HOUDINI

1904

MORE THAN FOUR THOUSAND PEOPLE CAME TO LONDON’S Hippodrome that day. They didn’t come to see the world’s most opulent theatrical building. They didn’t come for the stage large enough to present a circus complete with elephants or for the grand replica ship’s saloon. They came to see only one thing.

Six performers opened the bill. The audience had no interest whatsoever in them. As three o’clock drew closer their fidgeting and whispering became louder. The ushers and attendants grew nervous, and the manager wondered aloud in front of the gallery of a hundred journalists whether this was a good idea after all.

The last act finished and the stage was cleared. Onto it was carried a wooden cabinet about three feet tall and equally wide. The front was covered with a red velvet curtain. At the sight of the cabinet, the crowd cheered, startling the stage dressers and nearly causing them to drop it.

A man came onstage. He was tall and thin with a pale face, his long charcoal coat unbuttoned. His shoes were a deep black and polished to a fine lustre. The man walked with the confidence affected by someone who is in fact frightened. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly deep—he appeared more the sort of man to have a thin, reedy voice.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd applauded with limited enthusiasm. They weren’t here for this man. “Please allow me to introduce to you Mr. Harry Houdini.”

All eyes focused on the wings, but Houdini did not emerge. Then the doors at the back of the Hippodrome were thrown open, their weight echoing down toward the stage, and at once the entire audience turned to see Houdini, in a black dress coat and white high-collared shirt, stride down the aisle like a marching soldier. By the time he reached the front row, everyone was standing, and their ovation lasted long after he leaped to the stage. He bowed once or twice to acknowledge them, but his trademark ebullience was not on display.

He surveyed the crowd. These people were London’s finest. The past four days had been a flurry of promotion and preparation. He had barely slept.

Houdini made his introductory remarks. There was no lock that could hold him. He was Houdini, the Handcuff King. He lauded the London public for their appreciation and dared all imposters to duplicate his feats. “I am ready,” he said finally, “to be manacled by the Mirror representative if he be present.”

The man who had introduced him, the only other person on the stage, stuck out his hand. “I am Richard Kelley. I represent the Mirror.” Houdini shook his hand and smiled at the man. Of course he had known who he was. It was all a game. He could see Bess off to the side, watching him. She was wearing black knickerbockers, which he didn’t like and which she wore, he suspected, to irritate him.

They each called on the audience for a committee of citizens to ensure fair play, and one by one nearly a hundred people came forward. Once the committee was assembled, Kelley brought out the handcuffs from his coat pocket. Houdini held out his wrists and Kelley fastened them. The key itself was over six inches long, and Kelley had trouble getting it into the keyway. He had to turn it a full six times to fully lock the cuffs. Houdini closed his eyes as Kelley struggled to lock the cuffs. The man was a fool, and he was showing himself as such to the world.

When the cuffs were locked, Kelley removed the key and placed it in his inside coat pocket. He moved a few steps away from Houdini, sweating, his hand routinely darting into his coat to verify the presence of the key.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Houdini said in his loudest voice, “I am now locked up in a handcuff that took a British mechanic five years to make. I do not know whether I am going to get out of it or not, but I can assure you I am going to do my best.”

The cheers were cacophonous, and while various members of the committee examined his cabinet he heard shouts of encouragement. The enthusiasm of the audience amazed and frightened him.

Once all were satisfied that his cabinet was as it appeared, he entered it and drew the curtain. The sounds from outside were somewhat muffled, but the feeling of four thousand sets of eyes trained upon the curtain was ever present.

The cabinet was a tight fit and he had to kneel. In his opinion this made his escapes seem more dramatic—a large cabinet would have given the impression that he was free to do whatever he liked and also would have admitted into the viewer’s mind the possibility that it held a confederate.

He inhaled until his lungs were as full as they could be. Tonight would be the culmination of his years of hard work. He had become Houdini, the Handcuff King, had escaped from every lock put before him. He’d toured America, Europe, and Russia with top billing, made more money than he’d ever dreamt of. After this challenge he planned to return to America and buy a fine house and pour gold into his mother’s apron, as he’d promised his father he would. Things with Bess would settle down too—without the demands of the road for a few months they’d be able to get back to their old selves. She’d see that he had done what had to be done to succeed, and that any dalliances along the way were not really his fault but simply a result of the pressure he was under; none of them meant anything anyway. She would forgive him everything.

Today was a nasty piece of business. Four days ago Richard Kelley had brought these damnable handcuffs to his show and asked him, onstage, to open them. He’d tried to shrug him off—they weren’t regulation cuffs, and the terms of the open challenge were that he would escape from any cuffs of regulation issue.

He had good reason to insist on these terms. Months earlier in Blackburn, a man named Hodgeson had fooled him and chained him up with plugged locks. There was no key or pick on earth that could open them—once they were closed, they were unworkable. It had taken him hours to free himself, tearing chunks of flesh off in the process. The show would have been a complete disaster, if not for a file passed to him by Bess.

Kelley hadn’t been deterred by his insistence on regulation cuffs. Houdini had been fettered by three other challengers, and within moments had freed himself, to everyone’s delight. Kelley then asked him for a pair of the handcuffs from which he’d just escaped. Houdini had assumed that Kelley wanted to see if they were gaffed, which they weren’t, so he handed him a locked pair.

Kelley took the cuffs, walked over to the stage stairs, and slammed them on the tread. The cuffs fell open. “Regulation cuffs such as these?”

The audience jeered and hissed.

“Mr. Houdini, you claim you are the Handcuff King. Yet you refuse to wear these handcuffs, the result of five years’ labour by Birmingham locksmith Nathaniel Hart using good British steel and bought with British gold. Hart says no mortal man can pick this lock. If you are unwilling to try, then you are not the Handcuff King.”

