You Might As Well Die (13 page)

He took something from his pocket and opened his hand in front of Finn. Dorothy saw it clearly. Houdini held a handful of sewing needles, perhaps two dozen.

“Examine them, please,” Houdini said confidently. “You’ll see that they’re completely normal sewing needles, easily obtained in any five-and-dime.”

Finn did so, picking up several needles and holding them up to the light.

Houdini showed them to each person in the circle. Standing in front of Finn again, the magician said, “Are you satisfied they’re genuine, and quite ordinary?”

Finn grunted in agreement.

“Please return them to my hand,” Houdini said.

Finn did as he was told.

Then Houdini surprised them all. He clapped his hand to his mouth and began to chew. Lucy gasped. They could hear the clink and clatter of the needles as he gnashed them with his teeth. Dorothy thought she even glimpsed a glint of shiny metal as Houdini chewed, his smile wide and self-assured.

“How do they taste?” Dorothy asked.

“A little sharp,” Houdini responded with a smile. Then Houdini closed his eyes and gulped, swallowing hard. He opened his eyes and let out a deep sigh, as though he had eaten the best meal he’d ever tasted.

“That’s quite a trick.” Finn laughed. “But I think that’s all it was. Just a trick.”

“You haven’t seen the best part,” Houdini said cheerfully. “But first, would you care to examine my mouth for any needles I may have missed?”

Before Finn could agree or disagree, Houdini opened his mouth wide and stood directly before Finn. The bootlegger didn’t hesitate. He gazed deeply into Houdini’s mouth, looking in every corner.

“Clean as a whistle,” Finn said.

“Then let’s proceed.” Houdini now withdrew a long strand of white thread from his pocket and handed it to Finn. “Would you please examine this thread? Would you agree it is ordinary white thread, easily purchased in the notions department in any home goods store?”

Finn nodded, fingering the thread. Houdini then showed it to the others.

“The needles were tasty,” Houdini said, “but I always need a little something to chase them down.” Then he put the end of the thread in his mouth and began chewing it up. They watched as the strand grew shorter and shorter. Eventually, only a tiny bit was left, which he slurped up like a piece of spaghetti.

“Swallowing a handful of needles was something,” Finn said. “But anyone could eat up a line of thread, if he wanted to.”

Houdini listened patiently and nodded, as though conceding defeat. “I suppose you’re right, Mr. Finn,” he sighed. “My little display has failed to entertain you. Permit me a moment to retrieve my materials and return them to my pocket.”

Houdini reached his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and pulled out the end of the string. Finn jumped to his feet at what he saw next. Tied to the thread was a needle. Houdini pulled out two more inches of thread, and another needle appeared. Houdini tugged again and there was another needle—and another and another, all tied to the thread. Each needle was tied about two inches from the next. Houdini pulled the thread out faster, the needles tinkling against his front teeth. Dorothy counted the needles—twenty-five of them—as the last of the string emerged from the magician’s mouth.

Houdini handed the string of needles to Finn, who dropped it like it was a snake. Dorothy could see that the string was wet from Houdini’s mouth. The magician picked it up and held it out, stretched between both hands, for the others to examine. Then he returned it to his pocket.

“Astounding!” Sherwood said, clapping.

“Encore! Encore!” Benchley cheered.

Dorothy saw Lucy lean against Benchley.

“That’s nothing,” the former stripper whispered in Benchley’s ear, but loud enough for Dorothy to hear. “I know a swallowing trick that’ll really knock your socks off.”

Stunned, Dorothy dropped her glass. It hit the wooden floor and shattered. Shards of glass, chunks of ice and sticky soda exploded around her feet.

Everyone looked at her quizzically—everyone except Lucy, who looked like the cat who swallowed the canary.

Dorothy stared back at them blankly. Had she been the only one who heard Lucy’s remark? Apparently she was. Even Benchley appeared oblivious.

“Whoops,” Dorothy said, after a long, quiet moment.

Immediately, the bartender appeared with a bar rag and a dustpan and cleaned it all up.

Ignoring the disruption, Sherwood resumed the conversation with Houdini. “I’m glad to see you’re still up to your old tricks.”

“Some old tricks,” Houdini acknowledged, sitting down, clearly pleased with himself. “But also many new ones. I’m constantly trying to improve my act. So I’m always trying new things.”

