Escape Artist

“What?” A little peeved.

“I enjoy your spirit.”

“Well…”

“It’s good, really. You write with flavor, and you speak with a passion. And you are how old?”

“Nineteen.”

“A child.”

“Hardly.”

“Are you married?”

“Of course not.” What was wrong with this man?

“I married my Bess young, knew her a matter of days. A slip of a girl, though the love of my life, this wonderful woman. She is better than my career, of course. In a few years I’ll stop this nonsense and have children. Lots of them.”

“I have no intention of getting married,” I announced, surprising myself.

“Then you better get famous fast.”

“Why?”

“We all got to have someone to applaud for us.”

That made no sense. I wanted to get back to the story of Frana. “Mr. Houdini, people can’t walk through walls…”

“Of course they can.”

“No, no, realistically.” I was getting frustrated. “I know you do an act on stage, but you can’t just walk through a wall.” I pointed to an outside wall, bright under blazing gaslight.

“You just have to know how to do it.”

He was toying with me, as he’d done before, and, again, I realized I took myself too seriously. All right. But this pleasant banter was getting us nowhere. Frankly, it was time for bed. Eight hours of blissful sleep each night, my practical regimen, my requirement, no less.

“All along,” I emphasized, “I was thinking Frana was hiding in that locked, unused storeroom, but maybe she was running through the woods, happy as can be.” I made eye contact. “That means she got out.”

“Happy, until someone snapped her neck.” Houdini dramatically twisted his wrists.

I trembled. “It seems impossible.”

“Mysteries are like handcuffs…”

I interrupted. “I know, I know. They always have an answer.”

“Let me think on this. I’m here for three more days.” He stood. “Now I’ll walk you home.”

“Oh, no. That’s not necessary. Appleton is a safe town. It’s not that far.”

His face set, firm. “I am a gentleman. I can do no less.”

I acquiesced reluctantly, though flattered. As we walked out, Gustave Timm was turning off the gaslights and locking the doors behind us. Mildred Dunne had left. Cinderella back at the hearth, dreaming of September and her honeymoon at Niagara Falls. Outside, waiting for his brother, Homer Timm stood with his arms folded over his chest. He seemed startled to see Houdini and me together, Houdini cradling my elbow. We turned down the sidewalk, crossing the street. When I glanced back both brothers were still outside the Lyceum, two shadows against the dark facade, unmoving.

Under a moonlit sky, we walked to my home in comfortable silence. The only thing Houdini said was that the night reminded him of a recent stroll on the Nevsky Prospekt in Moscow.

“The sky was the same pale blue with a hint of sulfur in the air. Like here in Appleton from the paper mills out at the Flats. I never forget the odor of sulfur in the air. In Moscow I feel like I’m in prison. The Czar’s police follow you everywhere. It ain’t America, Miss Ferber.” He grew quiet, neither of us talking until I pointed out my house, dark now, on North Street. He bowed and I thanked him.

“I have an answer for you,” he said, suddenly. “There is only one possible answer.”

I turned back. “What is it?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

He chuckled in the darkness. “The impatience of young people. I will sleep on it.”

He disappeared into the dark night.

Chapter Twelve

The next day I met Esther for a lunch at Volker’s Drug Store, famous for its curious cardboard sign in the front window: Hier wird Englisch gesprochen. On Thursdays Mrs. Beckerstrader baked her German delights, an array of succulent confections, plum tortes, Pfeffernusse, the cottage cheese kuchen, and the cinnamon rolls topped with slivers of almonds-the best in Appleton-and both of us knew the delicacies would be gone by Friday. Each week I treated Esther from the allowance my mother gave me from my salary. It made me feel…independent. Afterwards, sated, I staggered back toward the city room with Esther, who’d be shopping for her mother’s kitchen at W. L. Rhodes, Grocer, just around the corner from the Crescent office. As we approached Morrison and College, we nearly collided with Ivy Ryan, her arms around a basket of poppy-seed rolls.

Miss Ivy gushed, “You’d best get back to the office. You have a visitor waiting on you.”

“Who?”

“The man who warrants these rolls.” Miss Ivy’s eyes grew wide. “Sam first mentioned a pail of beer from Glassner’s Grog Shop, but Houdini said no. Never.”

In an awed voice she told us that Houdini had stopped in at the office asking for me, and Sam Ryan sent her to purchase some breads. The office was in a titter. “Even Matthias Boon seems at a loss for venom.”

Esther said goodbye, but I insisted she meet the great Houdini. Flustered, Esther started to hiccough, debating what to do. Her rabbi father had forbidden her coming with us to see the show at the Lyceum, but she’d peppered me with questions about it. “The opportunity of a lifetime, Esther.”

As we descended the five cement steps, Houdini stood, smiled, and bowed, first at me and then at Esther. Of course, he was immediately taken with Esther, which irritated me. After all, Houdini was my friend. Sort of. Somewhat. Esther slipped into a convenient chair and produced a smile that seemed frozen onto her captivating features.

Byron Beveridge was sitting back, his fingers idly tinkling the keys of his typewriter as he watched Houdini. Matthias Boon had maneuvered his swivel chair to the edge of his cluttered desk, as close to Houdini as he could be and still seemingly remain positioned at his own desk. He gave me a mock friendly look that reminded me of Homer Timm’s transparent attempt at friendliness at the high school. Sam Ryan slumped in his rickety chair behind that chicken wire fence (I wondered what Houdini thought of such a makeshift construction in a newspaper office), conducting a lively talk with Houdini.

Sitting back in a chair pulled close to Sam’s desk, Houdini seemed a nondescript man, as unassuming as the town cooper or gunsmith, someone stopping in to place an ad in the Crescent and chatting about local politics. Sam was puffing on his cigar, and a cloud of dense, stagnant smoke floated above the desk like a low-hanging storm cloud. Sam’s wrinkled face looked more creased and pitted than usual because cracking a smile seemed to set in motion layers of chafed, dry skin.

“Miss Ferber, join us.” Sam Ryan motioned to me. “There’s a man here to see you.”

As I walked by, Boon mumbled, “The novelty may be too much for her.”

I shot him a withering look. I introduced Esther to Houdini, though she remained frozen in a chair by the door. Houdini responded, “Lola Montez has nothing on you, my dear.” For God’s sake. What was I? Dishwater with an intellect? Yes, a part of me was pleased that a friend of mine garnered such attention. After all, I invited her here. Still and all…I surveyed the room. All the men were gaping at Esther, rapt as schoolboys at their games. I caught Miss Ivy’s eye when she looked up from placing the rolls onto a plate. Her puzzled glance suggested that men were such abysmal fools. They always missed the point. Beauty was…well…

“You came to see me?” I asked, loudly.