Saving Houdini (11 page)

In a matter of minutes, driving straight along Sainte-Catherine, they arrived at the Prince of Wales Hotel. It was an unprepossessing building, just a couple of stories high and made of solid grey stone. There was a bar on the corner.

Inside, it was quietly luxurious, and Jacobson took the two of them into the restaurant behind the bar, a small, velvety room redolent of roasted meat. It was past nine now, but the restaurant was packed and loud. Jacobson spoke to the maître d’—
Marcel
, he called him—and the boys were shown to a cozy banquette with leather seats. The way the booth was curved meant they’d be sitting side by side, watching the activity in the busy room.

The man who brought them to the table swept a napkin off Dash’s plate, opened it with a neat flip of the wrist, and settled it on his lap, then repeated the performance for Walt. Around the shining white plates was arrayed a bewildering assortment of cutlery. Forks of every size, some with only three tines, many delicate-looking spoons as well as a very large one, and
a strange-looking pair of tongs with big square flat heads at the ends, like a pair of silver playing cards.

Jacobson came over and sat, and Marcel reappeared with a telephone on a silver tray, like he was going to serve it as an appetizer. A waiter appeared pulling a long, black wire, and he plugged it into the phone. It was quite a production, and everyone in the restaurant had stopped eating to watch it.

“Monsieur will make a telephone call?”

“It’s a Toronto number,” said Jacobson.

“It can be done.”

Walt told Marcel his phone number: HO 3276.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,”
the maître d’ sang into the receiver. He held it in front of his mouth like a microphone.
“Comment allez-vous ce soir? Bien, merci! Donc, Toronto, s’il vous plaît. Oui: ash–oh, trente-deux, soixante-seize.”
He waited a moment before passing the phone set to Jacobson.

Jacobson put it up against his ear. They could hear the phone ringing through the receiver.

“Yes,” he said. “May I speak to Mrs. Gibson?” He held the earpiece away from his head. There were some fierce clicking noises. Then a voice came on and said a tinny hello. “Yes, hello, Mrs. Gibson,” he continued. “Good evening to you. My name is Sol Jacobson and I am calling you on a telephone from inside the Prince of Wales Hotel in Montreal. Yes, Montreal, Canada. Why, yes, it is an excellent connection. I am Mr. Harry Houdini’s Canadian manager. Yes,
that
Harry Houdini, madame. I am calling because I am here in Montreal with your son. He is very
well, there is no need to be worried. No, madame, he is not at a sleepover, he was involved in a harmless mix-up earlier today and found himself, quite unexpectedly, on a train. Yes, a train to Montreal. He is with me right now. Well, the way he explained it, he and one of his friends went down to the train station at lunchtime. Yes, Union Station. They were trying to make some pennies by helping people with their bags.”

Walt gave Dash a wide-eyed look.

“Yes. And you see, they were helping some old dear with her bag, you know, up the steps and into the compartment, when the train began to leave the station. And they were terrified to jump, so … yes, I know, absolutely. You can never take your eyes off them. Just the same, quite enterprising, don’t you think? Admirable. Harry and I thought they showed some fine initiative, not to mention some good sense staying safe on the train until they could find some adult help.” They heard Mrs. Gibson talking on the other end. “Well, Mrs. Gibson, you are quite correct. It was lucky that I ran into them. And I will have them out on the next one. However, I must tell you, there are no more trains for Toronto this evening, and so I will, with your permission, keep them at Harry’s hotel until we are able to get them homeward bound. And he has suggested, I should say, that they even stay for one of his shows, seeing as they’ve come this far.”

Both boys were watching Jacobson with wonder.

He passed the phone to Walt. “You’d better talk to her.”

“Hi, Mum,” he said into the phone. “Yes. I’m very sorry! Yes, a little.” Dash heard a muted voice from the other end. “I know,”
said Walt. “I don’t know what I was thinking either. I will. I don’t know. He looks like his pictures, I guess.” Then he said, very quietly, “I love you too.” He handed the phone back to Jacobson.

“Well, then,” Jacobson said into the phone, “that settles it. You can reach us here at the Prince of Wales Hotel if you need to. Yes, thank you, Mrs. Gibson. Beg pardon? Oh, well, I can administer that if you feel it’s necessary. I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Goodbye, then. Goodbye.” He gestured for Marcel to come get the phone. The maître d’ bustled over and carried the apparatus away.