He was trapped. Without examining the handcuffs closer he couldn’t agree to the challenge—there were a hundred ways to make a cuff unopenable. But he couldn’t very well refuse. He was lost for words and happened to look into the wings. Standing with his arms crossed, a cigar drooping from his lip, was Alfred Harmsworth. Houdini recognized him as the owner of the Daily Illustrated Mirror.

Harmsworth nodded at him just slightly, and Houdini knew that he had to accept Kelley’s challenge.

“I am sure that you and the Daily Illustrated Mirror will understand that a pair of handcuffs such as these will require me to prepare myself. I therefore agree to your challenge, set for four days from now. I will do my very best to open your handcuffs, Mr. Kelley. Houdini has never yet failed.”

Harmsworth was waiting for him as he came offstage. He was a tall, heavyset man with a child’s face and shrewd eyes. At thirty-eight years of age he was fast becoming the most powerful man in British publishing. He’d come from poverty and understood what the masses wanted and how to give it to them. He could control what people thought, how they remembered events, how history was written.

“Scared of a pair of handcuffs, are you?”

Houdini half smiled, unsure of what Harmsworth was up to. “They’re not regulation cuffs.”

“No, they’re not. So we’re on?”

Houdini paused. Harmsworth could be a dangerous enemy. “I don’t see as how you’ve left me any choice.”

Harmsworth laughed. “No, I don’t suppose I have.”

Houdini said nothing. He took a coin from his pocket and began to work it back and forth in his hand, starting at his thumb and progressing to his pinky finger and then back again with increasing speed.

“This will make both of us,” Harmsworth said. “The publicity will solidify the Mirror as the foremost paper in London and you as the foremost performer. You should be thanking me.”

The song the orchestra had launched into when he entered his cabinet was one of his favourite waltzes, “On the Beautiful Blue Danube.” Houdini listened to it in the dark, with four thousand people watching. He thought about all the challenges he’d faced and met with hard work and ingenuity. And luck. He hated the idea of luck, because luck allowed for the idea of chance, and chance admitted the possibility of failure. For every way most men knew to unlock a lock Houdini knew of three. He had backup methods for his backup methods. Only by killing chance had he been able to make this life for himself.

But he also knew that circumstances largely beyond his control had contributed to his success. It was six years since he’d broken out of a police holding cell in Chicago, engaged in what he often thought of as his greatest talent—publicity. One of the officers who handcuffed him was Lieutenant Andrew Rohan, who told Houdini to leave the station and never come back. “We don’t want you in our jail,” he’d said.

Two weeks later Rohan came to see him with a proposition. He took him to a nondescript building that could have housed an inept accountant or an unsuccessful lawyer or a clientless tailor. Once inside, he was taken up a side staircase to a sitting room with a large fireplace and several chairs positioned around a circular table. Rohan motioned for him to sit and then left. After a few minutes the door opened again and a tall man entered, wearing a pin-striped suit and spectacles. He was clean-cut with a well-waxed moustache, and walked across the room with a casual grace and confidence.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, extending his hand for Houdini to shake and then sitting opposite him. “I’m John Wilkie.”

Houdini knew the name. Years ago, as a reporter for the Chicago Tribune, Wilkie had written an account of having witnessed the apocryphal Indian rope trick. Every magician knew it was a trick that didn’t exist and had never been performed, but which the more credulous members of the public read as fact. Multiple reports of seeing such a trick soon spread across the world, and the article became an object lesson, for magicians, of what, if properly convinced, people will say, and even believe, they have seen.

“You’ve become a magician?”

Wilkie shook his head. “Amateur, I assure you. I have turned my attention to other areas. I am the director of the Secret Service.”

Houdini was speechless. He knew that Rohan had been upset with him, but it was all part of an act. “I haven’t done anything illegal. The jailbreaks were approved by the police.”

Wilkie smiled. “You misunderstand, Mr. Weisz. You’re not in trouble.”

“It’s Houdini. Harry Houdini.”

“Exactly. We know all about you. Born Erik Weisz on March 24, 1874, in Budapest. Interestingly, when you came to America the spelling of your name was changed and your date of birth is recorded as April 6. Why is that?”

“I don’t know. My parents changed the spelling of all our names, and the birthday must be a mistake.”

“But now Ehrich Weiss has become Harry Houdini. Born in Appleton, Wisconsin, on April 6, 1874.” Wilkie reached into his pocket, pulled out an American passport, and slid it across the table toward him.

Houdini had never officially changed his name or applied for a passport. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m disappointed, Mr. Weisz. I’ve been under the impression that you are exceptionally intelligent. Do you know what it is the Secret Service does?”

“Vaguely. I know you’re in federal law enforcement.”

“That’s correct. We’re the enforcement branch of the Treasury Department. We were created on the day Abraham Lincoln was shot. Counterfeiting, bank robbing, illegal gambling, that sort of thing. We also protect key government officials and visiting dignitaries. And we could use a man with your particular set of skills.”

“Are you asking me to work for you?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“I’m a performer. I have no intention of becoming a police officer.”

“And that’s exactly why you are of interest to me. I have plenty of agents. And they think like agents and have the abilities of agents. You, on the other hand, have a range of abilities that they do not possess and that are of much use in our line of work.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

Wilkie smiled in a way that did not entirely reassure him. “There is a fine line between an escapist and a crook. They both know how to do things that lawmen don’t. Lock picking; safecracking; escaping ropes, handcuffs, and chains—all your gimmicks and tricks. Everything you do, all the techniques you employ, are skills my agents require.”

“You want me to quit and become a Secret Service agent?”

“No, absolutely not. I want to help you make better use of your skills. You’ve been stuck for some time, Mr. Weisz. I can assist with that. In return, you can share your knowledge with me, and occasionally perform a service for your country.”

