The Dime Museum Murders

I: The Bally

Could it really be that time of the year again? Another Halloween, already? It must be, the old man told himself. There were reporters in the downstairs parlor, and that only happened at Halloween.

How long had it been now? Twenty-seven years? Twenty-eight? Yes, twenty-eight. It hardly seemed possible. Harry had been dead for nearly three decades.

Even now, the old man was particular in matters of dress. He had spent fifty-three minutes polishing his black Riderstone wing-tips that morning, applying a second coat of EverBlack with an oil-soaked chamois, and buffing the stitch-work with his late wife's eyebrow pencil. His best suit, the double-breasted tick-weave, got a vigorous brushing, and his black onyx shirt studs received a last-minute spit-shine. A brisk dousing with Jenkinson's Lime Pomade completed his toilette. On his way downstairs, he paused at the mirror. Not bad for a man of eighty-four. In the old days, they called him "Dash."

Seated in the parlor, he waited quietly for the interview to begin. The photographer, a man named Parker, fussed and clucked over his light meter while the reporter glanced at his notes. Matthews, he said his name was. Call me Jack.

Very little changed about this ritual from year to year. The cameras seemed to get smaller, and the reporters younger, but each interview crept along in the same weary way. One year, there had been a man with a moving picture camera, crouching beneath a black cloth while his hand turned a crank. Another year there had been a recording device with two large spools of silver wire. Matthews, a plump-faced youth with thinning ginger hair, seemed content with the traditional pad of paper and a well-chewed pencil.

Always the same questions* though. Tell us what you remember about your brother, Mr. Hardeen. If your brother were alive today, Mr. Hardeen, what sorts of escapes do you suppose he would be performing? Can you tell us how he made that elephant vanish, Mr. Hardeen?

And every year, come what may, the big wrap-up question: Do you suppose, Mr. Hardeen, that your brother will ever make good on his promise to send a message from the spirit world?

He had not yet made up his mind how to play the interview this year. For a few moments he considered reprising his Wily Codger routine from the year before. This entailed a great deal of thigh-slapping and many repetitions of the phrase "1 kid you not, Sonny Boy…" It played well and traveled wide, bringing a harvest of clips from all over the map-Louisville's Courier-Journal, Toledo's Evening Bee. He couldn't remember them all, but they were in the press book.

Or perhaps he would give them the Wistful Trouper. This involved lengthy patches of misty-eyed reminiscence about gaslit stages, Bertrand's Alum Face Paint, and the great days of the sideshows and dime museums. He had a heartwarming anecdote about Emma Shaller, the Ossified Girl, that could always be counted on for three or four column inches.

Parker, the photographer, was now frowning over a troublesome shadow. The old man folded his legs and ran his hand across his shirt front, checking the red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. There had been a time, the winter season of 1931-32, when his show traveled with 612 props. Today, he needed only one. Tell me, Mr. Hardeen, the reporter would ask, were you and your brother close at the time of his death? At this, the old man would sit back in his chair as if surprised by the question, and impressed by the reporter's insight. Clearing his throat, he would begin to answer but then stop himself, as though seized by a sudden rush of feeling. He would smile faintly and shake his head at this-such emotion! After so many years!-and clutch at his handkerchief to dab his moistening eyes.

And here was the beauty of the thing. As he plucked the red silk from his pocket, a small metallic object would fall heavily to the floor, perhaps rolling to the reporter's feet. I'm sorry, at my age it's difficult to bend-would you…? The reporter would pick it up. A heavy gold medallion with a strange insignia. Did this belong to your brother, Mr. Hardeen? And the Great Hardeen would fold his hands and allow a wry smile to play across his lips. In a sense, young man.

You see, it's a memento from the very first time that Harry Houdini ever died.

I'm sorry? Well, Mr. Matthews, it's a long story, and I know that you and young Parker want to get back to the city. Maybe some other-?

