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.
“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 idea…”
“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 freeing people from shackles that people resist. Wherever you look, people are in the chains they wrap around themselves.” His eyes got bright. “Freeing people is the job of the newspaper.” He stood. “We need to leave for my real Appleton show. Miss Ferber?”
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.”