Wilkie held out his hands, palms up, to show they were empty, and then he clapped them together and produced a card. Houdini was somewhat impressed. Wilkie was more adept than the average amateur. Wilkie handed him the card. It read MARTIN BECK, ORPHEUM THEATER, 3 P.M.

“I believe you are aware of Mr. Beck’s reputation in your business. You have an audition tomorrow at the indicated time. I have every reason to believe he will offer you a contract for the next season’s circuit at rates you will find to be very attractive. I also believe that the police in the cities you will be visiting will be happy to allow you to break out of their facilities, which should provide you very good notices in the papers. I also anticipate that you will, from time to time, find a moment or two to assist my men and to teach them some of the more pertinent tools of your trade. And if and when we need something specific, we will call.”

Houdini looked again at the card. Martin Beck was the owner of one of vaudeville’s largest theatre consortiums. He’d been trying for years to get someone like Beck to notice him.

“You have yourself a deal, Mr. Wilkie.”

“I thought as much.” He stood, they shook hands again, and Wilkie walked to the door. Before opening it he turned toward Houdini. “I trust that this conversation, and our arrangement, will stay between the two of us? It is, after all, called the Secret Service for a reason.”

“Of course. I have never had any trouble keeping a secret.”

As things turned out, however, he would have other things to worry about than the keeping of secrets. Wilkie kept up his end of the bargain: the next day Martin Beck signed Houdini on for the year at thirty dollars a week, and before long he was one of the biggest acts in vaudeville. His jailbreaks were set up by Wilkie’s men, often against the wishes of the local police officials, who had no wish for their security to be exposed. After a while, though, their reluctance dissipated. Whether it was because word had gotten around that his visits were not optional, or because they warmed to the good publicity it generated, he didn’t know. What he did know was that the newspaper accounts of his jailbreaks drove the crowds into the theatres.

The arrangement worked to everyone’s benefit. Whenever he did a jailbreak at a police station, he’d give the police a cursory lesson on lock picking and safecracking, and every once in a while one of Wilkie’s men would turn up at a show, wanting to know some detail of how a counterfeiter was producing a bill or the various techniques of cardsharps. He often got the feeling that they already knew the answers to their questions, but it hardly seemed prudent to point out how one-sided their arrangement was. Wilkie had provided him with an opportunity. He’d made the most of it. Without his skills, without his publicity and showmanship, he’d still be performing with the California Concert Company. He, not Wilkie, had invented Houdini, and he had become Houdini so well that there was no stopping him.

One afternoon in 1901, following a show in San Francisco, Houdini was approached by three men. Two of them were sharply dressed, and he could tell immediately upon shaking their hands that they were gamblers. They introduced themselves as Simpson and Wallace, and the third man, whose hand surpassed the other two’s grace and dexterity, said his name was Findlay. He stood out from the other two, saying little.

Their proposition was simple. They wanted him to help them break into a casino—not to rob it but to plant marked cards. For this they offered him a hundred dollars. Wallace, who was the shorter of the two gamblers, did most of the talking. Simpson was an oddly shaped man of average height whose arms appeared too long for his body. He’d somehow managed to trim his moustache unevenly, so that one side of it curved upward. It gave him a look of perpetual mirth.

“We’ve seen your show, Mr. Houdini, and we know it’d be a quick matter for you to pop open the lock and get us in,” Wallace said, his voice hushed. He looked around and produced a roll of money from his pocket. Findlay stood back a few paces and made a pretense of rolling a cigarette.

Houdini looked at the money. He didn’t desperately need it. “You’re right, gentlemen, what you propose would present little challenge to me.” He had no issue with gambling—he had himself indulged more than once and Bess had nearly killed him in his sleep one night after he’d lost sixty dollars in a game of craps. He knew enough about casinos to know they weren’t on the level, and cheating a cheater was no problem to him. He almost relished the idea. But there was something about this he didn’t like. It was, for starters, breaking and entering, even if he didn’t go in, and he reasoned that if he were going to turn to crime it wouldn’t be with these three men.

“I’m afraid, however, I can’t help you. I only wish to break out of jail cells I’ve voluntarily entered.”

Simpson chuckled and then stopped. He looked at Wallace.

“Is it an issue of money?” Wallace asked.

“No, it’s an issue of morality. I don’t mind you cheating a casino; in fact I wish you luck. But I do not use my abilities for criminal pursuits.” Houdini tipped his hat to the men, wished them a good day, and began the short walk back to the hotel where Bess was waiting for him. As he passed Findlay, who hadn’t moved since introducing himself, Findlay raised his eyes to meet his, and it seemed to him that something menacing was conveyed between them. On his walk back to the hotel he had the feeling he was being followed, but on the three or four occasions he looked behind him he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

Just before midnight, he received a telephone call that there was an urgent telegram from New York at the front desk for him. His first thought was that his mother had fallen ill, and he dressed and left the room without hesitation. As he rounded the corner in the hallway, however, he saw the unmistakable bewildered smile of Simpson. He felt something hard and metal press into his back.

“That’s a revolver, if you’re wondering,” Wallace said. “We’ve decided you’ve reconsidered our proposal.”

There was no sign of Findlay, but Houdini was sure he was somewhere, probably stationed as a lookout. As they descended the stairs he felt a great sense of relief pass over him—the telegram was a hoax and his mother was likely safe in bed. She missed his father, he knew. She talked about him often, as though he was still alive. “Ehrie,” she might say, “your father will like this a lot.” But he could see her sadness. He would tell her that he would take care of her, but even he didn’t really believe it. He mourned his father as much as she did.

They moved down the stairs and through the lobby of the hotel, and Findlay fell in step beside him.

“Is the gun really necessary?” he asked Findlay, even though it was in Wallace’s possession.