No? You want to hear it? Well, let's see how much of it I remember. I've never told this story before. In fact, they made us swear an oath on the Wintour family Bible, which was a bit of a laugh, if you must know. The Brothers Houdini, sons of Rabbi Mayer Samuel Weiss, taking a solemn vow on a Bible. But we gave our word and I've held to it. I know Harry did, too. Never even told Bess, so far as I know. Still, there's been a lot of water under the Williamsburg Bridge since then. I read the other day-in the Herald, you'll be gratified to hear-that Lady Wycliffe has finally passed. The last great society hostess. Folded her last napkin, you might say. I've kept my mouth shut all these years out of respect for her. She was a fine woman, and she deserved better than that goggle-eyed bastard she-

But I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Would you mind drawing those blinds just a bit? My cataracts. The light, it troubles me a bit.

Thank you. Now, gentlemen, you're certain that you'd like to hear about this? You don't-? Very well.

It must have been September, or perhaps October, of 1897. I turned twenty-one that year. Harry would have been twenty-three. My brother was going through a rough time. He'd worked like a dog, but try as he might, he couldn't quite break out of the small time. He was strictly a novelty act-traveling circuses, the midway, that sort of thing. He and I had done an act together from the time we were kids, but that changed when he married Bess. From that point on, she did the act with him and I did the booking and advance work. Truth be told, the duties were pretty light. There wasn't a tremendous demand for appearances by the Great Houdini at that stage, but I was always on hand, behind the scenes. Nowadays you would call me a theatrical agent and pay me a fat commission. Back then, we literally worked for food.

We'd been travelling quite a bit that year-sometimes with the Welsh Brothers Circus, sometimes with the Marco Company. We did all right trailing through such places as Cherokee, Kansas and Woonsocket, Rhode Island, where people seemed grateful for most any form of entertainment. Harry's escape act hadn't quite taken shape yet, but he did a passable magic routine. He fancied himself a master manipulator, and billed himself as the "King of Kards." Bess worked as his assistant, and also pulled an occasional spot as a singer. "The Melodious Little Songster," we called her. She had a wonderful voice and-I don't mind telling you-she was easy on the eyes.

In a travelling show just about everyone takes a turn on stage, and I did my share as a juggler and an acrobat. I also worked as a spotter for the trapeze team, and occasionally I put on a gorilla suit for the "Beasts of All Nations" tableau. I liked circus life. The work suited me and I enjoyed the travel and the small towns, which reminded me of my boyhood in Wisconsin. If not for my brother, I might well have spent the rest of my working life touring the sticks. Even my modest talents were sufficient to earn a living. Nobody ever got famous working town fairs and medicine shows, but nobody ever worked himself into an early grave either.

In those days, you could make a living without ever setting foot in a big city. For that matter, you could do well without ever touring America. Carter the Great, one of the best magic acts of all time, spent years overseas, just to stay out of Kellar's way. You've never heard of Kellar? He was king back then. But the road show wasn't enough for Harry. He had to make it big. And to do that, he had to conquer New York.

New York didn't want to know from Harry Houdini. I was with him when he went calling on a booking agent named Arthur Berg, who was a big fish in those days. They called him "Snaps," because he could make or break a career with a click of his fingers. Harry had been sending him stacks of clippings from small town newspapers, most of which had been planted-and sometimes even written-by yours truly. "Houdini Astounds Residents of Kennesaw." "Houdini A Delight, Say Audiences in Lynchburg." Personally, I didn't put a whole lot of stock in the good opinion of papers like the Brat-tleboro Gazette, but Harry did. He preserved each clipping as though it were edged in gold. Gathered them all up in a shiny leather binder, which he proudly laid out in front of Mr. Berg when we finally got in to see him. Snaps barely looked up from his desk. "Very nice, Mr. Houdini," he said. "But what have you done locally?"

It just about killed Harry. It was too late to hook up with another travelling show that season, and the small cash reserves we'd managed to build up on the road were draining rapidly. I finally got him a job at Huber's Fourteenth Street Museum. The dime museum. The ten-in-one.

