"Heaven help us!" Albert shouted. "The Spider-girl is attacking! Run for your lives!" At this, Bess pulled her lips back in a snarl, revealing a pair of gleaming fangs. As she edged forward just slightly, a thin stream of red liquid dribbled from her bottom lip. Not a lot of people were there to see that. Most of them had already run screaming for the exit door, which Albert held open in an obliging manner.
No sooner had the last of the marks bolted through the door than the Spider-girl broke off her attack.
"Very nice, Mrs. Houdini," said Albert, dusting off his hands. "I doubt if Miss Bernhardt could have done better."
"And the costume suits you," I added, gesturing at the bobbing thorax, "but don't you think you're showing a bit too much leg?''
"Very funny, Dash," she answered. "I hear Weber and Fields might be looking for a third comic. Why don't you run on down to the Palace?"
"I just came from there," I said. "They don't need comics, but there's a spot for a dancing girl, so long as she has eight legs. Say, you don't suppose…?"
"Just help me out of this thing, would you, Dash?" I walked behind the pedestal and helped to disengage her from the apparatus. Bess stood up and stretched to work out the kinks. "Tell me you've found us another booking, Dash," she said. "Please tell me you've found us another booking."
"Nothing yet," I said.
"Father preserve us," she said. "Have you told him yet? Have you told the man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel called the 'most captivating entertainer in living memory'?"
"Not yet."
"I wish you luck," she said, dabbing at some blood on her chin.
I could hear Harry in the main room, shouting something about towels, clean water, and performers of a certain "exalted magnitude." Then the door banged open and my brother hurtled into the room, chin first, looking like a boxer coming out of his corner. I knew that if Harry followed his normal pattern, he would need about three minutes to blow off steam. The steam usually blew in my direction.
"Dash!" he called, barrelling toward me. "See what has become of the Great Houdini! Have I not proved myself? Have I not created a unique, exceptional act as the justly celebrated self-liberator, renowned for his death-defying acts of bravery?"
"You have indeed, Harry," I said. "Am I not the man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel called the 'most captivating entertainer in living memory'?"
Bess and I exchanged a look. "You are indeed, Harry," I said.
"Europe is rich with opportunity for a talented man such as myself, but I am determined to succeed in America, the land of my birth. And yet, here in the city of New York, the place I love above all others, I am regarded as a simple conjurer. A mere magician! It is madness, is it not?"
"It is indeed, Harry," I said. "Intolerable," he said. "You may walk with me to my dressing room."
You may wonder why I put up with him. To be frank, I'd long since learned to lower the volume on him when he launched one of his tirades. Had I actually been listening, I might have pointed out to him that America was not, in fact, the land of his birth. Hungary was the land of his birth. Budapest, to be specific. America was the land of my birth, which explained many of the differences between us.
He led me into the dank back room of the butcher shop, toward a small equipment closet that he had commandeered as a dressing area. His mirror and makeup kit were neatly laid out on a block table that-judging by the ragged grooves on its surface-had once been used to saw carcasses. Harry sat down on a rickety stool and faced the mirror.
"Why won't they let me do the trunk trick, Dash?" he asked. “It was such a hit on the road. I could be the finest escape artist who ever lived. You see that, don't you?"
"As far as we know, Harry, you're the only escape artist who ever lived. So there isn't a whole lot of demand for it just yet. Everybody knows what a magician does. Nobody's ever heard of an escape artist."
He looked at himself in the mirror. For some reason, he insisted on wearing full stage makeup on the sideshow platform, and spent half an hour troweling on heavy foundation each morning. The dark pencilling on his eyebrows and the orange tint of his cheeks made him look like a stern carrot. He dipped his ringers into a wooden tub and began slathering his face with butterfat, which was what we used for makeup remover in those days.
"Why don't we have some posters made up?" he asked. "That might help. We could show me struggling with chains and handcuffs. 'Will He Escape?' It would be very dramatic."
"Posters cost money, Harry."
He sighed and rubbed his face with a scrap of coarse wool. "What about Sing-Sing? That would be free."
Harry had come up with the idea of breaking out of a cell at Sing-Sing prison, figuring that such a stunt would grab a fair number of headlines. "I've spoken to the warden three times," I said. "He doesn't want you anywhere near the place." Actually, the warden's exact words had been somewhat more explicit, and involved many repetitions of the phrase "brass-plated nut case." I saw no reason why Harry needed to hear that.
"They are afraid of Houdini," he said. "It will make them look bad if Houdini breaks free of their brand-new jail."
Bess crept past me and squeezed onto the stool next to Harry. "I asked Albert about doing the trunk trick," she announced.
"You did?" Harry looked at her in the mirror. "What did he say?''
She reached down and began untying the ballet slippers she wore on stage. "You won't like it, Harry."
He laid his hands on the table. "Tell me."
Bess pulled off her slippers and began winding the ribbons. "Albeit says that watching you is only slightly more interesting than watching a cigar store Indian. He says that your patter stinks. I believe he had much the same conversation with Dash."
Harry turned to me. "Is this true?"
"He may have mentioned something of the sort."
He looked into the mirror and fell silent, his face a study in dejection. Bess stood behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Well," he said after a time. "I don't suppose I've ever heard-"
"Mr. Houdini?" We heard a voice coming from the main room.
"In here, Jack," Harry called, turning toward the door.
Jack Hawkins, the errand boy from Thornton's across the street, poked his head through the doorway. He wore the red and gold uniform of a theater usher, complete with a round chin-strap hat that concealed most of his bright red hair. Alert and eager to please, Jack must have been all of eleven years old at the time. Harry and I took an interest in him because we'd both also worked as bellhops at his age, and like Jack, we'd always been willing to jump though hoops for a nickel tip.
"Evening, Mrs. Houdini," Jack said, tugging at his cap. He thrust an envelope at Harry. "Telegram came for you at the box office, sir."
"Good lad," said Harry. He was always saying things like "Good lad" and "There's a good fellow" to Jack. He also liked to tousle the boy's hair, which Jack endured with ill-concealed annoyance.
Harry unfolded the telegram and scanned the contents. "It seems that I am moving up in the world, Dash," he said, raising his eyebrows. "I've been invited to the home of Branford Wintour. On Fifth Avenue, no less."
I whistled. "Branford Wintour? What's he want with you?"
"Who's Branford Wintour?" Jack asked.
"They call him the King of Toys," I explained. "There's hardly a boy in America who hasn't played with one of his whirly tops. He has a big factory in New Jersey-wooden soldiers, paper novelties, train sets. Anything you can imagine."
"I don't have much time for wooden soldiers," Jack said in a husky voice.
"What's he want with you, Harry?" I repeated. "Some sort of society wing ding?"
"I think not," Harry said. "It seems that Mr. Wintour has been murdered, and only Houdini can tell the police how it was done."