Findlay didn’t answer him. They kept walking in silence, Findlay on one side, Simpson on the other, Wallace behind him. Houdini ran through several possible escape scenarios. Each ended with him getting shot. He decided to remain calm and see what happened. He guessed that they would take him to unlock the casino and then let him go.

“I’m wondering, do I still get the hundred dollars?”

This seemed to confuse Simpson, but it brought a slight smile to Findlay’s face.

“After all the trouble you’ve put us to? No, I don’t think so,” Wallace said.

“How about fifty?”

“How about you spring open the door and I don’t shoot you?”

The cable cars had stopped running, and there were few people out. A man crossed the street, his path destined to intersect with theirs, and Wallace pressed his gun into Houdini’s spine, a reminder to behave. The man nodded to them as he passed, and then appeared to recognize Houdini. Findlay saw this too, and slowed his pace to put himself between the man and Houdini. Houdini couldn’t see if anything happened, but Findlay returned to his side quickly and they continued their walk.

They reached the casino after about twenty minutes. They stood across the street for a few minutes while Findlay and Wallace cased things out, then motioned him toward a wooden side door, leaving Simpson on the street as lookout.

Wallace shoved him toward the door. “Open it.”

Houdini took a quick look at the lock. It was a standard pin and tumbler. He could open it in under thirty seconds. He reached his hand into his inside pocket for his picks.

Wallace raised the gun at him, which startled Findlay—his hand flew into his coat with a speed and precision Houdini hadn’t expected, but stopped short of drawing what he assumed was a gun.

“Easy! I’m just getting my tools. You didn’t think I opened locks with my mind, did you?”

Wallace lowered his revolver, though only slightly, and Findlay regained his stony visage. Houdini took out his picks and turned back to the lock. The way Findlay had gone for his gun made him suspect that he was exceptionally dangerous. Would they kill him after he opened the door? They wouldn’t risk a gunshot here, but whatever else happened, he couldn’t let them take him somewhere else. He needed more time to come up with a plan for escape.

Escape. Only this time there was no trick to it. To get out of this he would have to act quickly and improvise as he went. This made him nervous as the gun was pointed at him.

“What’s the deal with your man Simpson?” he asked, placing his pick into the keyway.

“Simpson?” Wallace asked.

Houdini understood that the three of them were using fake names. “It’s just that compared to you two he seems a bit of an amateur.”

Wallace shrugged. “He’s good with cards. And every army needs soldiers.”

Houdini saw Findlay raise an eyebrow at this. Findlay was clearly the man in charge, but he was content to let Wallace believe he was running the show.

A plan began to form. He would break into the casino and lock them out. They couldn’t pick the lock—that was why he was here in the first place. For once, breaking into something would save him. As long as he was inside he’d be fine. It would require a little luck, for Findlay to be distracted for a half second. He would have to wait for the right moment and hope that he would know it when it came.

He worked the lock and felt it give. He turned his tension wrench a little and the lock was defeated. But he didn’t turn it all the way. Findlay was watching him intently, so he pretended to be having trouble with the lock. He took his pick out and stared at it as though it contained some great secret.

“Is there a problem?” Wallace asked.

“No, it’s just giving me a little more trouble than I expected. I’ll have it open in a minute.”

There were footsteps on the street. Houdini waited until Wallace and Findlay shifted their attention, just for an instant. He torqued open the lock, shouldered the door open, darted into the casino, turned, and slammed it shut. The lock engaged behind him, and he smiled. The men outside tried the door. When it didn’t open, there was a moment of silence.

“Sorry,” he heard Simpson say. “I just came to say all’s clear.”

“What are we going to do now?” Wallace said.

“We’re done,” Findlay said. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d introduced himself.

“No,” Simpson said, and then Houdini heard a gunshot. Had Findlay or Wallace shot Simpson? He looked down at his left hand and saw a red hole in the flesh between his middle and ring finger, followed by tremendous pain. They’d shot him through the door.

“Goddammit!” Wallace shouted.

He began to panic. His hands were his livelihood. A magician with a crippled hand was finished. They might as well have shot him in the face. A rage began urging him to pull open the door, grab one of their guns, and fight the three of them. Someone pushed at the door again, but it held. More silence. Had they gone?

The casino had only a few lights lit, but he could see that there was no exit wound in his hand. It appeared to be a small-calibre bullet, and it hurt like hell. He moved each of his fingers, and everything seemed to be intact. The bullet was lodged in the fleshy crevice between the knuckles on his middle and ring finger. As long as it didn’t become infected he’d probably be all right.

As a feeling of relief began to set in he thought of Bess. He could have died tonight. These were men with real guns that held real bullets, and it was clear that they had little regard for his well-being. His throbbing hand was proof of that. A slight difference in the shooter’s aim might well have been the end of him.

And what would have become of Bess then? Without him she would have no way of supporting herself. She would be at the mercy of the world. As would his mother. The weight of this responsibility settled onto him, making him feel more constrained than he ever had inside a trunk.

He wanted to be gone from this place, but there was nothing to do but wait. He wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and sat down on the floor. If the casino had a night watchman, he hadn’t come running when the gunshot went off. It would be difficult for him to explain his presence here, if found, as he had no way of proving anything except that he had a bullet in his hand.

At around five the sun began to come up. He walked through the casino to the front door, picked the lock securing it, opened the door, and stepped out onto the street.

There was no sign of Findlay, Simpson, or Wallace. He began to make his way back to his hotel. Several times he stopped, bending down to tie his shoe, looking for anything out of the ordinary. When he reached his hotel, he took the staff staircase to his floor, raced down the hall and into his room.

Bess was asleep in a chair facing the door. There was an empty bottle of gin on the floor. When he closed the door behind him she sat up.

“Where have you been?”

“Ssh,” he said, keeping an ear at the door.

“Don’t you shush me. I suppose you’ve been with one of your women.”