You're too young to remember the ten-in-one. Some people called it the freak show, but it wasn't a freak show-not really. Human curiosities, they called them. Marvels of the natural world. Peerless prodigies of physical phenomena. You paid a dime, you got to see ten different acts. They say Barnum himself got it going. Gather 'round, all-the show is about to begin.

Just about every circus in America had a show like that on its midway. You paid a little extra, they lifted up the flap and let you in. It was supposed to make you feel sort of daring. The whole point was to turn the tip as quickly as possible. Sorry? The tip. That's the crowd. "Turning the tip" meant getting the crowd gathered, taking their money, and herding them through the tent as quick as you could. The acts were lined up on a platform, one after the other, and the talker would hustle the audience from one to the next as though pushing them with a broom.

Harry worked dozens of these places. In fact, they used to call him "Dime Museum Harry," and even after he'd made it big, he was always afraid that he might have to go back. It was no kind of life for Bess, I'll say that. She used to sell toothpaste to the other performers on the road, just to keep us fed.

Dime museums in New York were a whole lot different from dime museums on the road. For one thing, there were enough people in New York to keep the show running year round. On the road, stopping in the burgs and backwaters, pretty much everyone within twenty miles who had a dime would have seen the show after three days. In New York, with its constant supply of fresh marks, the shows tended to set up in storefronts and theater lobbies, rather than in tents or circus wagons. It made for more pleasant working conditions, and there was always a chance that a real live booker might catch your act. Or so we hoped.

There was only one spot open at Huber's Museum, so Harry and Bess did the act while I beat the bushes. I called on agents and managers with Harry's beloved press book, and talked a good line about his fabulous drawing power in central Illinois. I guess we'd been back in New York for about three weeks by then, and I had worked my way pretty much to the bottom of the pecking order. I seem to recall showing the book to a guy behind the screens of a Punch and Judy show. He didn't even bother to take the puppets off his hands, he just had me turn the pages for him. Even he couldn't use us.

It must have been around six in the evening when I caught the elevated train to Huber's. It was raining, and I can remember cradling the press book under my coat to protect the leather. I wasn't especially looking forward to seeing Harry. He'd just about reached the end of his tether, and I had no good news for him.

I left the train at Fourteenth Street and walked east toward Union Square. When I got to Huber's I found Albert Sandor leaning against the wall outside with a cigar clamped between his teeth, cleaning his nails with a toothpick. Albert was the outside talker at Huber's, the guy who kept up a fast-running patter to attract a crowd and move them through the "Hall of Curiosities." It was a rare thing to see Albert with his mouth shut, and I guessed that the talent was taking a doniker break.

Albert looked me up and down and gave a two-tone whistle. "Hot date?" he asked.

I was wearing a double-breasted wool suit that a tailor in Kansas City had assured me was the latest European fashion. A banker's gray with a windowpane check if you looked real close, wide lapels, and a nipped-in waist. I also had a cream-colored shirt with a fresh collar and cuffs, and a wide pukka silk tie which, if I'd unbuttoned my jacket, would have displayed a portrait of the late General Gordon. The haberdasher made me a deal. For good measure, I also had on a good pair of brown leather oxfords that still held their shine, though they no longer kept out water.

"Who's the lucky girl?" Albert asked.

"There's no girl," I said. "I wear my best suit when I go calling on bookers. It doesn't show the wear at the knees." I jerked my head toward the platform. "How's the draw?"

"Running at about three-quarter capacity," he said. "Not bad for a Tuesday."

"A tribute to the drawing power of the Great Hou-dinis, wouldn't you say? Might be time for Mr. Beck-man to move them up to the main stage." Mr. Beckman was the guy who managed Huber's at that time. He also happened to do the booking for a big variety palace called Thornton's across the street, a fact that was not lost on my brother.

Albert grinned and knocked the ash from his cigar. "Dancing girls, Dash. That's what brings the crowds, and that's what Mr. Beckman wants. 'Charming young ladies in revealing fashions.' That's what it says out front. The crowd at Thornton's wouldn't know what to make of an escapodontist."

