Saving Houdini (10 page)

The really good thing about a full-grown, two-hundred-pound pig is that it is excellent camouflage for a lanky eleven-year-old, and both Dash and Walt fit that description. In fact, they had much time in the six hours it took to get to Montreal to look at each other between the cages, rolling their eyes at their predicament but pleased with their bravery. They realized they could have been mistaken for brothers, both with dark hair, pale skin, and big eyes. Though Dash’s eyes were brown; Walter’s were blue, just like his sister’s.

The pigs were both sows with heavy eyelashes and gentle expressions. They smelled like hay and sweat and poo, in that
order, but the boys didn’t mind. Just the same, six hours in a steel compartment with a large, sloppy mammal and the cold air whistling through the slits can feel a lot longer, and more than once, Walter reminded Dash that getting into the cages had been
his
idea.

After Kingston, they were so cold that each snuggled up to his host, and after that, it was only a matter of time before their snores rose along with those of the other creatures, who, curled up and lulled by the rocking of the train, had also fallen asleep.

Later, Dash would wonder how it must have looked to the people on the platform in the Gare de Montreal.

First they would have seen the train pulling in, the smoke and steam spreading in a long plume against the roof of the station, and then, as it stopped, heard the sounds of animals snuffling the air. Then they were going to get a surprise.

Through the slits, Dash saw passengers waiting on the platforms with stewards, baggage carriers, families and rail police. Plenty of bulls, in fact. Clearly, word had been sent ahead about the stowaways and bulls were watching the doors of the freight trains carefully. And a phalanx of uniformed men stepped down from the nearest platform and crossed the rails, fanning out toward the freight train.

“Last stop,” Dash said quietly from inside the car. He and Walt walked backwards, opening the doors to the cages along the floor. “Everybody out.”

The train shook as the men mounted the cars in unison.
One of them appeared in the doorway of their car. This will be quite a sight for him, Dash thought as he and Walt paddled the pigs on their bottoms and sent them charging down the aisle in a pink, squealing throng. The man at the other end of the car flew backwards and tumbled from the train, hollering in alarm.

Dash grabbed Walt’s arm. “Go! Now!”

They pushed against the flow of the pigs and made their way to the door at the other end of the car. Dash opened it a crack and saw more men coming. But their eyes were on the mayhem, not the space between the cars, and Dash slid out like a shadow and quickly disappeared behind the next car. Walt shut the door and slid away as well, joining Dash behind the commotion.

They stood utterly still, not daring to breathe. Pigs thundered toward the passenger platforms. On the faces of the travellers awaiting their train on the last platform before the yard, Dash saw a mixture of amusement and the dawning realization that they’d have to get out of the way.

“Go, pigs,” said Walt quietly.

“You mean,
thanks, pigs
! We’re here! We better move it: the clock at the end of that platform says it’s almost eight o’clock. Houdini’s going to be done soon!”

They waited a few moments longer, as the clattering of footsteps and the sound of whistles grew quieter. Then they ran, crouching periodically, to the end of the train, and out in front of it, making a mad dash for the safety of the crowds. They immediately slowed to a walk and melted into them. From there it was
nothing to vanish into the flashing, honking, hooting, clamouring streets of Montreal at 8 p.m. on a Wednesday night in 1926.

Walt’s face was caked with dirt. “That was … amazing,” he said. “I don’t even think they saw us.” He exhaled a long breath and laughed with relief. “Never a dull moment with you, Dash—Holy …
pig
! Look at that!”

A pig was running up the street, twisting in and out of traffic. “We better keep moving,” Dash said. “We have a lecture to catch …”

They made their way to the main road: it was called Rue Sainte-Catherine and it was a zoo up here, and not just because of the pigs. The sidewalks were crazy with people—people walking dogs; women in fine hats walking arm-in-arm with men, with other women, sometimes alone; children walking with their parents; old people taking the air. It seemed that everyone was smoking. The doors to the bars swung open and shut. Such noise! Such life!

Dash had never visited Montreal, so he had no idea how different this might be from Montreal in the
real
present. But if the Montreal of his time bore any relation to the one in 1926, then it was quite the place. As they walked along the busy avenue, those black-hooded Fords were everywhere, parping their horns, pulling over to curbs, pulling away from curbs, like it was a game of musical cars. Men leaned out the windows of parked cars, arms draped over their steering wheels, talking animatedly to
people on the sidewalk. It was a party everyone was invited to, a hoot. Hopefully someone in the madness could tell them where McGill University was.

