Saving Houdini (13 page)

“Someone will come.” Dash looked over at his frightened friend. “Nothing’s going to happen to us, Walt. But you know what this means, don’t you? Houdini has no one to protect him!”

The night passed in agonizing slowness. In the near-dark—a candle lit the hallway to the cells—Walt’s silence was terrible to Dash. He knew how frightened Walt was now, because anyone would have been frightened. Dee Dee’s cold seemed to be really getting to him as well. He sniffled and shivered in the corner. Dash felt fear crawl up and down his back and then to his stomach, like an eel was winding its way around his insides. All night long, they’d fall asleep only to come awake with sudden awareness and glance around, scared to move their heads.

One of the times Dash awoke he found Walt asleep with his eyes open. He was staring into space, and his mouth was agape. His breathing was raspy. Walt’s face looked dead and it filled Dash with a feeling so powerful he thought he might be sick. He looked away and tried to close his eyes again, but he felt Walt staring at some space beyond the bars that Dash, too, could see.

How convincing was Walt’s dream? he wondered. Some people knew they were dreaming, but Dash wasn’t one of them.

Dash heard a soft scuffling in the hallway. The entrance to the cell was the size of a large cupboard door, but from where he was sitting, Dash could see out into the hallway that led to the stairs. Someone was coming down. More than one person.

“Come on, then,” said a British-accented voice.

More candles were lit on the way, and the hallway opened with light. It was larger than Dash had thought. In fact, it was a room. There was a bar along one of the walls, and as a man came forward lighting candles, people flowed in behind him. Men and women, many of them dressed in jeans! And T-shirts!

A neon light flickered to life against the wall behind the bar. It said H
ARRY
’
S.

People were talking and laughing. They began to seat themselves and hold up their hands for waiters and barmen. It was full of life in there.

A man with a black beard came to the cell door. “Get out of there!” he said.

Dash pushed open the door. It hadn’t been locked. He stepped out.

As soon as he did, a woman jumped up and rushed to him from one of the tables, where she’d been eating nachos with her friends. “Harry!” she cried out, coming to him with widespread arms. Nachos? “Thank God you’re here. We were worried about you! Worried to
death
!” She gathered him up in her arms.

“I’m not Harry,” he said.

“What?” she said angrily. “Then what are you doing here?”

And his eyes flew open and the candle was out. He heard Walt’s wet breathing in the darkness. The world was completely empty.

Dash had no idea what time it was. It seemed hours had passed since they’d been brought what was called “breakfast.” It had to be at least noon.

It had begun to feel that maybe they would be stuck here until Walt’s parents came and got them—as they eventually, inevitably would—but how long would that take? It was hard to imagine that both Jacobson and Houdini would have abandoned them.

Surely the punch had already occurred and the two men had bigger problems to deal with. Dash felt his spirits ebb. Walter wouldn’t talk to him at all, and anyway, what was there to talk about? Nothing had worked out as planned. And if Houdini got out of Montreal without so much as
considering
if he would help Blumenthal, then Dash was going to be stuck in 1926. And Houdini was going to die, as he always had, on Halloween.

“Lunch,” said Walter listlessly. “Lucky us.”

There were footsteps coming down the stairs. “I’m not hungry either,” Dash said.

But it was Mrs. Alphonsine. “I know two very lucky boys,” she said. “Your father has come to get you,” she said. Walt jumped up. “What are you doing?” she said to Dash.

“I guess I’m sitting here.”

“You think he’s only taking Master Gibson here? I should think not. Get up. He’s agreed to take you both.”

Thank god, thought Dash, and he felt weary with relief.

“I’m in a bucketa water now,” Walt said. He looked pale in the light.

Mrs. Alphonsine stood on the other side of the cramped, open doorway and leaned down to beckon them out.

She herded them up the stairs and into the high, stone antechamber at the front of the foster home. Then down another hallway, this one panelled in a deep red wood, to an office with her name on the door. She pushed the door open and let them in.

“My boys! My poor boys!” cried Herman Blumenthal, opening his arms wide.