Finn growled at Sherwood, “Who the hell are you to accuse this world-famous magician of doing old tricks? Ignore this ignoramus, Mr. Houdini. You do all the old tricks you want.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” Houdini said, smiling generously at Sherwood.

He hands out smiles like the Easter Bunny hands out eggs,
Dorothy thought.

“But speaking of new tricks,” Houdini continued, excited, “there’s a truly amazing trick you’ll see if you attend one of my sold-out shows at the Hippodrome this week. Are you ready for this? I make an elephant disappear. I’m the only magician to have ever accomplished it. And believe me, plenty of my imitators have tried and failed.”

“Forgive me,” Sherwood said, “but is that so new? You made a horse disappear last week in front of thirty thousand people. Is that so different from an elephant?”

Finn growled again, baring his yellow teeth. “You watch your mouth—”

“No, no, Mr. Finn,” Houdini said soothingly, holding up a hand. “If one has never seen the Vanishing Elephant, one would be inclined to believe it’s merely a variation on that old standby, the Lady in the Cabinet trick. But I assure you, Mr. Sherwood, if you see it, you will be astounded. It’s a feat like no other, I guarantee you.”

“I didn’t mean to offend,” Sherwood said. “I only meant that I’m pleased to see that you’re still doing magic tricks at all. I’ve read so much about how busy you’ve been debunking the spiritualists, challenging mediums and exposing all that mystical mumbo jumbo.”

“That’s quite true,” Houdini said gravely. His benevolent smile disappeared. “Revealing fraudulent spiritualists has become quite a passion of mine. I gather you’ve read about the five-thousand-dollar challenge in
Scientific American
?”

Both Sherwood and Benchley nodded.

“Five thousand dollars?” Finn sputtered. “I must have missed that particular issue of that illustrious journal. Can you enlighten me please, Mr. Houdini?”

“Most certainly I can, Mr. Finn,” Houdini said solemnly. “I am a member of a research committee intent on studying psychic and spiritual phenomena. Last year, the committee published a challenge in
Scientific American
magazine. If any spiritualist, medium, clairvoyant or what have you can demonstrate objective evidence of a psychic manifestation under rigid test conditions, then the committee will award that person five thousand dollars.”

“I’d speak to ghosts for five thousand dollars,” Dorothy said. “I’d talk their damned ears off.”

Houdini cracked a smile. “It’s a very rigorous examination, believe me, Mrs. Parker. And at every one of my performances, I repeat the challenge. Despite this determined pursuit, I’ve found no credible evidence of the spirit world so far.”

“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Mr. Houdini,” Finn said.

“What game is that?” Houdini asked.

“Taunting spirits. That’s asking for trouble, that is.”

“I’ve had no complaints so far.” Houdini smiled, not offended. “Except from phony flimflammers and fake fakirs.”

Finn leaned forward. “You mean to say you don’t believe in the spirits? You don’t believe in heaven and hell?”

“And you do?” Dorothy said.

“Certainly I believe in heaven and hell!” Finn snapped at her.

Dorothy shrugged. “I’m surprised that someone so in danger of eternal damnation would be so determined to believe in it.”

Finn’s face grew red. He was about to rake her over the coals, but Houdini intervened.

“I believe in the afterlife, Mr. Finn,” Houdini said sadly. “More than anyone I believe in the afterlife.”

Hearing this, Finn cooled down. “You do?”

Houdini nodded. “A few years ago, I lost my dear sainted mother. How I miss her! I look forward to the day when we shall be reunited in paradise,” he sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve been earnestly searching for a way to communicate with her through the veil of death. The spiritualists promise that hope. But I’m afraid I have never yet seen any demonstration that the afterlife makes its presence known in
this
life. To my view, they are indeed separate worlds. The only crossing over is the final one.”

Dorothy wondered how she might be able to convince Houdini to accompany her to Viola’s séance for Ernie MacGuffin. “Well, aren’t you the afterlife of the party?”

Finn narrowed his ice blue eyes at her. “Another county heard from,” he sneered. “Surely you don’t believe in spirits, you damned dirty heathen?”

“Surely I do, you damned dirty bootlegger,” she said. “But the spirits I believe in are the ones behind your bar.” She stared miserably at the liquor bottles. “And like heaven itself, they seem eternally out of reach.”

