down.”
“You refused?” Harry asked.
“Of course I refused! And Tate assured me that he bore no ill will. We shook hands and parted as friends-or so I believed. But he returned later, when the others had gone. Said he was going to give me one last chance to do the decent thing. When I again refused, he informed me that I no longer had a choice in the matter. ‘It pains me to do this,’ he said, ‘but I am a desperate man.’ That’s when he pulled out his gun.”
“The Navy Colt,” I said. “With the ivory grips.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “How could you possibly know that, Dash?”
“Harry, Addison Tate does a ‘Wild West’ act. He’s the best trick shooter in all of New York. I’ve seen that pistol dozens of times. So have you. He treats that gun like precious jewel.”
Harry stroked his chin. “A regrettable lapse. I saw, but I did not observe.”
I turned back to Patrell. “I can’t believe that Addison Tate would do such a thing. I know the man.”
“I don’t think he intended to shoot me, Dash,” Patrell said, wincing slightly as his hand went to his bandaged shoulder. “I was so convinced of it, in fact, that when he reached for the money, I pushed him away and tried to scoop the money back into my strongbox. That’s the last thing I remember, apart from the sound of the gun. When I came to my senses, the room was full of people and my shoulder hurt like the devil, but Tate and the money were gone.”
“It must have been an accident,” I said. “He keeps a hair-trigger on that pistol.”
“Taking the money was no accident, Dash. And whether he meant to shoot me or not, it’s all one and the same in the eyes of the law. I’ll see him in Sing Sing before this is over. If only he can be found!”
“And so we come to the business at hand,” said Harry, spreading his palms on the table before him. “You wish to hire me.”
“Obviously,” said Patrell.
“Yes, just so. Obviously. You should have consulted me sooner. By this time, no doubt, the police have trodden on any number of vital clues, but perhaps I might uncover the truth by questioning-”
“I must say, Houdini, you don’t seem quite yourself today.” Patrell brushed the last of the walnut shells into his handkerchief. “Do I understand that you fancy yourself a detective now?”
“You’ve come to the right man. I shall locate Addison Tate for you, and I shall solve the mystery of his disappearance, or my name isn’t-”
“But there’s no mystery about it, Houdini! He simply fled after the gun went off. The police will find him soon enough.”
Harry’s face fell. “No mystery? Then why have you come to see me?”
“You’re still a magician, aren’t you?”
“I am ‘The King of Kards,’” said Harry, straightening his back. “The foremost pasteboard manipulator in the country, capable of making the cards-”
“-Capable of making the cards shimmer and dance upon your fingertips,” said Patrell, finishing Harry’s boast in the weary tone of one who had heard it countless times. “Well, Houdini, making the cards shimmer and dance is another service that Addison Tate had undertaken for Patrell’s Wonder Emporium, and rather capably, I will admit. I need someone to fill his slot. I’d do it myself, but with my arm in a sling I couldn’t possibly pull off a manipulation act.”
“Harry would be very pleased to accommodate you,” I said, assuming my de facto role as my brother’s manager, “provided that you are willing to meet his terms.”
“I’ll pay him three dollars a week,” said Patrell, “which is fifty cents more than I was paying Mr. Tate.”
“My professional charges are upon a fixed scale,” said Harry. “I do not vary them, save when I remit them altogether.”
“What?” asked Patrell.
“Three dollars a week will be fine,” I said quickly.
“Yes,” said Harry, tapping his nose meaningfully. “Perhaps it
Patrell turned to me. “Dash?”
“Three dollars a week will be fine,” I repeated.
“It is a perfect deception,” Harry said, as he journeyed downtown to join Patrell’s Wonder Emporium that afternoon. “I shall pose as a simple card manipulator. No one will suspect that I am silently observing each and every detail.”
“Harry,” said Bess with a sigh. “You
“Bess is right, Harry,” I said. “Don’t mess this up. We need the money. Keep your mind on your act.”
“I shall perform my duties with my usual skill and professionalism,” said Harry. “Of that you may be assured.” His voice took on a faraway quality. “The stage lost a fine actor when I became a specialist in crime.”
“Harry… ”
But he sank back in his seat and would say nothing more.
We were riding a horsecar down Seventh Avenue, with our collars pulled up against a stiff autumn wind. Bess wore a long cloak over the gauzy outfit that I always thought of as her “sugarplum fairy” costume, designed to show her legs to advantage. “I’m freezing,” she said, pulling the folds of the cloak tighter. “I hope Mr. Patrell has managed to find a warm spot this time. Do you remember when he was running the show out of an old fish market? I thought I’d never get the smell of mackerel out of my hair.”
Patrell’s Wonder Emporium had occupied dozens of locations over the course of its twenty-year history. It began as a tent-show on the outer reaches of Central Park, in the days when Wild West demonstrations were still a familiar summer entertainment. Gradually, Patrell took his business downtown in hopes of attracting patrons throughout the year. It was his custom to swoop down whenever a warehouse or dry goods concern went out of business, buying up the remainder of the owner’s lease at a discount and setting the run of his show accordingly.
We alighted at 14th Street and approached the Wonder Emporium from the west. From half a block away we caught sight of the banner line, a row of brightly-painted canvas panels depicting the “wondrous and edifying” novelty acts presented within-a bearded lady, a contortionist, a frog boy, a “Wild Man of Borneo,” a snake charmer, a living skeleton, a “genuine leprechaun,” a fat lady, a sharp-shooter, and a King of Kards. It should be admitted that the illustrations were eye-catching but also highly fanciful. The leprechaun, for example, was depicted as standing in the palm of a normal-sized man, brandishing his tiny hat and dancing a merry jig. “A tiny marvel!” read the bold, up-tilted caption. “Will you find his pot of gold?” The actual performer-Benjamin Zalor, with whom I often played a hand or two of whist-stood somewhat over four feet. If he had ever owned a pot of gold, he neglected to mention it to me.
“That looks nothing like me,” said Harry, pointing to the panel depicting the King of Kards. This was certainly true. The figure on the canvas panel resembled a blond Satan, with playing cards shooting from his fingertips like lightening bolts. A trio of undersized red imps were seen cowering at his feet, averting their eyes.
“These are just stock images,” I said. “Show people come and go. Patrell couldn’t possibly have a new banner painted each time his snake charmer gets a better offer. None of these illustrations looks anything like the actual performer.”
“I know that,” said Harry, “but my public will be disappointed.”
We had only twenty minutes until the start of the first show, and Patrell was waiting for us at the door. He led us inside and showed us to a makeshift stage-a narrow platform fronted with red and blue bunting that ran along one wall below a line of windows. The other performers had already taken their places on stage, waiting for Patrell to drum up the day’s first audience. The proprietor made hasty introductions, then showed Harry and Bess to their place on the platform, between the living skeleton and the snake charmer.
This done, Patrell pulled out a large silver turnip watch at the end of a chain. “Five minutes, ladies and gentlemen!” he announced. “Dash,” he said, turning to me. “Would you mind filling as frog boy?” He gestured to a strange assemblage of wood and cloth at the third position on the platform. At the center stood a raised column painted to resemble a tree stump. If you settled yourself behind the stump in a sort of crouch and poked your head