Six miles away, in the heart of the city, in the dressing room of the Princess Theatre, Harry Houdini was sitting for a drawing. The artist, a student named Sam Smilovitz, was drawing him in pencil as he lay back on the divan, reading his mail and chatting with his guests, who included another student, Jack Price, and a man named Gordon Whitehead. Whitehead was pontificating on a method he claimed to have invented for vanishing birds. Houdini listened patiently.

His mail had arrived at the hotel desk that morning. Requests for autographs, catalogues, bills for equipment and repairs, bills for advertising. He wasn’t really listening to Whitehead. There was always a blowhard nearby regaling him with tales of his own
feats. Had Mr. Whitehead dangled upside down from a chain over the streets of Chicago while in a straitjacket? And escaped from it? He had a feeling Mr. Whitehead might need a straitjacket, but the venue for his performance wouldn’t be outdoors in front of a crowd of thousands.

But now something he said caught Houdini’s attention. Whitehead was standing behind the divan talking about his own strength. How he could bend an inch-wide iron bar between his two hands. Jack Price was sitting beside the man he called “Smiley” and looking at the developing sketch.

Whitehead was going on. “Is it true, Harry, that you can withstand a blow to your abdomen without sustaining any injury at all?”

“Well,” said Houdini, but he stopped speaking when he saw Jack Price’s face go white.

Whitehead came forward in what seemed to be slow motion, but before Houdini could even begin to imagine what was going on, the man had dealt him a hard blow. It struck him with great force directly below his ribs, driving him back down into the cushions and knocking the air out of him. A wave of pain bloomed behind his eyes and flooded his body. But Whitehead did not stop. He punched Houdini again on the right side and then the left side of his belly, both terrible clouts that were audible to everyone in the room. The students were immediately on their feet, clutching at Whitehead, pulling him away.

“That will do,” said Houdini, standing. He gestured to Smiley and Jack Price to release Gordon Whitehead. His belly
felt bruised, but he stood tall and showed no sign of the pain he felt. This was his public, like them or not. “That was an excellent attempt, Gordon, and I admire your vanish technique. I will have to keep my wits about me as the younger generation learns their craft.”

“I am impressed myself,” said Whitehead. “You can really take a punch.” He offered to shake hands, and Houdini did.

Mrs. Alphonsine delivered a brief lecture on the natural evils of young boys, and how responsible fathers keep track of them. Then she said someone would return with their things and she went out in a cloud of righteousness.

Then Walt punched Herman Blumenthal in the stomach.

“OOF,” grunted Blumenthal, taking a couple of steps backwards.

“
Now
you come?” said Walt.

“I wasn’t ready for that,” said the magician, holding his gut.

“Don’t hit him again!” Dash rushed over to Blumenthal and took him by the forearm. “How did you find us?”

“I got in last night,” he said. “Found Houdini’s hotel this morning. A waiter told me you were goin’ down to the theatre … so I went. You weren’t there.”

“No kidding,” said Walt.

“Was Houdini there?” asked Dash.

“I didn’t see him.” Blumenthal stood up straight, breathing
again. “I guess I deserved that,” he said to Walt. “Truce, though! No punching a guy in the stomach when he’s not expectin’ it. An uncle a’ mine took a haymaker in the liver and he passed away!”

Dash and Walt exchanged a look.

“Okay, truce,” said Dash.

Walt looked like he was going to be hard about it, but then he muttered, “Fine,” and said, “I’m not mad anymore. I just wanna get out of here. And I was expecting my dad!”

“You’ll see your dad soon enough,” Blumenthal reassured him.

“You didn’t say how you found us,” Dash said.

“I met Houdini’s manager. He was out of his mind with worry.”

“How come
he
didn’t come looking for us then?”

“He knew you were here. But they wouldn’t release you to him. Only to a parent.”

Walt guffawed. “And they believed
you
were
my
dad?”

“No,” said Blumenthal. “But they believed I was his.” He looked at Dash.

Dash looked away. It was a little embarrassing.

“You coulda’ believed me sooner!” Dash said.

“Who says I believe you? I figured out how to do the trick. I’m gonna sell it to Houdini.”

“What?”

“He came all this way for fifty bucks, Dash.”