“Wipe your face!” Dash said to Walt. “You’re filthy.”

“You are too.”

They ran their hands over their cheeks and picked the tufts of hay out of their hair.

It turned out
everyone
knew where McGill University was, only everyone had a different idea about how to get there. Dash and Walt decided the best route was to follow the brightly lit main road. A mist had come into the air, and the boys walked along Sainte-Catherine with their heads lowered, trying not to attract attention.

Soon, they came to McGill College Avenue, wide and straight, and as they turned onto it, they saw the gates of the university ahead of them, lamps on either side casting a warm glow through the haze. Some people were entering those gates, but the avenue was much calmer than the main street had been.

Up at the gates, they saw a big poster that said:

WEDNESDAY ONLY

HARRY HOUDINI

WILL ADDRESS THE MCGILL COMMUNITY
ON THE ILLS OF SPIRITUALISM

THE FAMED MAGICIAN

THROUGH DEMONSTRATION AND DISCUSSION
WILL DEBUNK ALL THE CLAIMS OF SPIRIT MEDIUMS

6:30 p.m.
M
C
GILL STUDENT UNION BALLROOM
ADMISSION FREE

It was already eight fifteen.

“Geez!” said Dash. “We’ve probably missed it!”

They ran up through the centre of campus, big stone buildings looming in the mist, and hunted frantically for the Student Union. When they got there, the doors were already closed, locked from the outside.

They stood on the steps and looked around. It was quiet here. Walter tried the door again and Dash searched for another way in around the side. A man walking by with a cane came out of a passageway.

“You boys lost?” he asked Dash.

“No,” said Dash. “We’re fine.”

“Houdini’s in there tonight,” the man said.

“Yeah, we know. But we can’t get in.”

“Try the back door,” the man said, pointing with his cane. He had a white, walrus-y moustache under his nose.

“There’s a back door?” said Dash. “Thanks!”

“Who you talking to?” asked Walt, coming to where Dash was.

“This man says—” started Dash, but the man was gone. “There’s a back door.”

They ran around the side of the building, where they could
hear laughter and then applause through the brick wall. There was a steel door propped open with a tin can full of sand and cigarette butts. They slipped inside, and saw people standing in the hallway, trying to listen through the open doors to the lounge. The boys crept past them and down a side hall and began trying the doors. One opened and they walked through into a wall of black suits. Men and women were standing three or four deep around the edges of the room.

“This is where we’re standing in the picture!” Walter said into Dash’s ear.

“Move up!” said Dash.

Walt pushed through the men, excusing himself. The sea of tall, thin bodies parted, and they reached the middle of the crowd. Dash followed, whispering his apologies, and then there was a flash of light and he realized they’d gotten there in the nick of time. The man with the camera had just taken the picture. Dash saw him standing on the other side of the cramped lounge.

Unless, thought Dash, he
couldn’t
take the picture
until
they had arrived. He still wasn’t sure how this worked. Had he already
been
here? If someone could give him a picture of himself in his time that had been
taken
in 1926, then he must have been here already. He’d been here then and he was here now. Although, how could any of that be? He shook his head, confounded, and then he heard the voice. He lifted his eyes and saw he was ten feet from Harry Houdini.

The great man was sitting in a plain wooden chair at the
front of the room, and speaking in a strong American accent. He was saying,

“Do we stand idly by while the credulous and the lonesome are feasted upon? The practice of spiritualism is getting to be a very serious thing! The truth should be established beyond a shadow of a doubt, by undeniable evidence. I will tell you this, my friends: in thirty-five years, I have never seen one genuine medium. Millions of dollars are stolen every year by spiritualists, from people who are struck by grief, or living in foolish hope, and governments will do nothing about it because they consider it a religion!”

There was appreciative applause, which extended itself when Houdini stood and took his bows. His right ankle was bandaged above the top of his shoe. Dash remembered that Houdini had broken it earlier that month in Albany, New York, performing his Water Torture Cell.

“Now, if you’d like some
rational
entertainment,” he said, “I propose a performance that will nonetheless bring you to the brink of believing in spirits again. I will be performing at the Princess Theatre tonight through Saturday afternoon. I promise you an experience of great mystification and delight.” And with a flourish, Houdini walked out a door at the back of the room. He was limping, but he held his head high.

“Come on!” said Dash. “We have to talk to him.”

“Wait,” said Walt, as black forms moved around them, lighting their cigarettes. Like crows wreathed in clouds of smoke. “Whadder we gonna say to him?”

