Some of his trickery I found tedious, yet I was more interested-though not that much more-by his climactic exhibition, his being bound again in ropes, then lowered into a coffin with the town’s master carpenter Hermann Grower noisily banging nails into the lid and, prompted by the audience, examining the box closely. Grower mumbled to the audience, “It’s real, let me tell you,” spoken with so much wonder and awe that he garnered a round of spontaneous applause. The coffin was lifted into the air and suspended above the stage as a curtain was drawn over it, leaving an open space below it. Silence…minutes passing…shuffling of feet and elbows in the audience…whispers…nervousness. Waiting…waiting.
I fought a vagrant mental image of laughing, happy Frana Lempke escaping into the woods on the arm of her murderous lover. Trapped, unable to free herself. What happened to them? What turned that joyous moment into such disaster? Again and again and again: How did Frana get out of the school? Where was the evil lover waiting? The lawn behind the high school led, a few hundred yards away, into the dense park of Lovers Lane. So many places to hide. The back door of the school opened onto that wooded expanse. I drifted off, an unwelcome reverie, imaging myself in Lovers Lane the moment Esther and I happened upon that body.
The curtain lifted. I jumped, emitted a little yelp, and my mother scowled at me. The box rested on the stage, and from the wings a triumphant Houdini appeared. He invited the carpenter to examine the box and beamed as Hermann Grover announced that not a nail had been removed, everything was just as he had hammered it minutes before. Removing the lid, a disheveled brother Theo popped out. He bowed. Hermann, excited, reached over to shake Houdini’s hand, and Houdini, winking at the audience, put something in Hermann’s hand. Baffled, Hermann opened his palm and grinned. He was holding, he announced, the watch fob that had been clipped to his vest.
“Genius,” he shouted, and the crowd roared.
Masterful. The pint-sized dynamo, all sinew and muscle, a Jewish boy from Appleton, the performer who once called himself the Prince of the Air, stealer of crabapples and peaches. The wonder of it all.
Afterwards in the lobby, that hum of wonder covered the room like a spray of warm river mist. I was standing near the front door, ready to leave, watching as Gustave Timm, preening like a barnyard cock at dawn, leaned into my father, but I had no idea what he was saying. Yet my father was pleased, even smiling a bit. So it was all right, then, this chat.
When I approached, I heard Gustave inviting him to join him and David Baum and some other men for a luncheon two days hence, the day before Houdini was scheduled to leave. That thrilled me, but my father said, “No, thank you.”
Gustave implored him, saying that Baum had requested my father be there. “Houdini wants to meet the father of the feisty girl who ambushed him on College Avenue.”
Baum, like Jacob Ferber, of course, and Houdini himself, had been born in small impoverished villages in Hungary. They had all fled to the golden land.
“No,” my father said, a little more empathically, “I would be uncomfortable.”
Gustave walked away. Listening to these few plaintive words, I wanted to go home.
Suddenly Houdini was there, a small, clean-shaven man now writ larger than life, his black curly hair messed up. He maneuvered his way through the packed crowd. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, expecting to see Sam Ryan or Miss Ivy. It was Homer Timm. He looked none too happy away from the corner of the room where he’d been rooted. Mildred, nearby, watched him, a frown on her face. Another observation for my notebook: The future brother-in-law and sister-in-law disliked each other. A trio of unhappy players.
I knew Homer had moved into Mrs. Zeller’s rooming house years back after his wife took sick and the children went back East to the grandparents. Gustave, the newcomer, rented the small cheap bungalow on South Street, just up from the boat dock near the mill district. The brothers didn’t share lodging. Well, I thought, grimly, I understood that perfectly because I anticipated the day when Fannie and I would be miles apart, independent of each other’s lives, my older sister married and probably stopping by on the High Holy Days or, more likely, Christmas. It would be nice if she lived in California, where I had no intention of ever going.
“Houdini wants to say hello to you,” Homer said. “He sent me to ask you because he can’t escape the sycophants.” A strange run of words, mechanical and flat, said while looking over my shoulder and seemingly addressed to the wall behind me. I caught Houdini’s eye. He was being monopolized by the overbearing Helena Poindexter, Appleton’s quintessential clubwoman, all bosom and bamboozle. He couldn’t escape. Her dress had a sweetheart decollete neckline, and under the overhead lights her wrinkled neck sported an ostentatious rope of pearls, a look that didn’t serve her well. Homer Timm slipped back to his necessary wall next to the frowning Mildred, while I made my way to Houdini, who looked relieved.
“You like my show?”
“Of course.”
“I knew you would. I’m the Handcuff King. The world flocks to my shows.” He actually puffed his chest out, a bantam on home ground.
And I’m the Queen of Sheba. Immediately I feared he could also read minds. “Very impressive.”
“I read your interview in the Crescent.”
“You did?” I was pleased.
“Wonderful. I love what you said about my devotion to my mother. And the money I make. I am a success story for Appleton.”
“You are, indeed.”
“I cut it out, two copies, pasted one in my scrapbook I carry.”
I thanked him, pleased. “I’m just…”
He cut me off. “You are going to say you’re just a small-town reporter.” I shuddered. My God, he did read minds. “You remember my advice to you?”
He waited for me to answer. “Concentration and imagination.”
He chuckled. “A good student.”
I caught my mother’s eye. Let’s go home, her glance indicated. But when I looked back at Houdini, suddenly I didn’t want to abandon the conversation because I had an idea. I leaned into him. “Mr. Houdini, perhaps you’ve read of the murder of Frana Lempke?”
He seemed startled by the quick shift in subject. “Yes, David Baum and I discussed it. It’s a sad story, no?”
“It’s baffling.” I tried not to raise my voice.
“Baffling?”
“The way it happened. We…I mean the police can’t make any sense out of the way it happened. It’s a mystery.”
“What are you telling me?” His head was bobbing, his face close to mine.
“Well, watching you tonight on stage…”
“You liked it?”
“Of course, but watching your show, I thought…” I stopped. What did I want from him?
Houdini watched me closely, his face now soft and his eyes unblinking. “And you think all mysteries can be answered? Like in my show?”
I was surprised. “I hope so. I’ve always believed there’s an answer to everything.”
“That may not be true.”
“But there is a murderer…”
“You know, my dear Miss Ferber, murders are like escape from handcuffs-there’s always gotta be an answer, even though it looks impossible. Concentration and imagination. Logic and romance, the two together, you know. Any crime has to have an answer. It’s just a question of how to locate the answer.”
“But that’s what’s baffling.”
He whispered. “Before I let anyone tie me up or handcuff me, I already know beforehand-always-how I will be free. Otherwise I’d panic. It would be chaos, disaster.” He paused. “Even death. You gotta know how to escape.” While he was talking, a young man was dragging at his sleeve, thrusting a paper and pen for an autograph. Houdini tried to ignore him but hurriedly scratched his name on the sheet. He turned to me, “A minute of conversation in my dressing room, perhaps. Is all right?”
I agreed. Hurriedly, I told my family to leave without me, though my mother didn’t look happy. I wove my way through the still-milling crowd to a side door where Houdini waited. Gustave Timm was standing outside his office, his hands holding a stack of papers, and he looked surprised.