With a swift motion Houdini plunged the needle into his cheek. The audience gasped and a woman let out a small cry. He pulled another pin out of thin air and stuck himself again, seemingly. Houdini smiled and even from the furthest corner of the hall I could see how wan and aged he looked. The hard bone of the skull was visible beneath the stretched skin. Heavy creases marked his forehead. He wore an air of exhaustion as he summoned Smiler to pluck the needles from his face. At this we all clapped our hands together.
My thoughts once more fixed on that bastard Smilovich soaking in his unearned applause and I began gnashing my teeth, the chemical flavour of the drug dripping down into my pharynx. Houdini moved on to something about Theosophy and faery photography, chiding Sir Conan Doyle for his credulity. He then commenced a mind- reading display. Another of my former confederates, a chemist named Jacques Price, helped Houdini with his mentalism. Various things happened: a man was told he had a pomegranate in his pocket, another what he’d eaten for luncheon at Hausmann’s, for a third Jacques Price wrote a phrase in Italian on a chalkboard.
“Should you be so kind as to attend my performance this week I will be able to demonstrate further,” said Houdini. “You will forgive me for not revealing the means by which I was able to demonstrate mind-reading here tonight but please rest assured that no occult power was invoked. The abilities claimed by mediums are no more than the stock-in-trade of the magical arts from the time of Moses to our present day. With sufficient training any one of you here could accomplish the same feats as I...”
I felt Jack tense next to me of a sudden, his interest sharpened.
“On the other hand...”
There was a flash of light and Houdini was gone. For near on twenty seconds we sat dumb in shock until another startling explosion heralded the man’s return. He roared: “This week at the Princess Theatre you will see a complete medium’s seance with clear explanations of such erstwhile supernatural phenomena as table-rapping, the ringing of phantom bells in enclosed spaces, and ghostly apparitions including ectoplasmic forms. I will also then field a number of questions, as I do now. The floor is open, ladies and gentlemen.”
The first question came from a weedy-looking shrimp who stood and asked: “Mr. Houdini, what have you to say about the unusual occurrences recorded by the American Charles Fort?”
“It is my belief that Mr. Fort is in fact as skeptical of any dubious claim as I am and his documentation of the inexplicable is in aid of scientific truth and not sensationalism.”
“Mr. Houdini, do you believe in reincarnation? In life after death?” asked a thin dark girl in spectacles.
“I do not. Consider this: in almost every instance a medium will aver her client the returned incarnation of Caesar Augustus or Marie Antoinette, never slave or village idiot. Draw what conclusions you may. As for your second question: I have left secret instructions to be opened upon my death. Every year on the day of my passing a series of particular questions that only I know the answer to must be asked at a seance. Should the response be correct then we may say there is a world beyond and that Houdini has escaped from it!”
“Mr. Houdini, are you a Jew?”
“I am. My father was a rabbi. What possible relevance your question may possess is beyond my ability to descry.”
He stood erect, all majesty, his hands now gripping the lectern with enormous force. It was strange; not the magician, but Jack. Why’d he risen and posed Houdini that particular question?
The session tailed off with a few pathetic queries on ghosts and vampires, questions Houdini batted away as equally insignificant. It was a poor showing from a supposedly well-educated audience. Houdini bowed stiffly to our applause and gathered his papers. He walked to where Smiler, Price, and others were milling in a group. Smiler was spouting philosophy, a regurgitated piece of conventional wisdom. Jack went towards my former companions. I followed, and saw their surprise as I approached. Houdini’s face tightened when Jack came to him.
“What may I do for you?” asked Houdini, coldly.
“Your servant, sir,” Jack said. “Pray forgive the personal nature of the question earlier. I wonder, Mr. Houdini, if you will be patient with me.”
Very slight stress on the word “patient” and when Houdini gripped Jack’s proffered hand the escape artist’s attitude shifted.
“What may I do for you?” Houdini asked once more.
“I’m given to understand that you own a copy of
“I do,” said Houdini.
The group had fallen silent, entranced by this cryptic dialogue. I saw Smiler glaring at Jack. Price had hands in pockets and was surreptitiously scratching at his groin. Jack squared his feet and continued heedless, he and Houdini sharing an understanding.
“I’ve long wished to read the account but have never been able to find it. Have you a copy with you here in Canada?”
“I do,” said Houdini, reluctantly.
“I’m a quick reader and would esteem it a high honour should you lend it to a poor widow’s son. I’ll happily provide you with any surety you require.”
“None will be necessary,” Houdini said.
“Very well. Where may I call for it?”
“The volume will be left for you at the front desk of my hotel, the Windsor. Your name, sir?”
Jack gave one.
“Thank you, Mr. Houdini.”
They shook hands a last time. Smiler escorted the magician away. Sycophants dispersed. Jack stood still as though mesmerized.
“Jack,” I said.
“Eh?”
“Let’s go.”
The hall echoed as we returned to the rain. Lubie squatted on the steps, snuffling like a swine. Jack broke from his trance.
“Come on,” he said.
“Where to?”
“You’ll see.”
We walked quiet in the dark to the gates on Sherbrooke. True to form Jack was plotting, and I could almost hear the gears at work.
“I’ve never heard of that book,” I said. “Who wrote it?”
“No one.”
“What?”
“No one wrote it. Well, someone did, but he doesn’t exist.”
“Who?”
“James Watson,” Jack said.
“Dr. Watson?”
“The same.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“But he did.”
“The other thing, your calling him out as a Jew and that. He’s on the level.”
“And the square,” Jack said, hailing a taxi.
The ’cab went uphill and along Pine to a large stone house, all stern wealth. We curled along a drive and under a porte-cochere, where Jack paid off the driver. Here spread an aroma of the nearby mountain green and rich, wet red leaves soaking in the dark, the dim spread of the city below with a suggestion of the river beyond. Not for the first time I yearned for the clean vastness of the sea. I felt a deficit of fresh oxygen in the East and I sucked up two lungfuls, closed my eyes a moment, and tried to simply exist.
Jack whistled, gestured from between the white pillars of the portico and without further ado opened the front door, from whence issued the smell of strangely scented cigaret smoke, cloves, and a sweetish spice. In the vestibule a pretty girl tottered towards us, giggled, and vomited into a large Chinese vase. Behind her followed a tuxedoed blade, his white tie askew. He grinned stupidly and dragged the girl away. We followed a noise down the hall to its source in an expensive salon. Fifteen or twenty people made up the party and a Victrola played jazz, with
