pretend. I told you continuing this thing is an impossibility.” A furry tickle caressed the back of his neck.

Isis stepped close to him, pressing her delicate hand to his starched shirtfront. “We are bound together by impossible forces,” she whispered. “Timeless forces …” Her face mere inches from his, the dusky smell of jasmine wafted from her bare shoulders.

“Why did you send me that book?” Houdini demanded.

She smiled. “To further your education …” Her hand slipped across his onyx studs, lingering on his cheek as her lips closed over his astonished mouth. Houdini made no effort to push her away. His heart raced, propelled by the intensity of the kiss. Fear provided a potent fuel for passion. It came as a shock to realize how much he feared her and how much that aroused him.

And when she reached down and stroked him, he thrilled to her brazen touch. It was not the magician who ended the kiss. His lips continued to seek hers as she pulled away, nibbling his chin and neck. At the same time, nimble fingers unbuttoned his trousers and deftly plucked his manhood into view. The magician gasped as she stroked him, his eyes darting about in panic lest someone come upon them unexpectedly in such a public place.

Isis slid slowly to her knees, her cheek rubbing along Houdini’s shirtfront. He thought she swooned and reached for her when something utterly astonishing occurred. Isis placed him in her mouth. What little the magician knew of fellatio was restricted to blue jokes overheard backstage. Houdini had never before in his life had a blow job. He couldn’t imagine a decent woman doing such a thing. The overwhelming trembling excitement made him nearly nauseous.