“I don’t know!” Dash led the way back out into the Union’s hallways, away from the crowd. “I might have to tell him the truth.”

“That should work like a charm.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, maybe—”

“Where are you boys going?”

A large blue chest had materialized in front of them. A guard with a ruddy face and hands the size of catcher’s mitts. Both boys tracked their eyes up the barrel chest to the large, dark eyes.

“We, uh, we have to tell Houdini something,” said Dash. “It’s important.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t need to hear from the likes of you. What are you doing back here, anyway?”

“We came to hear him speak,” said Dash. “We’re fans.”

“Fans?” said the guard.

“Our mother died because of a spiritualist!” Walt burst out. “A lady spiritualist just down on Sainte-Catherine told ‘er that she had to get ‘er
charms
every week. An’, an’, an’ …” He was running out of material and looking over at Dash. He hid his face in his arm and pretended to cry.

Dash continued. “Never mind him, sir. I understand you gotta protect Mr. Houdini. He’s a famous person! It’s just this lady spiritualist took all our money and then Mum, well …
she ran away
! And Mr. Houdini was talking this very night about that same lady who destroyed our family, and we just wanna thank him is all.”

The guard was staring at them, stonelike, impassive. His eyes twitched back and forth between Dash’s face and the top of Walt’s sobbing head. “What a loada malarky, pure and simple,” he said. Then he stood aside. “
G’wan.
Go to the end of the hall and see the other guard. Tell him Erich is expecting you. He’ll let you pass.”

The two of them sprung forward. The hall outside the lounge was getting busier. They came to the guard at the end.

“We’re here to see Erich,” they said at the same time.

“Calm down, gentlemen! He’s the third door on the right. Knock and wait to be invited in.”

“We will!” They took urgent strides to the third door on the right.

“Before you knock,” Walt said, grabbing Dash’s wrist. “Do I look okay?”

“What?”

“I’m meeting
Houdini
!”

“Dude, you’re fine.”

“You think he’ll help us?”

“I dunno,” Dash said. “
Someone
has to help us! We sure can’t count on Blumenthal.”

That’s when a voice said, “Blumenthal?” They hadn’t noticed the dressing room door was standing open. “Who’s Blumenthal?” said a man in a black suit with a vest. There was a gold chain strung between two pockets.

“Sol?” came a voice from deeper within. “Who is it?”

“Two boys,” said the man. “Gossiping.”

“Excellent,” said the voice. “Invite them in.”

The man named Sol pulled the door open to reveal Houdini sitting in his shirtsleeves before a small mirror and a table. He had been reading a couple of letters that lay open in front of him. There was one other man in the room, dressed in a long grey overcoat. His shoes were rattier than most Dash had seen. He smiled unkindly at them when they entered the room.

“Um,” said Dash. “Hello.”

“Come in, come in,” said Houdini. “Would you boys like some autographs?”

The door closed behind them. It was like someone’s furnace room, and the air in it was tight with smoke. Houdini was the only one who
wasn’t
smoking. His face appeared like it was in its own light. This close up, even closer than he’d been to them in the lounge, Houdini seemed to Dash more miraculously alive. He had an intelligent, catlike face, and brown, glowing eyes. There was a little grey in his hair, hair that lay in tight waves against his head.

“Are you two brothers?” he asked.

“No, sir,” said Dash. “He’s Walter Gibson, my friend.”

“And your name?”

“Dashiel Woolf.”

“I see.” Houdini looked up at Sol and raised an eyebrow. He stood and offered his hand to Walt first. “Is your name really Walter Gibson?”

“Yes.” He shook the man’s hand in grinning stupefaction.

“That is the name of a very good friend of mine, you know.”

“Is it?”

“And you, do they call you Dash for short?”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled at them. “Well, that was my brother Theo’s nickname. From his Hungarian name Ferencz Dezso. We called him Dash.”

“That is … very interesting, sir. And Walt here having your friend’s—”

“Are those your real names?” asked the third man. He had deep-set eyes inside a blocky, rectangular face.

“Our real—Oh yes, sir, yes!” said Dash. “I don’t know Mr. Houdini’s brother’s name, honestly! And he
is
Walter Gibson. I’ve met his parents. That’s what they call him.”

Houdini frowned. “Do your parents actually call you ‘Walter Gibson,’ Walter Gibson?”

“They call me Walt, sir.”

“Well,
Walt
,” said the third man. “Say your piece and make like an egg
—scramble.
” He laughed at his joke and then looked anxiously at his host.