A
t lunchtime the next day, Neysa McMein spoke excitedly to the others gathered at the Algonquin Round Table.

“It was
his
voice.
Ernie’s
voice,” she said. “There was no mistaking it. It gave me chills.”

Frank Adams nodded sagely. “Neysa’s right. If I hadn’t heard it for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. I don’t know how that beguiling platinum blond witch did it, but it was Ernie speaking through her pretty little lips.” He shoved the wet end of his smoldering cigar in his mouth, as if this concluded the matter.

Dorothy looked around at the faces of the others at the Round Table—Heywood Broun, Marc Connelly, George Kaufman and even Sherwood and Benchley. Neysa and Frank Adams had them almost completely bamboozled.

“Where’s Alexander Woollcott when you need him?” she asked to no one in particular. “He wouldn’t let this nonsense go unanswered.”

Kaufman said, “Aleck and Harpo are out wandering the city again, playing their oddball game of croquet.”

Benchley was insulted. “Mrs. Parker, you don’t believe we’re swallowing this whole, do you?”

“That means you’re swallowing it a little bit,” she said.

Frank Adams sat bolt upright. He yanked the cigar from his mouth. “Mrs. Parker, are you calling me a liar, or are you calling me a sucker? I don’t care for either accusation.”

“I’m saying you can’t expect us to believe this woman talks to ghosts,” Dorothy said. “That’s poppycock.”

Adams spoke through clenched teeth. “I never said she talks to ghosts. I only said she talks just like MacGuffin. I don’t know how she does it, but she does it.”

Dorothy folded her arms.

Neysa said, “Dottie, you really have to see it for yourself. It was spooky. I asked her questions only Ernie could answer. And she answered them. In his voice. You should have gone with us.”

“We should have,” Benchley answered. “But Mrs. Parker and I are going to go tomorrow night, after the Houdini show. I know you’re convinced, Neysa, but it still sounds fishy to me.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s fishy,” Dorothy said. She explained about the incredible number of paintings in Snath’s office. “I can’t believe Ernie painted so many. Some of them, if not all of them, must be fakes.”

Neysa shrugged. “Ernie always had an angle. He was always trying to sell a new painting. Always trying to get a new client.”

Adams said with a smirk, “Ask him yourself tomorrow night.”

“Very funny,” Dorothy said. Then she thought better of it. She spoke thoughtfully, “But maybe you’re on to something.”

“What do you mean?” Heywood Broun said.

“I can think of one way Ernie can speak from beyond the grave. But we need one of his paintings.”

“One of his paintings?” Neysa said.

“Perhaps steal one from Snath’s office,” Sherwood said playfully.

Dorothy shook her head. “No, thanks. He probably has snarling, ravenous guard dogs roaming the place at night. But maybe we can buy a painting at the auction?”

“Buy one?” Neysa said.

“Dottie,” Benchley said, exasperated, “what the devil are you getting at?”

“We buy one of the paintings at the auction and have it authenticated. That shady solicitor Snath is pulling a fast one, I’m sure of it. If the painting’s not a forgery, I’ll eat my hat.”

Frank Adams was skeptical. “So, let’s say you have it authenticated—or inauthenticated, as you believe. Now you have a worthless painting on your hands. What good does that do you?”

“I’d return it first, then report Snath to the police.”

Kaufman spoke sharply, “Buy a thousand-dollar painting and then just return it? It’s not a dress off the rack from Gimbels.”

“Besides,” Benchley said, “where would you get the money?”

Marc Connelly grinned. “Maybe Harold Ross can loan it to you. If Raoul Fleischmann lent Ross enough dough to launch his loony magazine, maybe Ross would finance your idea.”

Dorothy chuckled. “Ross is in such bad straits with his magazine, he couldn’t lend me a pencil. Still, it’s worth a try.”

Sherwood raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that bootlegger could loan you the money?”

Harold Ross arrived at the table and sat down in his usual chair. “What bootlegger?” he said.

“Never mind that,” Dorothy said. “You’re just in time. Could Fleischmann loan us the money to buy one of Ernie MacGuffin’s paintings?”

Ross frowned. Clearly, this was a sore subject. He didn’t answer her question directly. “Speaking of money, I need to talk to you and Benchley about the article—”