"Escapologist."

"Whatever. Your brother is better off on the platform."

"We'll see," I said. "What sort of a mood is the justly celebrated self-liberator in this evening?"

Albert grinned and continued grooming his fingernails. "He was in a lovely humor when he came off after the three o'clock. Came up to me and demanded I deliver hot water and fresh towels to his dressing room after each performance."

"He has a dressing room?"

"Seems he's marked out some territory at the back. Near the boiler."

"Imagine that."

"So now he wants fresh towels, seeing as how he has a fancy dressing room."

"I'm sorry, Albert, he can be-"

He waved his toothpick. "Not a problem. I told him to take it up with the wardrobe mistress."

"Since when do we have a wardrobe mistress?"

"We don't"

I shifted the clipping book under my arm. "I'll talk to him."

"Do that."

"Any chance of giving him the extra time he wants? He wants to try out a new bit. Two audience members come up and tie his hands, then Harry-"

"I know, Dash. He told me all about it. He gets three minutes, just like everybody else."

"It could be a great act. He gets out of the ropes, and also a bag and a trunk. But the kicker is that-"

"-when it's all over, Bess is inside the trunk. I know, Dash. They've switched places. In the twinkling of an eye. But he still only gets three minutes. Just like everybody else."

I turned and gazed across the street at the marquee of Thornton's Theater, which was emblazoned with the name of Miss Annie Cummings, the Songbird from Savannah. "You know," I said, "my brother really is as good as he says he is."

"Sure, Dash. And one day it'll be his name up there in tall letters. And shortly after that, I'll be elected president of the United States."

"What a gruff and crusty fellow you are, Albert."

"I'm a realist, Dash. I know your brother is talented, but it's not enough. His timing stinks. His delivery stinks. His patter stinks. His-"

"All of those things will get better. I'm telling you, he's a natural showman. He has a real instinct for drama. I've seen people literally holding their breath waiting to see if he'll find a way to escape from an old nailed-up packing crate. All he needs is a chance to show what he can do. Now, if Mr. Beckman should give him one of the warm-up spots at Thornton's, just a few minutes at the top of the show, I know Harry could-"

"Dash. It's a dance hall. Burleycue."

"Harry's worked burlesque halls before."

"Really? I wouldn't have thought he had the legs for it." Albert looked at his watch and tossed away the stump of his cigar. "Do me a favor, wouldja? Run the bally for me? Chester's down with the grippe."

The bally, I should probably explain, is an act performed outside the tent or the theater to lure the marks inside. A crowd gathers to see the act-whatever it is-and the talker launches into an elaborate spiel, describing the many miracles and marvels to be found just beyond the ticket window. If the talker is any good-and Albert was one of the best-the marks will just about knock him over in their haste to get inside. Sometimes the bally would be a sword-swallower; sometimes a fire-eater. The absent Chester was an accomplished blockhead-meaning that he could drive three-inch spikes into his nose with a hammer.

Happily, Albert didn't expect anything quite that exotic from me. There was a set of heavy wooden Indian clubs sitting by the entrance. I picked them up and started juggling-an easy overhand pass routine-while Albert delivered his grind. I don't remember exactly how the patter went, but I do recall that it began with the words "Step right up, folks," and that it promised "a world of wonders such as mortal eyes have never beheld."

Between Albert's grind and my juggling, it wasn't long before we'd gathered a crowd of perhaps fourteen or fifteen people, about as many as could be expected on a chilly Tuesday evening. Albert collected a handful of coins, issued paper tickets, and ushered our small audience through the door.

The so-called Palace of Wonders had been established on the ruins of a failed butcher's shop, and the smell of salty meats still hung about the room. Mr. Beckman had used red and gold hanging banners to cover the walls and display windows, but otherwise the space was much as it had been-a long, dingy room with high windows along the left-hand wall. No one had even bothered to sweep the sawdust from the floor.