“Thank you for doing that,” Walt said.

“If you are going to the trouble to make something up, gentlemen, at least put some effort into it.”

“Are we really going to see the show?” Dash asked.

“Perhaps. If you are not a pair of con men.”

“We’re not!”

Jacobson stood and put his hat on. “I will leave you two to your suppers,” he said. “You’re in rather far now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Dash. He couldn’t meet Jacobson’s eyes as he left the table. He exhaled deeply. “Are you in a lot of trouble?” he asked Walt.

“What do you think?”

“Grounded for the rest of your life.”

Walt laughed. “Well, at least I get to say I met Harry Houdini!”

Dash saw a flurry of activity over by the maître d’s desk. He expected to see Houdini entering, but it was a man having a disagreement with the manager. He was wearing a dark blue suit.

“I bet you don’t know any French,” Dash said.

“Everyone speaks English.”

“
Pas içi,
” Dash said.

“Gentlemen,” said a voice, and they looked up to see the man in the blue suit. He was smiling at them strangely. “Good evening.”

“Um, good evening,” they said.

The man moved his face into the light. There was a deep, black and purple bruise on his forehead, above his left eye. Apple-sized. “And how are we tonight?”

“We’re, um, just
fine,
” Dash said, quaking. The man’s smile widened. “Just waiting for, uh, our father to get back from the washroom.”

“What, two runaways like you, looking for your father?” He came around and shoved into the banquette beside Walt.

Walt jolted over and so did Dash, but the bull just kept coming. Soon he was sitting in the middle, like it was his table.

“Hid with the pigs, did we? Nice scene you made in the
gare
, eh? Heard all about it.” He reached into a pocket and removed a green apple, which he began to polish on his lapel.

There was no point in making a run for it. There were already some other, more official-looking people standing in the door. One of them had a clipboard: a lady with a severe face and broad shoulders.

“I’ll introduce you to my friends momentarily,” he said, “but first I’d like to know your names.” He leered when he said this, and then took a large bite of the apple.

Walt held a hand to his chest. “I am Cornelius, and this is my brother, Vincenzo.”

“Born in different countries or something, eh? What are your
real
names?”

“Dash,” Dash said, feeling defeated. Was anything going to go right? “And he’s Walter.”

“Excellent,” said the bull. “My name is Blackwell. Sometimes people call me Officer Blackwell, but seeing as I am in civilian togs, you can just call me Sir. Being off duty, I am just like any other member of the general public, out to take the evening air, say, and being a member of the general public, I may alert authorities—for instance, as a good citizen—to the fact that there are two homeless boys at large in the dangerous metropolis of Montreal. Luckily, the city is replete with excellent services for travellers in need.” He gestured to the entrance of the restaurant. “Why, look, there is Mrs. Alphonsine of the Children’s Welfare Bureau. She cannot stand to see children suffer.”

“We’re not suffering,” Dash said.

“No,” said Blackwell, and his eyes lit up. “Not yet.”

He gestured to the lady in the stiff black dress and she approached. There were two men with her, large men with moustaches and wearing plain-looking light grey suits. In 1926, it seemed bad news always arrived wearing a moustache.

“I see it is suppertime in Gomorrah,” Mrs. Alphonsine said, arriving at the table. “What are these two boys doing in this awful place?”

“Waiting for our father!” Dash protested. Where was Houdini? Where was Jacobson?

Marcel scurried over.
“Madame?”
he said.
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

She explained to him in French. Dash picked up enough of what she said to understand that they were accused of committing a number of offences and insults against the Canadian National Rail Company. Mr. Blackwell was clearly relishing his triumph.

“Mais, ils sont avec Monsieur ‘Oudini!”
said Marcel.

“No, they are not,” Mrs. Alphonsine now said in English. “They are not
with
Houdini. They are not
with
anyone. They stole away on a freight train and attacked an officer of the law.”

Marcel looked from her to the boys and back to her again, and then his mouth turned down deeply and his shoulders came up. “I don’t know,” he said. “I try to ‘elp you boys, but if ‘Oudini is not here to say is okay, I don’t know.”

“Please, Marcel!” Dash pleaded. “You know we’re his guests!”

