The Great Houdini hereby and herewith agrees to wager the sum of $10,000 against an equal amount, the money to be donated to charity, if Mr. Thomas Alva Edison (a.k.a. the Wizard of Luna Park) can scientifically prove that any of Houdini’s world-famous escapes and illusions are accomplished by means of magic.
The Challenge, should Mr. Edison choose to accept it, shall be held in one month’s time in the Starlite Ballroom of the Elephant Hotel, Surf Avenue, Coney Island.
Upon Mr. Edison’s request, Houdini shall engage to perform magical feats including but not limited to escapes from straitjackets, handcuffs, and manacles, and the Chinese Water Torture Cell (patent pending), as well as the Disappearing Elephant Trick (elephant to be provided by management).
Signed,
“Well, what do you think?” Houdini asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Wolf confessed. “Is the whole fight between you and Edison just a publicity stunt?” “A man would have to want publicity pretty bad to get himself dragged in front of ACCUSE on charges of working illegal magic.” “Don’t people in show business say all publicity is good publicity?” “If they do, they’re idiots.”
While they talked, Houdini was toying with Mrs. Kessler’s locket, spinning it between his nimble fingers and making it disappear and reappear at will. It wasn’t real magic. Sacha could see that quite clearly. It was just a stage magician’s illusion. But Houdini was so supremely skilled that Sacha couldn’t begin to guess how the illusion worked.
“The fact is,” Houdini confessed, “this ACCUSE nonsense has put me in a pickle. Whoever gave my name to the Committee on Un-American Sorcery must have known that from the moment I was accused of using real magic in my escapes, I had only three options. One, I can confess that I have used magic — and go to jail for defrauding people by magical means. Two, I can claim that I haven’t used magic — but I can only prove it by giving away all my secrets and ruining the illusion. Or three, I can challenge Edison’s etherograph.” “And you don’t think it was Edison who gave your name to ACCUSE in the first place?” Wolf asked.
“No. He’s a dreadful publicity hound — though some people might think it was the pot calling the kettle black for me to say so. And he doesn’t have much use for Jews or magicians—” “I know. he showed us his etherograph ads.”
“Appalling, aren’t they?”
“Quite. Have you seen the etherograph in action?”
“I rather had the impression Edison hadn’t gotten it to work yet.” “He must have. Morgaunt played us one of the recordings.”
“Morgaunt!” Houdini slammed a fist into his palm. “I should have known he’d be at the bottom of this!” Wolf sighed the same reasonable, put-upon sigh that Sacha’s father always sighed when the more volatile members of the Kessler family started ranting about religion or politics. “Keep your hair on,” he told Houdini. “I know it’s hard to believe, but there are a few bad things in New York that aren’t Morgaunt’s fault.” “Not this one,” Houdini snapped.
“Well … maybe not.”
“The man’s a Black Mage, I tell you! A Necromancer! The blackest of the black!” “He’s not a Necromancer, Harry.”
“Get your head out of the sand, Max! I feel him. I feel the ratchets and gears of his spells burrowing under the streets like his damn subway. Morgaunt has more power than any Mage can come by honestly. He’s killing New York. He’s sucking the magic out of it, and if we don’t stop him there’ll be nothing left but an empty shell.” “He’s not a Necromancer,” Wolf repeated patiently. “Not yet, anyway.” When Houdini would have protested again, he held up a hand to silence him. “Morgaunt preys on the living, Harry, not the dead. And if he’s a Mage at all, then he’s a new kind of Mage.” He smiled grimly. “One for the age of the machine.” Houdini seemed to shrink in on himself. “You’re frightened of him too,” he whispered.
“I’d be a fool not to be.”
“So what do you want from me?”
Wolf nodded at the locket that Houdini still held in his hands.
Houdini flashed a nervous sideways glance at Sacha. “In front of him?” he asked. Then he shrugged. “Sure, why not? Nobody can nail me for working magic on official police business, right? And anyway, I’d like to know what the kid can see. Call it professional curiosity.” Houdini looked straight at Sacha and held up the locket so that it spun in the air between them, winking and flashing like sunlight on water. “So, Sacha Kessler. What do you see now? Spells or illusion? Real magic or stage magic?” As Houdini asked the question, he turned the locket in his hands and made it disappear.
“Illusion,” Sacha said. He felt breathless and strangely lightheaded. But he was quite sure of his answer. Houdini stood there before him in the clear light of day. No magic flared and flickered around him. No spells flashed from his clever fingers.
“And now?” Houdini reached over and pulled the locket out of Lily’s ear.
“Illusion.”
“And now?” It vanished again, then reappeared in Houdini’s left hand.
“Illusion.”
“And now?”
This time, instead of doing another trick, he held the locket up and … just looked at it.
“I … what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Houdini confessed. “But I’ve been able to do it ever since I turned thirteen. Just like you can see magic. When I hold something in my hand, I see the memories of the other people who’ve held it before me. Perhaps it’s Edison’s etheric emanations. Or perhaps it’s something else entirely. But people leave a trace of themselves on everything they touch. And if they touch something often, or care deeply about it, then they leave a great deal of themselves.” Sacha watched, breathless with terror, while Houdini weighed the locket in the palm of his hand. Magic pulsed and streaked around him like the aurora borealis. The hand that held the locket was blazing with it.
“I see a woman who has lived through terrors most of us can barely imagine,” Houdini murmured. “Fire and death, and people fleeing for their lives with only the clothes upon their backs. She’s reached a safe harbor now, and she’s not the sort to dwell on past sorrows. But the grief is still there. I can feel it because she felt it, every time she touched this locket.” “And the assassin?”
Houdini balanced the locket on his palm for another moment, looking down at it. Then he shuddered and thrust the locket back into Wolf’s hands as if it burned him.
Wolf refused to take it. “Try again. please, Harry!”
Houdini passed a hand over his brow and leaned against his desk. “I can’t, Max. I can’t bear it. Something touched that locket after her, something not human. All I can sense is cold and hunger and a terrible emptiness.” “A dybbuk?”
Houdini’s head snapped up in surprise. “Why would you think that?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was just as unhappy about the idea as Sacha had been.
“One of the eyewitnesses thought it was.”
“Oh come on. Don’t tell me Edison is hiring Jewish lab assistants!”
“No,” Wolf admitted, grinning in spite of himself. “Just an Italian girl who happens to have a cousin who happens to have a Jewish boyfriend.” Houdini snorted. “Only in New York!”
“She seemed to know her stuff, though. Could it be a dybbuk?” “I hate to admit it but … it makes sense. More sense than any other explanation I can think of.” “So where does that leave us?”