He turned to her. “I was kidnapped by three men who wanted me to break into a casino for them.”

Bess snorted. “That’s a good one.”

He held out his left hand and unwrapped his handkerchief. It was crusty with blood, and his hand was swollen. It looked worse than it was, he knew. “I suppose you imagine that I’ve shot myself in the hand?”

Bess’s contempt washed away. She rushed toward him, taking his hand gently and examining it. “Oh God. What have you got yourself involved in?”

“Just a hazard of being Houdini,” he said, and told her a version of the evening’s events.

“Are you okay? We need to go to the hospital.”

Houdini checked his watch. They were due to catch a seven o’clock train to Portland. “No time right now. I don’t think it’s serious. Just a scratch. I’ll go later.”

Bess protested, but Houdini wouldn’t hear of delaying their departure. They made the train without incident. He kept a sharp eye the whole time, half expecting to see Findlay on every corner, waiting to feel a revolver pressed up against his back. Bess could sense his nervousness.

When he arrived in Portland, a doctor saw him and removed the bullet. It seemed insignificant once it was out of his body, nothing more than a small nub of metal. They had to modify their show slightly to account for his injury, but he counted himself lucky to have escaped more or less unscathed. That night, just as he was about to go onstage, he received a telegram.

Heard you had an incident with gamblers. You handled yourself well, as suspected. I am impressed. J. E. Wilkie.

Houdini placed the telegram in his pocket and sat down. How did Wilkie know? Was he watching him? He was caught up in something he couldn’t see the whole of. And what did Wilkie mean by “as suspected”? This didn’t sit right with him. He resolved to keep a sharp eye on his dealings with Wilkie and his men.

He hadn’t told Bess about the deal he’d struck with Wilkie. If she ever did find out, she’d be beyond angry.

Two days later, President McKinley was shot by an anarchist named Leon Czolgosz, and two days after that he died. The assassin was caught and tried, and less than two months after firing two bullets into the president’s abdomen he was executed in the electric chair. The day after the execution, Wilkie came to see Houdini. He did not look at all like a man who had just failed to protect the president of the United States from a disgruntled millworker—his appearance was every bit as natty as ever. But when he spoke Houdini could detect the strain he was under through the hoarseness in his voice.

After a few moments of cursory small talk, Wilkie said, “I want you to go to Europe.”

Houdini shook his head. He was playing to packed houses, and every few weeks his salary went up. There was nothing in Europe that could be better than here.

“Do you know why Czolgosz shot the president?” Wilkie didn’t wait for an answer. “He was inspired by the man who shot the king of Italy. Europe is a breeding ground for revolution. Something is going to happen. I don’t know what, but we need to be prepared.”

“What do you propose I do about this?”

“Do what you do. Travel, break out of prisons, talk to people. The same as you do here.”

“If it’s the same as I do here, then why can’t I just stay here?”

“Because I don’t need you here.” Wilkie looked at his hand. “I see you’ve healed just fine.”

“Yes, thank you. How did you know what happened?”

Wilkie smiled. “It is my job to know. Do you see now what I mean about you having a set of skills suited to this business?”

Houdini frowned. None of this made sense. “I’m not a spy.” He had been pulled into something he couldn’t see the whole of, and it had put him in danger. Real danger, which was not the kind he was used to. He needed to find a way to get the upper hand.

“Yes,” Wilkie said, “you are. Not in a conventional sense but in a practical sense. Magicians watch, they gather information, and they act on that information. We aren’t that different, you and I. Why not work together? I have given you a career. In return, I require you to help me. I intend to guard the stability of this country by whatever means necessary.”

“You gave me a career?” Houdini choked on the words.

“You have performed admirably, Ehrich. In fact, you have exceeded my every expectation. This invention of yours, this Houdini, has done well for you. But I got you your bookings, the venues for your publicity stunts, and your favourable press coverage. And what has been given can be taken away.”

The Mirror cuffs were the most formidable pair of handcuffs Houdini had ever encountered. They were made of solid steel and contained the most advanced lock ever made. In 1784 the locksmith Joseph Bramah had conceived of a new type of lock that he proclaimed could not be picked. He was so confident that he offered a large cash prize to anyone who could defeat this lock. The prize went unclaimed until 1851, when A. C. Hobbs defeated the lock at the world’s fair in London. It took him more than fifty hours, an amount of time that struck Houdini as impressive.

A Bramah lock consists of a cylindrical shaft with a shear line ring around it. At the back of the shaft is one large spring, pressing down on any number of notched sliders. A tubular key is inserted into the keyway, and grooves in the key push each slider to its correct depth, at which point a notch in the slider allows the shaft to rotate free of the shear line ring. The problem with trying to pick a Bramah lock is that because there is only one spring pressing on all of the sliders it’s difficult to tell when the pick is at the correct depth. Even if it is at the right depth, holding it there while you pick the other sliders is nearly impossible. In addition to this each slider has at least one false notch.

The only method Houdini knew to pick this lock was to use an extremely thin shim of metal to figure out where the notches in the sliders were, and then through trial and error make a series of duplicate keys with each possible variation until he found the right series of grooves. This was how he suspected Hobbs did it, and it explained why it took him so long.

The Mirror cuffs consisted of two Bramah locks, one nestled inside the other. The inside lock had six sliders and the outside lock had seven sliders. Houdini was confident that he could pick it, but it would take hundreds of hours.

The band had finished the waltz. He couldn’t place the song they were playing now, which irritated him. It wasn’t half bad, and he was sure he’d heard it before. His knees were getting a bit stiff, and he shifted his weight so his blood could continue to flow to his limbs. He hadn’t been in the cabinet long—about fifteen minutes. The crowd still seemed engaged. He moved the curtain slightly and heard them react with gasps and shouts. They were worked up all right. He’d better get out of this soon or they’d lynch him.

