“I have an answer to your question.” Houdini looked into my eager face.
Sam Ryan was smiling.
“And?”
“And Mr. Ryan agrees with me.” A moment passed, Houdini’s face assuming a faraway look. “You know, Miss Ferber, Mr. Ryan actually remembers my family from years back. He remembers the early Jewish families moving in. The frightened immigrants in the strange town.”
Sam tapped his cigar in his ashtray. “His father, Rabbi Mayer Weiss, used to stop in with news items. A fine man, a scholar. Let me tell you-he created quite a sensation as he walked up College Avenue, looking like an old- world prophet in his Talmudic shawl, a white neckband, and that hat…”
“A barrett,” Houdini finished for him. “The four-cornered miter of German Reform Judaism. I used to be embarrassed…” He stopped. “A man who found nothing in America but sadness and death.” Then he shook his head. “Listen to me. Family stories.” He saluted Sam, pleased. “It’s good he is remembered.”
“And well,” Sam added. “A dignified man.”
Houdini nodded. “But now it is time for our business, Miss Ferber. I’ve suggested to Mr. Ryan a little of what I think needs to be done, but you and I have work to do. We have a performance to stage.”
“I’m not following this, sir.”
“Mr. Ryan has already contacted the chief of police, and we’re meeting at the high school at three, very shortly, when the students leave. I have an
“Tell me,” I demanded, hungry.
Houdini laughed. “I’m a showman, my dear. Seeing is believing. You asked me to perform magic. You have to learn that magic has its own rules. Would you rob me of my moment?” His tone became serious. “I’m not gonna name the murderer for you-I don’t have any idea on that, I tell you-but I think I can show you how to walk through a wall and not be seen. You have to find the murderer yourself.”
I held up my hand. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Houdini. I’m not trying to find a murderer…”
He interrupted. “Of course, you are. I know you, young lady.” He ran his hands through his hair, and a clump of hair jutted out. He left it there. “It’s a story that needs an ending.”
“We have a chief of police and a deputy…”
“They may need a little help from you.”
Sam Ryan was enjoying Houdini’s baiting of me. “Mr. Houdini,” he admitted, “is quite a persuasive man.”
“I can persuade men to chain me, tie me up, handcuff me, throw me into jail cells. People like doing that. It’s the
A little dazed, I stood. Sam turned to Matthias Boon. “Matt, get your hat and notebook.”
I would have none of it. “This is my story.”
Sam shook his head. “Mr. Boon is the city editor, Edna. You know that. This is his story.”
“But I’m at the heart of the story.”
Houdini was watching me.
“No.”
And that was that. I glowered at anyone who looked my way. Matthias Boon preened, swelling up like a spoiled child indulged one too many times with sticks of sweet peppermint. So be it. Let the episode of Houdini be reported by a man who didn’t have a sensible notion in his fat head.
Houdini bowed to Esther. “And this pretty lass can be my stage assistant, seeing as my bride Bess is in New York and my brother is off with friends.” Esther blushed and stammered a thank you. I frowned. Was sight the only operative sense for the male of the species?
So Houdini, Esther, Boon, and I headed a few blocks away to Ryan High School. As we walked, I kept my distance from the strutting editor who led the way, as though we’d never gone that route before. At the corner, turning from the police station, Caleb Stone spotted us, and waited. Rushing up, out of breath, was Amos Moss. In his agitation he had mismatched the buttons on his vest under the shabby old suit. That proved my theory-men function with only the sense of sight, always impaired.
A few students straggled out of the building, but the hallways were empty. Miss Hepplewhyte stood, flummoxed. “Has something happened?”
Yes, a murder.
No one had told Principal Jones and Vice-Principal Homer Timm about the visit, and both men were not happy, though the principal shrugged his shoulders. “What do you want me to do?” The usually genial man seemed a little startled, and rightly so. This was his domain, invaded.
Homer Timm had been speaking to Mr. McCaslin, who looked relieved when Timm, spotting the regiment of souls marching in-with Houdini as leader, no less-simply abandoned him. He stood there, a frown on his face. The drama teacher looked puzzled, eyes dark, and quickly stepped into a classroom, shutting the door behind him.
Caleb Stone apologized for the intrusion, an apology clearly not genuine. For some reason, he was relying on the element of surprise. But why? After the explanation-“Mr. Houdini has an idea”-a line that seemed weighty and somber, a kind of leaden exclamation-the two men nodded to each other, and Principal Jones waved his arm to the notorious corridor. “Down here, Mr. Houdini.” He stammered, “It’s a honor, sir.”
Houdini bowed slightly. “Of course it is. But first I would like to walk around the school, if I might.”
He strolled the hallways, peering into classrooms, offices, standing on stairwell landings, though I noticed he did not go upstairs. He did walk into the auditorium and into the dressing rooms, and at one point he stood on the stage, down front, and seemed ready to do his magic act. He’d probably never met a stage he didn’t immediately dominate. I wondered if he’d be followed by a troupe of sword swallowers? Of fire-eaters? Where were the Siamese twins?
He wandered through the small school library, empty of students, and Miss Dunne, surprised as she shelved a book, actually gasped and dropped it to the floor.
“Houdini,” she exclaimed, and he laughed, bowing.
“All right, enough of this.” He turned to me and asked to be directed to the locked storeroom He stood there, contemplating, his eyes focused. Then he took Esther’s hand and leaned in to whisper something to her. Blushing a deep scarlet, Esther nodded and walked out of the building. “My lovely assistant has an assignment.”
What? To amass boughs of lilacs to be strewn at your feet? To hire a brass band?
Houdini faced the offending door, now locked. “You have a key?” he asked the principal. “Can you open it?”
Homer Timm sneered, “You can’t be of help?”
Houdini regarded him with narrow eyes. “I get out of situations, not into them.”
So the door was opened and Houdini peered at the knob, as well as the inside of the door. “Shut me in.” He paused, then seemed to speak to himself. “Ah, it locks when it closes.” He stepped into the dusty, dim space, and Caleb Stone slammed the heavy oak door shut. He jiggled the knob, but the door was locked.
“No key needed to lock it,” the chief said.
Yes, I believe that’s what Houdini just announced.
Everyone waited and my heart pounded. I noticed a sheepish Mr. McCaslin had slipped into the hallway, though he stood away from the rest of us. Obviously he didn’t want to miss this new scene in our play. We waited as three four five six minutes passed. No one said a word, expectant. Every so often there was pounding or scraping from within, and one time Houdini let out a low-throated groan. Good God, was he stumbling around in the dark?
Then, abruptly, the door flew open, and Houdini stepped into the hallway with a flourish.
“So?” Caleb Stone’s voice wavered.
“I’m playing with you,” Houdini said, cavalierly. “Opening this door is no trick.” He pointed to a knob on the inside of the door. “To get out all I had to do is to turn the knob.” He bowed. “This is no challenge.”
I realized that, as with his stage show, he delayed freeing himself for dramatic effect. Yes, I told myself-you build a scene craftily; you need to understand crescendo and climax.
Amos Moss grunted. “Ain’t a question of getting out anyway. It’s a question of how she got in.”
Houdini looked at him, “No, you’re wrong, sir. It is a question of how she got out. But we know she ain’t got