A narrow platform ran along the left wall beneath the windows, creating a performance ramp that Albert described as his "Arcade of Miracles." It was perhaps two feet high and no more than four feet deep, and the performers stood there in plain view waiting for the show to start. They all snapped to attention as the crowd filtered in, and bustled around the platform trying to make themselves look interesting.

Albert's job was to herd the crowd from one edge of the platform to the other, allowing them the requisite 180 seconds to enjoy each of the acts. He did this with uncommon skill. "Hurry along, folks!" he would cry, with a slight edge of alarm to his voice. "You won't want to miss our next Oddity of Nature!"

The Oddities of Nature, it must be said, were looking a little haggard, since this was their tenth show of the day. Nevertheless, they managed to rouse themselves as Albert urged the crowd forward. It started with Miss Missy, the Armless Wonder, who sat drinking tea from a China cup daintily clutched between her toes, and moved on to the Human Skye Terrier, whose shaggy dog head benefited greatly from artfully placed chin and chop pieces. Next came the Tattooed Lady and the Moss-Haired Girl, followed by the Sword-Swallower and the Double-Bodied Wonder, who had a pair of tiny legs-meant to be the remnants of a Siamese twin- poking out of his mid-section. The Living Skeleton, the Human Telescope, and Vranko the Glass-Eater rounded out the entertainments.

As each act finished in turn, the performers were given thirty seconds to hawk a souvenir item for a nickel or a dime, which gave them the chance to augment the meager salary they drew from Mr. Beckman. For the most part, these items took the form of a booklet or a keepsake scroll that related the performer's brave and heart-rending struggle against the cruel hand of nature. Miss Missy's story, I recall, was especially touching. It was a miniature volume entitled "My Blessed Life," with her portrait on the front in all her armless glory. It began with the words, "I am never too busy to lend a helping foot."

Other performers went for cheap wooden novelties. Harmi, the Sword-Swallower, offered little wooden sabers, and Benny, the Human Skye Terrier, did a brisk business in personalized grooming supplies. I can't remember what my brother was selling that year-it was either his "Teach Yourself Magic" booklet or "Professor Houdini's Ten Steps to Perfect Health."

When all the novelties were bought, Albert herded the audience toward the last act-Harry Houdini of Apple-ton, Wisconsin, performing as "The King of Kards and Konjuring." My brother never got a lot of credit for it, but he was a pretty fair card mechanic in his day. While he waited for the crowd to shift down to his end of the room, he stood at the front edge of the platform plucking card fans from thin air. He was dressed in a black suit with a string tie and a straw boater hat, and had his sleeves pushed back to show off his muscular forearms. As the crowd circled, Harry went into some flashy hand-to-hand cascades while Albert introduced him.

"Kidnapped by gypsies at the tender age of six months, the infant Harry was soon earning his keep by plucking coins and wallets from the pockets of unwary passers-by. By the age of five, the pint-sized prodigy was apprenticed to Signor Blitz, the greatest of all the magicians in the world, and by his twelfth year, the precocious prestidigitator was the favorite of the sultans and sheiks of far-away lands. He appears today by kind permission of the czar of Russia, to whom he serves as court conjurer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the one, the only-Harry Houdini!"

It was a stirring intro, and I could feel a building sense of anticipation from the small crowd as they awaited this extraordinary young man's first miracle. Then Harry spoiled it. He talked.

I was reading my brother's biography the other day. It had many kind things to say about Harry's "mesmerizing stage presence" and "compelling natural charisma." Clearly the author had never been to Huber's Museum. The truth is, Harry didn't have a lot of natural charisma at that time. He was only beginning to learn to relax onstage. In a few years' time he became a lot breezier, and learned to treat the audience as if they were all in on a big secret. In those early days, he came across like some sort of German physics professor. He lectured the audience, and directed them on the proper manner in which to appreciate the genius of Houdini. It might have played well in Europe, where they still dressed up their magic acts as "philosophical experiments," but in New York, they just wanted entertainment.