“Don’t sell him the trick.” Dash said. “Promise me.”

“You like me poor? You liked me at the Century, huh? You think that’s where I belong?”

“Look, Mr. Blumenthal—this is your trick. You have to perform it!”

“He’s just in it for the money!” shouted Walter.

“Shut up!” Dash rounded on him. “I’m tryna talk to Mr. Blumenthal. Please,” he said, imploring the man. “Just ask for his help. I bet he’ll give it. This is your trick.”

“What if I sell it to him, but I reserve the right to premiere it? That doesn’t change anything for you.”

Walter had started laughing. “This is the guy who’s gonna save you, eh?”

Dash ignored him. He kept his eyes clamped on Blumenthal’s. “Don’t sell him the trick,” he said. If you do, it might never get performed. And I’ll be stuck here forever.

“What’s wrong with here, kid?”

“AND—you’ll never be famous and no one will want you and you’ll never have a magic family—”

“OK!” said Blumenthal. “I won’t sell him the trick!” He looked at the two boys. “What? You wanna stay here a bit longer? Let’s go!”

Sol Jacobson was standing in front of the magician’s door at the Prince of Wales like a guard. When they approached, he looked both relieved and annoyed. “I thought you were putting them on a train,” he said to Blumenthal.

“I didn’t say when.” He chucked his chin at the door to room 501. “Is Mr. Houdini home?”

“He’s resting.”

“When will he
not
be resting, then?”

“I am unable to provide that information, Mr. Blumenthal.”

Herman Blumenthal closed one eye. “Everything okay, Mr. Jacobson?”

“Can we please go in?” said Dash. “Please? There’s a threat against Houdini’s life!”

“Yes, we
met
the threat,” said Jacobson, advancing and lowering his voice. “Its name was Whitehead. I don’t suppose any of you three know the fisticuffal Mr. Whitehead, do you?”

“No,” said Blumenthal. “Who is Mr. Whitehead?”

So it had already happened. “He punched Houdini,” said Dash glumly.

“Exactly,”
said Sol Jacobson. “And how would
you
know that?”

“How would I know it?” Dash shouted, and Jacobson started and stepped backwards. “How would I know it? Because I’m from the future, you stubborn old donkey!” His fists were clenched at his sides. “Well, is he okay at least?”

Small droplets of sweat had formed on Jacobson’s upper lip. “Yes,” he said quietly. “He’s all right.”

The door opened. Houdini was standing in it with a black housecoat cinched around his waist. “Sol,” he said. “What is all the shouting about— Oh, hello, boys! You made it out! What a bother! You must come in and fortify yourselves. Come on, Sol, let them in.”

Sol stood aside looking disenchanted, and Houdini brought them in and made them sit on the divan.

“You, I don’t know,” Houdini said to Blumenthal, and the other magician extended his hand with a kind of shyness that Dash was surprised to see.

“Herman Blumenthal, Mr. Houdini.”

“Harry,” whispered Walt. “Just call him Harry.”

“Ah,
the
Blumenthal! Well, come in.”

“If you need your rest—”

“Nonsense. Sol, let’s get these boys something hot and something sweet, and Mr. Blumenthal something in the way of beefsteak and …?”

“A glassa tomato juice.”

Sol went to the telephone to order up some supplies. He was not a happy man. Dash had seen a flash of fear in his eye.

Houdini settled into a chair.

“Are you okay?” Dash asked him.

“Am
I
okay? You two went missing!”

“We got in the wrong car. But you were
attacked
!”

“Oh, old fusspot told you, did he?” He looked over at Sol and rolled his eyes at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” said Jacobson. “Now you have a broken ankle
and
a gut-ache. I always tell you, Harry, not everyone is a well-wisher!”

Houdini dismissed his friend’s comments with a wave of his hand. “I’ve been punched before and I’ll be punched again. What do you think, boys?” He patted his belly with both hands. “Would you like to take a shot?”

Dash and Walt shook their heads emphatically no.

“So,” he said. “It would seem this morning’s
Gazette
bears up your story.”

“Flimflam!” said Jacobson. He stood with his back to them, flipping paper at a table. “Or witchcraft.”