“Oh, Gordon,” said Houdini, “I’ve just thought of a book I’d like to lend you.”

“Yes, Harry. What is it? I’d be very interested to know the book you are thinking of.”

“It’s a biography of the great magician and snake-oil salesman, Katterfelto. Would you come by my hotel later and pick it up, perhaps? I’m at the Mont Royal.”

“Well, yes, I believe I could do that.”

“What time later tonight would suit you? Say ten o’clock?”

The man called Gordon considered this for a moment. “Well,” he said at last, “I believe I could make it around then.”

“Excellent,” said Houdini, rising and limping past the boys to the door. “I look forward to it.”

Gordon lurched out of his seat. He was being excused. His face looked panicked for a moment and then he reassembled it. He tugged his coat straight and touched the tip of his cap as he went past. “Well, I will try to make it, Harry. And I do, yes, I rather look forward to explaining my personal method in more detail, as you so kindly suggest.”

“Thank you again.” Houdini closed the door silently on Gordon. He whispered something in Sol’s ear.

“I’m Sol Jacobson,” the man said to the boys, smiling kindly. He wore a grey fedora like no other person Dash had ever seen, like he must have been born wearing it. There was a hand-rolled cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth.

“Hello, Mr. Jacobson.”

He gestured to a seat. “Let us get to know one another. I am Harry’s manager. And his friend. Are you friends?”

The boys looked at each other, and without hesitation they both said, “Yes,” although Walt said it first.

“Well, then,” said Sol Jacobson, “you will understand it is my job to protect Harry from silly things, shenanigans, little tricksters. And just, you know, look at him—” He looked over at Houdini fondly and Houdini batted his eyes. “He is a wee slip of a man with a fragile constitution.”

“Oh, stop it now,” said Houdini. “Let them say their piece. You have a piece, don’t you, gentlemen? I can feel it.”

“Go directly to the truth,” said Jacobson, “
Dash
and
Walter.
”

“Well, sir, you see,” began Dash, “I’m kind of in trouble, and I thought maybe you might be able to help me.”

Jacobson’s face took on a hard set. “This wouldn’t be a request for money, would it?”

“Just
show
him,” said Walt, barely moving his mouth.

“Show me what?” asked Houdini, and he was perhaps one percent less friendly in his tone. “What have you got?”

Dash stood up and took the newspaper clipping out of its envelope. He unfolded it and put it picture-side up in Houdini’s palm. Houdini read down the first column. Then he studied the photograph.

“That was five minutes ago,” said Dash.

Houdini blinked. “I see,” he said. “Interesting. Where did you get this?”

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“A boy. Not him,” he said, gesturing at Walter. “Another boy.”

“And where did
he
get it?”

“I don’t know,” said Dash.

Jacobson took the paper from Houdini and looked at it carefully, turning it over in his hands. “Harry” he said, “where is that tie you wore tonight?”

“On the divan.” He accepted the paper back, and Jacobson went to get Houdini’s tie. It was dark blue with silvery stars scattered over it.

“You wear this tie frequently enough at your lectures, Harry. Anyone could have done a clever mock-up.”

“The paper looks very old. It smells old.”

“One week in a teapot will do that.”

Houdini had not taken his eyes off of the boys. “Let them remove their jackets, perhaps.”

Jacobson hesitated, but then he held his hand out for their suit jackets. “You have three minutes,” he said.

“Two,” said Houdini, studying the newspaper clipping. “Or perhaps just one.” He handed it back to Dash. “That’s quite an excellent fraud.”

“Fraud?”

“Well, Sol is correct. I’ve given this lecture many times before, so the type for the story could have been set in advance. What with darkroom advances these days, it’s entirely possible someone could have taken that photograph within the last two hours
and had a good counterfeit made up in time. It’s very clever, I warrant. But even so, that
is
the tie I wore tonight … and I think I see the bottom of the banner that was hanging at the back of the room. Very clever indeed.”

Dash said, “This newspaper is eighty-five years old.”

Houdini seemed to be looking over Jacobson’s shoulder at a spot on the wall. “A mist of water,” he said with a distracted air, “a few coffee grounds, a little grubbing and an iron.”

“It’s not fake. That is us—Walter and I—in the picture.”

“Walter and
me.
”

“Yes, sir.”

“So be it, then,” said Jacobson, interrupting. “You say it’s real, but
I
say it’s suppertime, and not too early for a rye. And we have”—he looked at his watch—“exactly one hour before Bess comes looking for you.”

“Oh, let them say what they’ve come for first.”