"Ladies and gentlemen," my brother said from the platform, "I am the Great Houdini, the justly celebrated self-liberator and eclipsing sensation of Europe. I will now entertain you."

My sister-in-law Bess stepped from behind a makeshift curtain, carrying a velvet-trimmed prop table. She was wearing what I always thought of as her "sugarplum fairy" costume. It was all gauze and puffs that made her look like a Christmas ornament with legs. Her legs were her best feature, and even though she wore tights, I never understood how she got away with that outfit in those days.

"And now," said Harry, "if it will please the ladies and the gentlemen, I urge you to direct your attention toward the glass bowl that I am holding. It is enormous, as you see, and very heavy, because to the brim it is filled with water."

He stepped forward, holding the bowl stiffly at arm's length. "Observe closely, and you will see the little fishes swimming merrily in the water. Do you see them? They are very jolly little fellows, swimming back and forth."

Albert caught my gaze and rolled his eyes. Faster, Harry, I said under my breath. There's a guy in the back who's still awake.

"I command your attention as I place the bowl onto this lacquered tray that my lovely wife Bess is holding. Now I display for you a large black foulard. You see it? There is nothing unusual about this cloth. Here is one side-here is the other. Now I cover the bowl and lift it high in the air. At this point, you must prepare yourselves for a miracle. It is really quite an astonishing shock, so I would ask that you steel your nerves for the amazement which I now present."

Just do the trick, Harry, I muttered. And for God's sake, don't mention the travelling circus.

"Long ago, when I was a boy in Appleton, in the fine state of Wisconsin, the travelling circus came to town. It was a wondrous sight for a small American boy like myself. Jugglers they had, and clowns, and an elephant, and many tigers. But of all the wonders I saw that day, none amazed me so much as the magician who caused a bowl of goldfish-a bowl much like the very one I hold here-to vanish as if into thin air."

From the platform, Bess caught my eye and flinched slightly. She still held the black lacquered tray, waiting for her cue to leave the stage. She never lost her frozen smile, but her eyes were haunted.

"On that day," Harry continued, "I promised myself that I would grow up to perform that trick just as well as that man in the circus. And because this is America, I knew that a boy with a dream in his heart could grow up to become whatever he wished. A doctor, a lawyer, a politician… even a magician! And so, ladies and gentlemen, behold the miracle of the vanishing goldfish! I throw the foulard heavenward-and voila!-the enormous bowl has vanished!"

Let me tell you three things about the goldfish trick. One, it's the best stand-alone vanish in the history of magic. Two, it needs to be done fast, without a lot of anecdotes about the circus. Three, my sister-in-law Bess is quite a bit stronger than she looks.

It's a brilliant trick when it's done right, but you wouldn't have known it by the six-thirty crowd at Huber's Museum. Their reaction, as Harry flicked the cloth heavenward, left much to be desired. One might have called it a respectful silence. I suppose there must have been some scattered applause, and perhaps a bit of it was done by someone other than myself. Most of the others simply shuffled their feet and coughed politely.

When I think back on it, I remember something that Will Rogers once said about my brother. This was years later, of course. Rogers was watching from backstage while Harry worked on a particularly difficult handcuff challenge. The thing about it was that Harry had gone into a little curtained cabinet while he worked on the handcuffs, so the crowd couldn't actually see him. There wasn't a thing going on, but the whole audience was happy just to sit there and wait for my brother to finish. It took him an hour and a half, and the crowd never took its eyes off the cabinet. When Harry finally emerged, holding the handcuffs high over his head, they jumped to their feet. Will Rogers said he couldn't possibly follow an act like that. He said, "I might just as well have gotten on my little pony and ridden back to the livery stable as to have ridden out on that stage." It was a fine compliment, but I can't help thinking what Rogers might have thought if he'd ever seen Harry at the dime museum. In those days, Harry couldn't hold the audience even when he was standing right in front of them. It was so quiet you could actually hear the floorboards creak.

