The Confabulist (23 page)

I couldn’t think of any words. How was it possible that I hadn’t killed him? If I hadn’t killed him, who had warned me to go into hiding?

I thought about Alice Weiss and her odd request. I knew that Bess was not her mother. Did Bess know of her existence? Should I tell her?

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Strauss?”

I reached into my pocket and took out the leather-bound book. I walked across the room and handed it to Bess.

“Do you know what this is?”

She set the book on her lap without opening it.

“I don’t know how, but somehow it ended up in my pocket.”

Bess picked up her wineglass and held it for a moment, turning it around in her fingers, then drained it. She opened the book, flipped through the pages, and handed it back to me.

“This is my husband’s book. If it’s in your possession I imagine it’s because he wanted you to have it.”

“Why?” I took a seat in the chair next to her.

Bess poured herself another glass of wine, and one for me without asking if I wanted it.

“He was involved in a great many things. I don’t know the full scope of his life. Every day I learn of something new. Most of what I learn I would wish not to know.”

She turned to look at me, and her eyes were teary. “Those women
just now. I returned their correspondence with Harry. It was not the sort of correspondence a wife would ever wish to read.”

Could any of the women have been Alice’s mother? It seemed unlikely—they were all too young.

“That book,” she continued, “is written in code. It’s not a code I recognize. But he didn’t write in code unless he felt it was necessary. If I were you I would be careful who I showed that book to.”

The maid returned to the room, though I had not heard her footsteps come down the hall. “Is everything all right, ma’am?”

Bess smiled at her. “It’s fine, dear.”

The maid glanced at me and left.

“Harry could never rest, never let anything go. He was a marvel of a man. Many people wished him harm, and he took pains to protect me from that. When he first took ill, I suspected that he’d been poisoned.”

“By whom?”

“It could have been any one of a thousand spiritualists. A jealous husband somewhere, maybe. A jilted woman. I don’t know.”

“Someone sent me a note,” I said, feeling like I could trust her. “It told me I needed to leave town and hide.”

Her face dropped. “I don’t know who sent that,” she said, “but if I were you, I’d take it seriously.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “There is a man who may be able to help you. He has known my husband for a long time, and has worked with him in secret. His name is Grigoriev. He may know the code for this book. It’s possible Harry intended for you to give it to him.”

“How do I find him?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in years. No one is supposed to know he exists.”

How was I supposed to find a man who didn’t exist? Nothing made any sense.

“His daughter came to see me.”

Bess sat up straight. “I didn’t know Grigoriev had a daughter.”

“Not Grigoriev. Houdini.”

She stood up, almost knocking over her chair. “You need to go.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I do not wish to discuss him any further with you.” I could see she was trying to appear firm, but she seemed tiny and afraid.

“Her name is Alice.”

Bess said nothing.

“She wants to know about her father. What he was like. She asked me to find him for her.”

“I don’t care!” Bess shouted. “I don’t care about any of that!”

The maid came running. I rose and retreated down the hall past all of the tributes to the great man and out the door.

On the subway back downtown I once again examined Houdini’s book, but it all remained as cryptic as ever. Pressing Bess about Alice had been a tactical mistake. Bess Houdini would never see me again now.

And what did I have to tell Alice? I had learned nothing about her father, except that he was a relentless womanizer and that he had not been a good husband. This was not what I wished to be able to tell her. I needed more, for her, if I wanted to return to Clara.

But I hadn’t killed him. At least that’s what Bess thought. I wasn’t convinced. Would doctors lie just to get her some life insurance money? Could they do that? The newspapers said I did it, and history would say I did it. Did it matter what Bess Houdini privately
thought? I had punched him and he had died. I’d hoped Bess’s forgiveness would mean something, but how could she forgive me for something she denied I’d done? Thwarted, I was unsure of what to do next.

The next day I went out in search of work. New York was humming, a city under construction, and it didn’t take me long to find a job as a labourer on a construction site. The job started immediately and I spent the next ten hours alongside thirty other men, digging out what would become the basement and foundations of a modest skyscraper. It was exhausting labour, but the job site was about fifteen blocks from my rooming house, and I opted to walk back instead of taking the subway.

After a few blocks I noticed my bootlace was untied, and I moved out of the sidewalk’s flow to tie it. As I bent down I caught a glimpse of someone behind me, maybe twenty feet away, darting into a doorway.

I tied the lace and continued onward. After half a block I stopped suddenly, feigning interest in a pair of shoes displayed in a shop window. Sure enough, behind me a tall, clean-shaven man in a long brown coat changed his course and loitered outside an apartment building. I continued on, and after another block I bought a newspaper and the same man again veered down an alley.

I needed a plan. Whoever he was, leading this man back to where I was staying wasn’t a good idea. I turned right, away from my room, and headed uptown. After three blocks I could tell as I crossed the street that the oncoming traffic would make crossing behind me
difficult. As I reached the curb I broke into a run, sprinting for the next five blocks, turning right, running for another long block. I looked back, but there was no sign of the man.

Up ahead of me was the Bowery. I’d overheard a couple of men on the job site talking about a blind pig around here. I couldn’t find it for a while, but eventually I saw a group of men enter an unmarked door. After a few minutes someone emerged from inside, and though he wasn’t outright drunk, he wobbled down the street in a way that made it clear he’d had at least one or two.

Before going inside I took one last look up and down the street. I pushed open the door. There was a narrow flight of stairs, and at the bottom a short hallway led to a large open room with low ceilings and floors covered in sawdust. I found myself a stool at the far end of the bar up against the wall and ordered a whiskey and what passed for beer.

