Nabbed!: The 1925 Journal of G. Codd Fitzmorgan (2 page)

Leave it to Judge. This weekend is supposed to be for her—and she's the one handing out surprises. I can't wait to change
into my tuxedo and see what she has in store for me!

After one or two wrong turns in the
confusing hallways of the mansion, I finally arrived at the spot marked on the map.

Right away, I recognized the four people already waiting in the hall outside the parlor. I had seen them on the ferry ride
over.

There was the nervous, twitchy businessman named Virgil Gates. He had spent most of the boat trip with his head over the rail,
feeding his lunch to the fish. At the moment, Virgil was gazing adoringly at his gorgeous girlfriend, Asyla Notabe, who wore
a dress made of long, sparkly silver tassels. Asyla leaned her perfectly sculpted back against the wall, looking bored and
stroking her long black hair as if it were a cat. An elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kartier, were dressed like royalty. Mrs.
Kartier wore a tiara in her silver hair, and Mr. Kartier had a kingly red sash across his tuxedo jacket.

Before I could say hello to anyone, a raspy voice called from the shadows of a nearby parlor.

“Enter! All who vish to speak vith ze dead, come and enter!”

Who could resist an invitation like that? The five of us stepped into the darkened room. Once we were inside, the oak door
slammed shut with a bang, and Virgil Gates cried out.

“What a sap!” Asyla hissed and pushed past him, sauntering like a film star. She was probably the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen.

I had heard about Asyla from the society pages and from my parents. They'd first met her years ago on a train trip across
the United States. After that, Asyla's life had been one long streak of bad luck. When Asyla was a teenager, her mom was sent
to prison.

Beautiful Asyla

She later escaped and went into hiding, without Asyla. No other family members had come forward to claim her, so Asyla had
been raised in an orphanage in Chicago. That's why my parents were so curious about how Asyla was now able to afford to travel
in such high style. They had heard rumors that her mom had started a new life of crime and was secretly sending Asyla money.

Now I was meeting her in person!

Our little group gathered around a large table in the center of the room, which was crowded with antique furniture. The flame
of a single candle cast sinister shadows on our faces. And a large crystal ball shone dully, resting on a brass stand next
to a violin.

Asyla was to my right. To my left, Mrs. Kartier gripped her husband's arm and made squeaking sounds like a frightened chipmunk.

That's just what Judge wanted…for us to be scared. It was a perfect night for a séance, I thought. Lightning flashed on gargoyles,
making them look alive as they peered through the windows.

Judge got the idea for a séance from this ad.

Then, across the wood table, a man stepped into the dim light of the candle, and I knew at a glance we were in for a letdown.

“I am Mang ze Magnifico!” the tall man announced in what sounded like a French accent by way of New York. He had a long black
beard and wore a purple cape emblazoned with gold stars and moons.

I guess for dramatic effect, Mang began flapping his arms wildly to make the cape ripple up and down. This only made him look
like a deranged bat—and sent dust flying off his blue tuxedo.

Mang ze not-so-Magnifico!

Virgil Gates waved the air before his thin, pointy nose. “Allergies! Allergies!” he cried between massive sneezes.

Sweeping back her long hair, Asyla Notabe giggled merrily. Like a queen amused by a jester, she pointed at Mang's slightly
tattered outfit. “Mr. Magnifico, you might want to contact a good tailor rather than the dead.” I felt my heart skip a beat
as Asyla turned to me and asked. “ Am I right or what?”

She was talking to me! Excited, I opened my mouth to answer her. But something sparked in Asyla's eyes. “Why am I asking you,
Fitszmorgan?” She spat out my name as if it were disgusting and turned away.

My face burned from her unexpected hostility. I said, “Excuse me—“

Mang interrupted me. He was glaring at Asyla. “Laughter? You produce ze laughter? What I do is deadly serious!” Mang flapped
his arms again and bellowed, “I am a spiritualist!”

For a second, Asyla stared at Mang and then burst out laughing. “Oh, dry up, vould you?” Asyla said, mocking Mang's accent.

While Asyla's giggles and Virgil's sneezes filled the room, Mang dragged over a small square table. He held up his right hand
to show us that he was not concealing anything in his palm.

“Vitness my power!” he shouted and brought his palm down on the flat surface of the small table with a smack. Mang's eyes
rolled into the back of his head. He lifted his hand and the table rose with it—as if the wood and his skin had magically
fused together.

Asyla gasped, virgil stopped sneezing, and Mr. and Mrs. Kartier appeared to have stopped breathing.

Child's play, I thought. I had hoped Mang would prove to be more of a challenge. I wanted to try out the detective skills
I'd learned from studying Houdini.

TEC TIP

HOW TO FOOL SITTERS AT A SÉANCE

TABLE LIFTING

Find an old table—make sure it's small, light, and no one wants it anymore.

Hammer a nail with a small head into the top of table.

Put a loose ring on a finger and slide your hand along the surface until the ring slides over the head of the nail. (It might
help to cut a slot into the ring.)

Keep your hand flat on the table surface and lift it from the floor.

I wrote a letter to Herry Houdini, and this is what's got back. It's just a form letter probably written by his secretary,
but I still darry it with me.

HOUDINI

278 WEST 113TH STREET

NEW YORK, N.Y.

Dear Fan,

Thank you for your interest in my life. Here are a few facts you might not know.

I was born Ehrich Weiss in Hungary in 1874. Four years later, my family moved to Wisconsin. I tried working as a trapeze artist
but later turned to magic. I read a book by Jean Eugene Robert- Houdin, an amazing French magician from the 1800s. He was
the first one to use real science in his act—something I wanted to do. In honor of him, I changed my name to Harry Houdini.

I'm the most famous magician in the world today. But that's not all I do. I've starred in silent movies. And lately, I've
worked hard against fake mediums and phony mind readers who give illusionists like me a bad name. I attend séances disguised
in a fake beard and eyeglasses. I've become an expert at detecting the hidden motions of the medium's hands, feet, and body
that would produce the sounds and actions of spirits. I shine a light during the séance to show the sitters the trick. I then
tear off my disguise and reveal myself as the great Houdini!

In fact, I'm not looking for fakes, but for a medium who can do what he or she claims.

Yours in magic,

Mang lowered the small table to the floor with a flourish. In a stern voice, he told us that he would allow no further interruptions.
He instructed us to sit at the large table and hold hands. Asyla took one of my hands and Mrs. Kartier took the other.

“Ve shall now contact ze dead!” Mang said.

“Everyone watch ze ball of crystal and concentrate… concentrate!” The reflection of the candle burned in his eyes. “Now repeat
after me, ‘Join us, spirit of ze dead’” It was piffle, but we repeated, “Join us, spirit of the dead” over and over.

Mang threw his head back and shouted into the air, “Spirit! Spirit! Are you in ze room?” His head jerked back down. “Ah, yes,
I feel it! I feel ze presence!”

Virgil's eyes bulged slightly. “How do you know?” he whispered fearfully.

Mang calling a spirit

“Is it my sister Estelle?” Mrs. Kartier said to Mang. “If it's Estelle, will you ask her where she hid the gold teakettle?”

Mang seemed annoyed by the questions and asked the air, “Are you Estelle? Lift the table twice if no!”

There was a pause, and just as the others started to relax, the table leaped up as if on its own. It did so once—and then
again. Mrs. Kartier screamed. Blinding light exploded into the room as lightning crashed all around the mansion.