Albert was just about to move the crowd off when I caught him by the elbow. "Let him do the new bit," I said. "The trunk trick."

"Aw, knock it off, Dash," he said. "We've been over this again and again."

I pulled out my most prized possession, a gold Elgin pocket watch. "Let him try it," I said. "I promise you, each one of these people will be cheering at the end. If the crowd doesn't go wild, I'll give you the watch."

Albert looked at my face and saw that I was serious. He glanced at his own watch, a tin conductor's chrono, and looked back at me again. "Sorry, Dash," he said, not without regret. "You know the rules. He's already had his three minutes. If I let Harry pad his slot, then Harmi's going to be after me to make time for that ridiculous 'Dance of the Seven Sabers.' Everything'll get longer and before you know it we'll be down to five shows a day."

"Come on, Albert. Just this-" He held up his hand. "Sorry. I'm going to the blow-off."

I turned away and shoved my watch back into my vest pocket. Albert stepped forward and asked the crowd to gather round for a "very special added amusement." Every sideshow worth its salt had a blow-off-an extra act tacked on at the end to lure an extra nickel from the marks. This was always staged in a special annex-a small extra tent or a back room of some kind-or, in this case, an abandoned meat locker. Most of the time the blow-off would be a creepy, scary sort of illusion, like the old Headless Lady effect. In that one, you walked into the room and saw the body of a young woman sitting in a chair. She appeared normal in every respect, but for the fact that she had no head. There would be a bunch of wires and tubes filled with gurgling liquid sprouting out of her neck. The talker would explain her predicament in a low, quavery voice. "Decapitated in a tragic railway accident, this brave young lady is kept alive by a miraculous combination of modern medicine and American know-how…"

The blow-off was always especially good at Huber's, but Albert had an uphill climb trying to work up any enthusiasm from the crowd. My brother Harry had left them in an unhappy stupor, and no one seemed terribly eager to cough up an extra nickel for whatever awaited them in the so-called "Chamber of Chills."

"This attraction is not for the faint of heart," Albert warned. "This hideous freak of nature is the only one of its kind in the entire world, an unholy coupling of man and insect, a poignant hybrid of beauty and terror. I must caution you, ladies and gentlemen, the mere sight of what lies just beyond this room has made women faint and strong men buckle at the knees. Who among you has the courage, indeed, the fortitude to venture past this fateful portal?"

By the time Albert finished, nearly all of them had summoned the necessary fortitude. Albert collected a handful of nickels and shepherded the crowd through the door into a small, candle-lit room. There, sitting on a small wooden pedestal, was the most beautiful Spider-girl I ever saw. She had a furry, dark thorax with a bright yellow hour-glass shape on the back, meant to suggest the markings of a black widow. There were eight hairy, segmented legs-two of which were moving slowly up and down-and it had the head of my sister-in-law, Bess Houdini, with a bright ribbon in her hair and red polish on her lips. "Howdy, folks!" she called, waving one of the furry legs.

"Be careful, ladies and gentlemen," Albert warned. "Whatever you do, don't make any loud noises! I know she looks calm and friendly, but we had a fellow in here last week who-well, let's just say it wasn't a pretty sight."

Bess cocked her head and wiggled her thorax as Albert continued. "Folks, I'm sure you're all wondering how this hideous conjoining came to be. How did such an angelic face come to be transplanted onto that eight-legged horror? Only seven years ago, Alice Anders was the daughter of a world-renowned explorer, joining her father on a dangerous journey along the Amazon River. One night, while the explorers lay asleep in their tents, a sinister creature stole into the camp, lured by the sweet smell of young Alice's perfume. When the party awoke in the morning, they found a spectacle so ghastly that they were driven mad by the mere sight of it. There before them lay-"

We never discovered what the explorers saw, because at that moment Albert was interrupted by a loud crashing noise which, if you really stopped to think about it, sounded an awful lot like a pair of cymbals.

"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."

Bess and I looked at each other. Harry's patter-Albert's opinion notwithstanding-was getting better by the minute.