He looked down at the handcuffs on his wrists. They were solid steel, an exact fit. There’d be no wriggling out of them. The Mirror cuffs were an impressive piece of workmanship. It was an extremely good thing that he wasn’t wearing them.

Harmsworth had laid the whole thing out for him. The handcuffs were as advertised, more or less. It hadn’t taken anyone five years to make them, and there was no such person as Nathaniel Hart, but other than that they were the most sophisticated locks Houdini had ever seen. They had been proudly displayed to a panel of professional locksmiths the day before. A selection of these men were onstage now, waiting to examine the cuffs should he escape. He doubted that any man alive other than himself could pick them, but even he couldn’t pick them here in this cabinet, and not fast enough to make a good show. But the cuffs that Kelley had locked on him were a replica, held on by a simple screw mechanism. Kelley had turned the key so many times because he wasn’t engaging a lock, he was setting a screw. He’d been instructed to try to disguise this fact, a clear giveaway to anyone who knew what to look for, but instead he’d emphasized it.

Houdini hadn’t wanted to do it like this. He didn’t mind the occasional use of gaffed cuffs, but for something this high profile—this would surely rank as one of the greatest escapes ever—he preferred a little more art. Yet Harmsworth had insisted.

He pushed at the curtain and then opened it. Everyone expected him to emerge free at this point, but it was too soon. A show had to last for a certain length of time.

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I am unfortunately not yet free. I simply desire to get a better look at these fine handcuffs—the light in my cabinet leaves much to be desired.”

He caught Bess’s eye. She had been testy today, or perhaps it was just his imagination. Perhaps it was he who was testy. That was the thing with Bess. It was hard to tell who started things. Once they were both wound up it didn’t really matter. She winked back at him, mischievous. He imagined them together, later that night, once he had escaped. They would go for a walk along the Thames, quiet but together. Or perhaps they would stay in and order a lavish dinner, talk about what they would do when they returned home. He was too hard on her. It was an offshoot of being hard on himself, but he had no right to be this way. He would make it up to her, be better. First, however, he had an escape to perform.

Bess had been, correctly, against the idea of going to Europe.

“We have a good life,” she said. “We don’t need to do this. Do you not remember the last time we went to Russia?”

Wilkie’s threat had stuck, though, so they finished their bookings and sailed for London. A week after arriving Houdini received an invitation to visit Scotland Yard, ostensibly to demonstrate his abilities with their finest handcuffs. The cuffs had produced little challenge, but afterward he was taken aside by the head of the Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, William Melville. Melville was a severe-looking fellow, with a trace of an Irish accent and an obvious temper. He was the walking embodiment of a policeman, hulking and muscled and intimidating. It was a hot June day but he wore his coat buttoned all the way up and didn’t appear to sweat at all.

“Wilkie tells me you’re good,” he said. “Are you?”

Houdini tried not to appear offended. “I just gave what I thought was a convincing demonstration.”

“I don’t trust Wilkie.”

“Neither do I.”

Melville laughed. The sound he made struck Houdini as comical, but the magician kept his face serene. “Good. Then we’re in agreement.”

Houdini suspected he knew where Melville was headed with this talk.

“I think you’ll find Her Majesty’s Great Britain very different from your United States of America,” Melville said.

“I can assure you I’ve already discovered many differences.”

Melville laughed again. “I’m sure you have. Here, though, I think you’ll find that doors don’t just open for you, no matter how good you are with locks. You will need them opened for you.”

“I can assure you that no door has ever just opened for me, sir,” Houdini said. He did not like Melville’s implication.

“You misunderstand me. Or possibly you don’t. No matter. I am aware of your arrangement with Wilkie. I would like to engage you in a similar arrangement. You are in a unique position, Mr. Houdini. You can travel to Germany and Russia and learn things that most men I employ cannot. Wilkie knows this as well as I. We have many enemies in common, and so we have many friends in common.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

This time, Melville didn’t laugh. “Doors, sir. Like you, I am a man who can open doors.”

“What, precisely, will I be doing for you?”

“Just keep your eyes and ears open for now. Should you find yourself breaking out of any prisons on your travels, I might like to know the particulars of their layouts and weaknesses.”

While touring Germany and France for the next three years, Houdini sent both Melville and Wilkie regular reports. Descriptions of prisons he escaped from, information about military barracks he toured, profiles of politicians and police officers he met. It was unclear to him of what value this information was, and he rarely received acknowledgement from either of them. He began to imagine that they had lost interest in him. His fame was growing, and soon they would no longer be able to affect his career in any way.

This changed in the fall of 1903, when a promoter contacted him with an offer to tour Russia. He wasn’t particularly eager to go—he’d heard from other performers that the Russian police had a way of getting their hands in your pockets. The sheer volume of paperwork required to ship his equipment, much of which technically qualified as burglary tools, was inhibiting. But both Wilkie and Melville insisted that he go, as Russia was on the brink of war with Japan.

His fears turned out to be right. He was under surveillance by the Okhrana, the secret police, and policemen or minor officials were everywhere, looking for bribes. He did not declare his religion on his entry visa. Jews were not permitted to perform onstage in Moscow without a permit, nor was it legal for any person of Jewish descent to reside overnight in Moscow. Should the Okhrana find out he was Jewish and hadn’t declared it, there’d be trouble.

Nowhere had he encountered such a juxtaposition of wealth and utter poverty. Upon his arrival in Russia he caught a glimpse of a third-class rail car, and could hardly believe what he saw. People were stacked like firewood, their faces blank and vanquished. On the other side, the patrons at the Yar, a trendy upscale restaurant in Moscow, where his show ran each night from eleven until one in the morning, redefined the word “decadence.” Money rained from them. Their clothes cost more than his mother could contemplate, and he’d never seen so many jewels in one place.