I put back the whiskey and started in on the beer. Could I return to my room? I had Houdini’s book and my money in my pockets. Whoever was following me must know where I was staying. But how had they found me?

Tucked inside Houdini’s book was a letter I’d written to Clara. I’d addressed the envelope and even put a stamp on it. I told her I was sorry for everything that had happened that night, sorry I hadn’t spoken to her afterward, and sorry I’d left town. I told her I couldn’t come back, not now, and that I did love her but it didn’t matter because everything was ruined. I wasn’t the person she’d thought I was and I was sorry for that too. It was a poor attempt to explain myself, I knew, but the best I could offer. I didn’t have the courage to mail it. What do you do when the best you have is not very good? I had always been paralyzed by my own inadequacy.

A man sat down beside me, and I shuffled over a bit to accommodate him. I didn’t make eye contact—this place looked like it could get rough and I wasn’t looking to make any friends. He sat for a moment but didn’t wave the bartender over, which seemed odd, so I risked a glance sideways. It was the man who had been following me.

He seemed larger up close. He was nondescript, with short brown hair, dressed to blend in with a crowd. Despite this there was a composed force about him. He kept his right hand under his coat, the significance of which I realized too late.

“I’ll be taking that book you have in your pocket, Martin,” he said, his left hand pulling his coat aside a few inches, revealing a revolver pointed at my chest.

I didn’t move. Perhaps I was panicking. It seemed like the thing to do was pretend he wasn’t there. This probably wasn’t the best plan I’ve ever come up with.

“Now Martin,” he said, leaning in close to me, “I know you’re not deaf.” His breath was surprisingly pleasant.

“How did you find me?”

He laughed. “Oh, I’m a regular Sherlock Holmes. I’m not here for chitchat. Give me the book and that will be that.”

“You’ll leave me alone?”

“If it were desired that you be harmed,” he said, “you would be. All we’re interested in is the book. Let’s not make this messy.”

I’d never had a gun pointed at me before. Really, how many people experience such a thing? I was frightened, there’s no doubt about it, but we were in a crowded room, surrounded by more or less law-abiding people, excepting the fact that they were all presently violating the Eighteenth Amendment.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said, taking a sip of my beer.

This seemed to confuse him. “Think about it?”

“Well,” I said, feeling a lot more confident all of a sudden, “it’s not like you’re going to shoot me here in front of all these people. And I’m certainly not going anywhere alone with you. So it seems that as long as this place is open we’re at something of an impasse. I’m going to use this time to consider your proposal.”

He sat there, stunned.

“You may as well have a drink,” I said, and waved the bartender over. I ordered two whiskeys and two mugs of beer, sliding one of each over to him when they came. “My treat,” I said.

“All right,” he said, not at all pleased. “You realize this ends one way, though.”

He took a sip of his whiskey and I took a sip of mine. It began to sink in that he was right. All I’d done was buy myself a little time. Why didn’t I just give him Houdini’s book? I couldn’t make sense of it anyway. But that felt wrong. My fate was connected with the book, and it was quite possibly the only link I had that would ever help me understand what had happened. Houdini had given it to me for a reason, and until I knew, I couldn’t part with it. Whatever was in that book would determine whether I would get my life back or not. If I wanted to return to Clara, I couldn’t give it up. Plus I didn’t appreciate being followed or bullied. I’d had more than enough of that.

“But, Martin,” my mother’s voice said to me, unbidden, “what does it matter? What’s in the past is in the past. Right now you’re in a strange illegal drinking establishment with an odd man pointing a gun at you. I think you really need to be more concerned with that fact and less concerned with the intentions of a dead magician.”

If I could have answered without arousing suspicion, I would have
said that fortune favours the bold and patience is a virtue. I was awaiting an opportunity.

“Of course you are. And I’m sure one will present itself at any moment, dear.”

My would-be assassin never once took his eyes off me. “How is it you see this ending?” he asked.

“I can’t read the future.”

“Let me read it for you. At some point, you’re going to have to get up off that stool, and I’ll be with you when you do. I will get the book from you. And the harder you make me work to do that, the more I’m going to hurt you.”

“But I bought you a drink.” I raised my mug of beer to him, holding it aloft in a sort of toast, and that’s when my opportunity presented itself.

There was a commotion at the stairway leading up to the door. A crash and some shouting, and everyone turned to see what had caused it. The man didn’t turn, but glanced involuntarily in that direction. In that instant I changed the direction of my mug and smashed it into his temple.

“It’s a raid!” someone shouted, and as the man slid to the floor, blood running down his face, glass protruding from his forehead like an extra eyebrow, the bar broke into pandemonium.

I bent down and searched through his pockets, removing a few crumpled banknotes, two envelopes, and some assorted papers. There was no time to do a more thorough search—I could see police at the far end of the room. I looked behind me and saw a well-dressed man disappear behind a curtain that had appeared to hang in front of a solid wall. I followed him, finding myself in a dark passageway.
After about thirty steps there was a stairway that led upward. A small door opened into an alley. A single policeman stood at one end of the alley but seemed unconcerned with either my presence or the gentleman’s who had exited before me. To be safe I walked away from the cop.

I could feel my pulse in every part of my body and my mouth was dry. I couldn’t go back to my rooming house. I’d have to leave New York. It didn’t matter. I had disappeared before, and I could do it again. As I made my way north toward Grand Central Terminal I kept my head down, not stopping except for traffic and to drop my letter to Clara in a mailbox.

MARTIN STRAUSS

Present Day