“It’s 1926, Solomon. We don’t believe in witchcraft anymore.”

He turned in anger to Houdini. “If you believe them, you’re more gullible than the old ladies handing their money over to the mediums!”

“Why don’t you go wet your whistle, Sol?”

“My whistle is fully moistened, Harry. But I’ll go check on the food.”

After he left, Houdini sighed. “It is hard to be close to anyone,” he said. “People do have their limits.”

“Mr… . Harry,” said Blumenthal. “This boy must have told you about the vanish he claims he was in.”

“
Was
in,” said Dash matter-of-factly.

“I believe I know how to do it.”

“Well, then, you must be a very good magician,” said Houdini, “but I know how to do it as well. Up to a point.” He looked at Dash with a slightly comic expression on his face.

Blumenthal fiddled with his hat in his lap. “He says it must be
my
trick.”

“Well, go on, then. Take it. I have plenty of tricks.” He turned to the boys. “And I hope you will come and see some of them.”

“He needs your help,” said Dash. “I think we’re all supposed to help
each other.
”

“I see,” said Houdini. “And how is it that you help
me
?”

“I …” Dash began, but Blumenthal interrupted him.

“I am prepared to sell you a share in it, if you like.”

Dash glared at him.

“Why would I buy a trick I already know how to do?”

“Because if, on the off-chance, it works as young Master Woolf here says it does, it may be something you would be pleased to have a share in. And perhaps it only works the way he says it does if
I
am the one who performs the trick.”

“He
is
the one who performs the trick,” said Dash. “It’s
his
trick, you can’t buy it.”

Houdini looked perplexed for a moment. “You don’t
want
me to help him now?”

“I do. But it’s
his
trick. He does it, and … and you come and watch it.”

“What?” This from both Blumenthal and Walt.

“Yeah. He comes and watches.”

“Why?”

Dash looked at the immortal, all-too-mortal magician. “So he sees it for himself.”

Blumenthal shrugged. “Sure, why not? He can come. Why don’t we split the proceeds?” he said to Houdini.

But something in the turn of the conversation had made Harry Houdini uncomfortable. He looked around the room. “What are you three plotting?”

“Nothing,” said Dash. “But you should see it. Because if it works—”

There was a knock at the door. Houdini rose, then thought better of it and sat down again. Dash had seen him wince.

“You’re in pain.”

“I have a gastritis,” Houdini said, waving off his concern. “I get it frequently. Hotel food, restaurant food—”

“A punch in the gut,” said Walt.

Houdini sat up straight, his face set, and there was no evidence that he was in any discomfort at all now, even as he leaned toward his guests. A man came in with a large black tray laden with plates of delicious-smelling food.

“I know pain, gentlemen. Pain is my constant companion. I would be dead if it were not for pain and physical suffering. Could I do what I do if I feared it? If it were not in fact my friend? The show goes on. The show is everything.”

“But don’t you think you should see a doctor?”

Houdini stood. He unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. The man putting out the steak and the bowls of stew stood back. There was a small, red welt still glowing on the left side of Houdini’s torso. His stomach was tapered and muscular—it looked corrugated. Houdini held his left arm out to his side and he made a fist. The sinews in his arms popped out. He brought his fist down suddenly, in an arc toward his own body. It landed with a sharp slap in the centre of the welt. Harry Houdini’s face didn’t change. He did it again, hard.

“Don’t,” said Dash. “Stop.”

“This is not pain, young man.”

“Fine. Stop it.”

“No punch can fell Erich Weiss! Erich Weiss crushes stones in his hands!” He put his shirt back on and sat down. He gave the stunned waiter a couple of coins and then gestured to the food to invite them to eat. “That is
boeuf bourguignon
,” he said, waving his fingers at the bowls of stew. “If you don’t like
that
, there’s no hope for you.”

They liked it just fine. And when every bit of china had been practically licked clean, and every piece of cutlery as well, Houdini said, “All right. I’ll help you, Herman Blumenthal. I’ll have the trick built and take half the proceeds it generates. However it works.” He turned his eye on each of them, an eyebrow cocked. “But only because I can’t resist a good story.”