The Russians were a superstitious lot. It was almost like he’d gone back a century. He was very careful not to claim supernatural powers, but after a while his denials only served to strengthen people’s belief that he was some sort of holy man or mystic.

After two weeks at the Yar the Okhrana finally acted. Houdini was taken by horse carriage to the Butyrskaya Prison, where the chief of the secret police, Sergei Zubatov, was waiting for him with half a dozen of his agents.

Zubatov was a thin man of average height, a smooth face that made him look younger than he was, and a somewhat poorly kept moustache. Houdini recognized a shrewd man who saw much and revealed little. He held his body in a casual pose, but Houdini could tell Zubatov was anything but casual.

Houdini sat opposite Zubatov on the hard wooden chair provided.

“We have a problem, Mr. Houdini,” said Zubatov at last in surprisingly passable English.

“We do? I’ve been careful to break no laws,” he said.

“That’s true. You have been circumspect. But your escapes are causing trouble for me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Your escapes. There are those who believe that you are some sort of wizard or a holy man. And then there are those who believe that you are an ordinary man, like them. It is the latter who are a problem for us.”

Houdini said nothing—it was clear that Zubatov had an agenda.

“It is all an act, yes?”

“Yes and no. I can escape from any restraints placed upon me. I use natural means to do so, and what’s seen in my act is real enough.”

Zubatov shook his head. “No, that won’t do. I cannot have men believing that the locks in Russia, both real and symbolic, can be opened.”

Houdini shrugged. “I’m no ordinary man. I can’t help what people take from my show.”

Zubatov stood and motioned for him to follow. The six other Okhrana officers smiled, just a little, and Houdini knew something was up. He cursed Wilkie and Melville for forcing him to come to Russia. What did they care if he spent the rest of his life in some Russian prison or ended up dead?

He was led down a narrow corridor, Zubatov in front of him and the six officers behind. At regular intervals there was a heavy metal door with a small window in it. From one of them a harried man peered out, his eyes bloodshot and beard ragged. He called out to Houdini in Russian, his voice high and pleading. One of the officers shut the window casually, the way a person might close a window to a disturbance on the street so as to not interrupt a conversation.

At the end of the corridor a door opened onto a large enclosed courtyard. There was a gate on the far wall. Between Houdini and the gate was a small wagon. Zubatov motioned at the wagon and, for the first time, seemed excited.

“This is the Black Maria.”

It was a box made of some sort of heavily tarnished metal, with a small barred window in the door. On the door was a rudimentary lock. He opened the door. The floor was lined with zinc sheeting. There was some straw on it, but aside from that the cell was empty.

Houdini bent down to tie his shoelace, considering how to proceed, then stood and faced Zubatov.

“No one stays long at Butyrskaya. This wagon transports those exiled to Siberia. Many do not survive the journey. No one has ever escaped.”

“It is a formidable construction.”

“Can you escape from it?”

Houdini paused. He did not doubt he could, assuming all was aboveboard. But there was something about the way Zubatov was looking at him that made him suspicious. Still, he could hardly refuse. His reputation depended on it.

“Of course. I will return tomorrow and show you. The conditions are these. The wagon will not be modified from how it appears now, and no additional locks will be used. You may search me as you would any prisoner, but the wagon will be left over there, in the corner, and the courtyard will be empty while I make my escape. My methods are my own, and I will not allow them to be observed. Is this agreeable to you?”

Zubatov smiled. He looked to Houdini like a man whose trap had just been sprung.

“I will see you tomorrow, then.”

That night at the Yar there were more Okhrana agents than usual, or so it seemed to Houdini. Something was amiss.

At the end of the show there was a knock on his dressing room door. Houdini was tempted to ignore it—he was busy assembling the tools he’d need for the escape. But the knock had a tone to it that compelled him to open the door.

A tall, blond, bearded man dressed entirely in black stood in the hall. He held his hands behind his back. He motioned with his head and Houdini nodded. The man stepped into the room, his footsteps nearly silent, and Houdini closed the door.

The man’s eyes swept the room, pausing on the apparatus set out on the small worktable in the corner.

“I take it you have had an interesting day, Mr. Houdini,” he said in unaccented English.

“I have. But I can often say as much.” Houdini sat down and began to eat an apple.

“Forgive my rudeness. I come as a friend.” The man introduced himself as Viktor Grigoriev, an attaché of the Romanov family. “As you may know, the czar and czarina have, shall we say, an interest in the occult.” Grigoriev sat in the chair next to Houdini.

“I do as well.”

“What, may I ask, is the nature of your interest?”

Houdini considered his answer. “I’m a magician. Much of what we do appears similar to what these so-called psychics or healers or whatever you want to call them do. I’ve yet to see an act of the spirits that I can’t explain through natural means. But there’s always doubt.”

“I am correct that you make no claim to powers not of this world?”

“That is correct. I can do things that are extraordinary, but they come from skill and practice.”

“That is as I suspected. I’m glad to hear it.” He rose from his chair. “You would do well not to trust Chief Zubatov. I would in particular not make the assumption that the locks on the transport wagon will be as you found them today.”

Houdini stood and extended his hand. He had suspected as much. “Thank you.”

Grigoriev shook his hand. “I will be in touch, Mr. Houdini.”

Houdini was getting hot. Normally he’d be out of the cabinet by now. He was a little bored as well. Sitting still was not in his nature. He’d been in the cabinet for thirty-five minutes. He may as well enliven the show a bit. He pulled aside the curtain and shook his head.

“Please allow me to stretch my legs, ladies and gentlemen. It is rather cramped in here, and I’m not use to being contained for so long.” People laughed at this, and some shouted encouragement. In general it seemed to him that people were still in good spirits. He couldn’t see Harmsworth, but assumed he was happy with the proceedings. He crawled out of the cabinet.