“Come now, boys,” said one of Mrs. Alphonsine’s men. Were they twins? Frick and Frack. “We’ll sort it out later.”

Blackwell took another bite of his apple and chewed it with pleasure.

Each man held a boy against his side and began to march them out after Mrs. Alphonsine. Dash knew, somehow, it wasn’t going to end like this. Houdini was supposed to help him. That was the only thing that made sense. Why else were they here?

It was with a sinking feeling that he saw the man himself
enter the hotel lobby just as Frick and Frack were going to haul them onto the sidewalk.

“Dad!” Walt shouted.

Houdini looked surprised, but for only a moment. “Boys?” he said, with animated alarm. “What have you done now?”

Everyone met in the middle of the lobby. “These children are with me,” said Mrs. Alphonsine. “They are runaways.”

“No they are not!” said Houdini, flashing with anger. “They are to go to their room immediately to await punishment for whatever rabble they caused in here. I will see to it!”

“Constable Blackwell here insists they are train-hoppers.” She gestured to the restaurant behind, where Blackwell had remained. “All will be well. The province will know what to do with them.”

“Madame, if I may,” said Houdini, “Constable Blackwell is my brother. We had a disagreement about whether my sons here should visit their sick nanny and he felt, well, Terrence felt it would be too much for the old thing and he got a little hot under the collar. You know what it is like in times of family crisis! Ah, here is their other uncle, Sol. Hello, Uncle Sol!”

Jacobson stepped into his role without hesitation. “Hello … Harry, dear Harry. How are you, my nephews?”

“We’re fine,” said Dash. The men had not let go of them yet.

Houdini gave a warm, expectant look at the two burly guards, who at last released the boys. Dash and Walter rushed over to their rescuers, and Houdini pressed them both against Jacobson.

“Take them in to dinner, Uncle Sol. Make sure to let my brother know I’ve got everything under control.” He had not taken his eyes off Mrs. Alphonsine.

Jacobson led them into the restaurant and Marcel seated the three of them at a banquette on the other side of the dining room. The look on Officer Blackwell’s face was priceless.

Houdini was in the mood for fish. The waiter—Honoré—came to the table with four shallow, empty bowls. He set them down. There was a second man behind him holding a black cauldron on a silver tray. When he lowered it before them, he removed the lid and a plume of fragrant steam rushed up.

“La
…
bouillabaisse,”
said Honoré, fairly bowing to the cauldron.

“Fish soup,” said Houdini. “It’s excellent here.”

Honoré had produced a ladle from somewhere on his person and was filling the bowls. Walter blanched. Dash didn’t mind fish, but he wasn’t too excited about what was coming out of the cauldron. All he could see were shells and antennae. It was the most frightening thing he had ever seen in a bowl. Once all the fish was served, the second waiter ladled from the cauldron a dark broth.

“Bon … APPÉTIT!”
said Honoré, and both he and the cauldron-bearer backed away, all the way to the kitchen.

“
How
many tickets?” Jacobson was asking.

“I told her to bring the ten best-behaved children to the matinee on Saturday. She talked me up from three.”

“We don’t have ten seats, Harry. The matinee is sold out.”

“We will make room. You boys will come too, if you wish.”

“They will be well gone by then, Harry.”

Walt was looking into a clam. “How do you eat this?”

“With relish,” said Houdini. He sipped a spoonful of soup. “I hear we spoke with your mother, Master Gibson.”

“We did,” Walter said, almost inaudibly.

“But not yours,” he said, turning to Dash.

“No, sir.”

“Because … she is somewhere in the future, waiting for a magic trick to end.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How perplexing.”

“You believe me?”

“No. I do not. But as you can see, two boys on a fool’s errand can end up with the wrong accommodation, if they’re not careful. Once we
find
your mother, Master Woolf, we will send you both home. But first, I would like you to meet someone.”

Houdini looked across the room to the bar. He gestured to a man who was sitting there drinking a beer. The man was shabbily dressed and had two cameras hanging off one shoulder. On the other shoulder was a green burlap bag. He got up and walked over. Houdini watched his guests’ faces carefully as the man approached. Dash felt relieved that at least he would be able to ignore his soup a while longer.

“Mr. Hopkins,” Houdini said, standing, “I trust you know these two fellows.” He gestured at Dash and Walter.

“I beg pardon, sir? There are three fellows here.”