“I vote for beefsteak,” said Jacobson.

“We’ve heard most of it, I’m sure.” Houdini returned his attention to them. “Are you selling this? It’s a short-lived trick, though, isn’t it? The
Gazette
will come out in the morning and prove it.”

“It
will
prove it. This is tomorrow’s paper, the day before it comes out.”

“All right, then, well done. Do you want a dollar for it?”

“No!” said Dash. “I don’t want money.”

“Then what do you want?” asked Houdini. “Applause?”

“Someone gave me this newspaper clipping. In 2011.”

“Two thousand eleven what?”

“Years. The
year
2011. Eighty-five years from now, someone gave me this newspaper and then I was in a magic trick that went wrong. And I ended up
here
, in 1926, and found
him
walking down the street in Toronto. And he’s
in
the picture.
Look.
”

The magician looked warily where Dash had placed his finger.

“And that cufflink? It’s mine. Look, I’m wearing them right now. I was wearing them when I left my house.”

“In 2011
.”

“Right.”

Jacobson, who had sat for Dash’s speech, now stood again, slapping his legs. “Well! It sounds like a matter for science, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Houdini, collecting his things. “Thank you very much for your visit.”

“No!” cried Dash.

“You two can come with me,” said Jacobson. He went out the door expecting them to follow, but neither boy budged.

“We stowed away in a train fulla pigs and hid from the police to get here!” Walter said in a heated tone. “We came from Toronto. We don’t have anything to eat or anywhere to sleep.”

“So you are
fanatics
, then,” said Houdini with distaste.

“Mr. Houdini,” said Dash, “I know you just told all those people to be careful about spiritualists and people
like
them—”

Houdini’s eyes darkened. “And?”

“And, well, I’m sure you’re right! But, but … what if there are
other
things, things you
can’t
understand—”

“I am mainly interested in what I
can
understand, Master Woolf, but I am in the business of mystifying others, and I can tell the difference between an enigma and a sham. Now, if you boys will excuse me—”

Dash felt his jaw trembling. “I thought you were the greatest magician who ever lived!”

“What has that to do with anything?” asked Jacobson, standing in the doorway again.

“I thought he would help me!”

“Oh, pish-tosh. No one is falling for this.”

Dash turned on Jacobson, seething. “And if you were really his friend, you’d get him to listen!”

“I
am
his friend,” said Jacobson, “and I am getting him to
dinner.
”

“Come on!” Dash said to Walter. “Let’s go.”

They got up to leave, but Houdini stopped them. “Where are your parents?”

“Mine are in Toronto,” said Walter.

“So are mine,” said Dash. “In 2011. In a
theatre.
Waiting for me to be
un
vanished. EXCEPT I’M STUCK HERE IN 1926!”

“Oh for goodness’ sake—fine,” Houdini said. “Sol, perhaps you could locate the man who was authorized to take pictures this evening and have him come to my hotel in one hour.”

“Which one?”

“The Prince of Wales. I keep two hotels in every city,” he said to the boys. He pulled his suit jacket on. “Are you really runaways?”

“Walter’s parents don’t actually know where he is right now. They think he’s having a sleepover.”

“And yours? Where are they, really?” Dash didn’t reply. “All right, get them some supper,” he said to Jacobson. “And I believe I will have a walk and a think before coming back. Does the hotel have a telephone for public use?”

“I believe they do. And I will also make sure Gordon Whitehead receives a couple of books at the front desk at the Mont Royal, with your regrets that you are unable to meet him.” He gave a little bow.

Houdini steepled his fingertips under his chin, like an Asiatic king.

Jacobson showed the boys out. There was one of those Fords waiting for them in the curving driveway in front of the Student Union. Jacobson got into the passenger seat beside a driver wearing thick glasses and a cap. Jacobson said the name of the hotel and then the car started off. It was a much more comfortable mode of transport than hiding behind pigs.

Jacobson turned in his seat and looked at his guests. He wore a not unfriendly look. But it wasn’t friendly either. “So. A rather long trip, then.”

“Yes,” Dash said.

“Harrowing, one would say.”

“Yes.”

“And I suppose I will have to call your parents, Master Gibson. What am I to tell them?”

“I left them a note saying I had a sleepover.”

“That is bound to fall apart. Better tell them something they can believe that’s closer to the truth.”

“That we were kidnapped?”

Jacobson narrowed his eyes severely. “I don’t suppose your parents have a telephone, do they?”

“They’re on a trunk line.”

“All right. You had better leave this to me.”