“Yes, that is Sol Jacobson, my manager. I meant these two young men here.”

“Hello,” Hopkins said, nodding curtly to them. “How do you do.”

“I see,” said Houdini. “So you don’t know these boys?”

“No, sir. Are they to be a part of your act?”

Houdini shot them a glance. “I think they would like to be. Will you have a seat?”

The photographer slid into the end of the banquette. He appeared quite eager to be a part of the company. Honoré drifted to the table and looked into the boys’ bowls. He pursed his lips in disappointment.

“Ees to be eaten ‘
ot
!” he said, pushing each of their meals toward them. “And soon are coming the
escargots.
”

“Excellent,” said Houdini, and sent the waiter off.

The boys had no choice. Dash ate a hunk of white fish, and Walt bit the back half of a shrimp that still had its head.

“You take the shell off,” Dash muttered to him as Walt crunched it in his teeth uncomfortably.

“So, Mr. Hopkins. What is your first name?”

“Gerard.”

“Ah. And you look so like a Gerard.”

“People say that.”

“I do think people often look like their first names. For
instance, these boys look very much like their names. Take this one,” he said, indicating Walt, “would you say his name was Walter or Gabriel?”

“Oh, that’s a Walt if I ever saw one,” said Hopkins.

“That is correct! And this one? Calvin or John?”

“John,” said Hopkins without hesitation.

“See?” said Houdini to his manager. He was holding down Dash’s foot with his own. “He really doesn’t know these young men.”

“Well, sir, Mr. Houdini, I was dropped on my head when I was a baby, so my memory isn’t—”

“That’s all right. Master Woolf, could I see that newspaper page again?”

Dash retrieved it. Houdini unfolded it to the picture of himself onstage and passed it over to Mr. Hopkins, who studied the image.

After a moment, the photographer said, “Are you asking my opinion? I think the subject is well lit, and the photograph, as it appears here, is crisp and very legible, although it is only half a picture and of course I would have to—”

“Is that what you think? It is a good photograph?”

“Yes. Is there something wrong with it? Who took it?”

Honoré arrived again. His busboy cleared the bowls as a third man came with a trolley. Honoré looked with disapproval at the two half-finished bowls of bouillabaisse that were whisked away from the boys.

“I ‘ope you will find the
escargots
more to your likings,
messieurs.
”

He apportioned four strange ceramic plates around the table. They were white plates with little divots in them. The divots were filled with something green from which thick steam rose.

“What are these?” asked Walt with real fear in his voice. Suddenly he sneezed.

“Snails,” said Jacobson, leaning away from him. “A treat. Enjoy them.”

Houdini continued. “I will tell you who took this picture, Mr. Hopkins. You did. This is
your
photograph. Supposedly you took this picture, less than two hours ago, and it is already in the newspaper. A newspaper, mind you, that is dated tomorrow morning.”

Hopkins had been eyeing the
escargots
with interest, but now he studied the picture anew. He took his glasses off and brought the paper up close to his right eye, closing his left. Then he sniffed it. After a long pause, in which he fitted his glasses back over his ears and laid the paper on the table, he said, “That’s very good, Mr. Houdini … absolutely excellent. Bravo!”

“Do call me Harry. Was there any other photographer backstage with you?”

“No.”

“So this
could
be your photograph, then?”

“Well … no, sir, no, it could not.”

“No?”

“Impossible. The pictures I took at the Student Union are still in my camera. This one, in fact.” He held the camera up.

“Eat your snails,” Houdini said sharply to Walt.

Dash had already moved some of the green paste with his fork. Underneath were snails. Undeniably. They were still
inside their shells.
Cooked! And stuffed, it would seem, with boiled snot.

“Do you like
escargots
, Mr. Hopkins?” Dash asked.

“Oh, I love them,” said the photographer.

Dash hurriedly pushed his plate over. Walt glared.

“Thank you, Mr. Hopkins,” said Houdini. “I think that will be all.”

Mr. Hopkins paused with a snail shell midway between his plate and his mouth. Then he put it down with a grateful smile, pushed his chair back, and touched his fingers to his cap. “Well. It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Houdini.”

He departed, nodding and bowing left and right.

“I am now officially listening, Master Woolf.” Houdini slid the snails back in front of him. “But you had better impress me, or you will be eating both bowls.”