“Mr. Kelley,” he said, as loud as he could so as to be heard over the crowd, “I wonder if I might have a glass of water?”

Kelley appeared flustered, even though Houdini had told him that this was something he often did. Sometimes, if things went badly, he’d code out to Bess that he needed a particular skeleton key from his trunk. She’d put the key in the glass and he’d get it in his mouth. As long as she held her hand the right way the key was impossible to spot.

Kelley got his wits about him and nodded, and someone brought water from offstage. One of the panel members, taking his job seriously, examined the water glass. It was empty, of course. Smart man, though, Houdini thought. Any other night and he might have found something.

The man, satisfied that the glass contained only water, allowed Kelley to bring it to him.

“How you holding up, Kelley?” Houdini whispered as he took the glass in his manacled hands.

Kelley’s hands shook as he released the glass. “What’s taking you so long?”

“Harmsworth wants a show. And that’s what I’m giving him.”

Houdini drank the water in three gulps and handed Kelley back the glass. He waved to the audience and walked back to his cabinet.

“Excuse me, if you will. I must return to my work.”

He knelt down and pulled the curtain closed. Something seemed wrong. The man who’d inspected his water—he’d seen him somewhere before, and not in London. He was a shadow of memory, just a flicker, a tiny sliver that dug its way into his mind. Was it his face? The way he moved? He tried to place him but failed.

This was not good. He had a number of enemies in the magic community. That was, he’d told Bess, the price of being the best. His act had spawned imitators, and he’d crushed them, even going so far as to get his brother Dash to set himself up as a rival act so that he could draw out the copycats and use the publicity from discrediting them to promote his own show. They were all freeloaders, and they knew it. They’d stop at nothing to ruin him.

His mouth tingled. His tongue felt foreign, swollen. The cabinet seemed like it was moving. He fought to stay upright and realized he was about to lose consciousness. He leaned back so he wouldn’t fall face-first onto the stage, and as he passed out he saw the face of his mother as clearly as if she were in the cabinet with him, smiling as though everything would be all right.

He floated in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he was aware of where he was, and sometimes he was transported elsewhere. The most vivid of these scenes took him back a year, to the bedroom of Milla Barry, an actress and singer who was sharing the bill with him in Munich. He was getting dressed, and Milla kept asking him why he didn’t leave Bess for her.

“That’s not how it’s going to be,” he said.

Milla sat up in bed. The sheets had ended up on the floor and she was naked. “Why do you want her when you can have this?”

“Don’t talk like that.” He turned to look at her. She was beautiful, but he never should have become involved with her.

She smiled that coy little smile that had started all this off. “Maybe I’ll just have to tell her about us.”

Before he knew what was happening, he’d crossed the ten feet between them and had his right hand wrapped around her throat. His left hand was raised, and only her flinch made him realize what he was about to do. He released her and stepped back, startled.

“You won’t say a thing to Bess,” he said in a voice he barely recognized.

Milla got off the bed and picked up a sheet to cover herself.

“You won’t say a thing to Bess,” he repeated.

She swallowed. “No, of course not. I was only fooling.”

He watched her for a moment longer, picked his coat up off the chair, and left.

In the cabinet, eventually he was able to regain consciousness. He concentrated on his breathing, taking one slow breath and then another and then another. His legs had pins and needles and he was unbearably hot. He had to get himself out of the cabinet. His tools were in his coat pocket, but without the real cuffs he’d be found out the moment they were examined. He had to do the switch.

With great effort he moved his body left and then right and then left again, swaying back and forth until he felt some sensation return to his legs. He had to try to stand or else risk passing out again. On the other side of his thin curtain four thousand pairs of eyes were focused on him.

He pulled back the curtain and stood up, shaky and weak. Some people gasped. Others cheered until they saw him, saw the sweat running down his face, saw the cuffs still fastened around his wrists.

Kelley came up to him, obviously concerned. He considered telling him he’d just been drugged, but he didn’t know if Kelley could be trusted. Drugged or not, he still needed to complete this escape or the man he’d painstakingly created would become a footnote in history.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay. These handcuffs are indeed a formidable opponent. I would like at this point to remove my coat. Mr. Kelley, would you be so kind as to unlock the cuffs so that I may make myself more comfortable.”

For a second he thought Kelley was going to do it. The man looked terrified. “I’m sorry, Mr. Houdini,” he said in his odd baritone. “But the terms of the challenge do not allow me to take the cuffs off unless you have conceded.”

“I will do no such thing!” He looked over at Bess. She could see something was wrong with him. “Houdini does not admit defeat!” This was an old code phrase of theirs. He’d only used it once before, in Blackburn with the plugged cuffs. It meant: Get help. Quick.

Houdini reached into his pocket and pulled out his pocketknife. At the same time he palmed his tools and slipped them into the front pocket of his trousers as he opened the knife. He cut at his coat from the sleeve up, tearing at his lapel with his teeth, ripping the coat. The coat was rigged to come off easily, and in a matter of moments he had, to all appearances, cut his coat off. His head was foggy and he was having a hard time standing up, but he hoped that the audience would attribute his distress to the exertion of his escape.

In his peripheral vision he saw Bess leave, walking briskly and then running. He couldn’t see the man who’d examined his water anywhere.

“Mr. Kelley, I appreciate the situation you’re in and want you to know that I bear you no hard feelings.” He said this facing the audience—it was for their benefit. “I wonder, though, if I might have a cushion for my knees. I’ve been in there a while and though I am in excellent physical condition they’re quite sore.”

Kelley motioned to one of the stagehands. Houdini took the cushion and bowed to the audience before returning to his cabinet. As he closed the curtain his vision faltered, and again he felt his head swim. There wasn’t much time.

Grigoriev had been right. Where before there was only one lock on the door on the wagon, there were now several, each of them modern and complicated. Not necessarily unpickable but more of a challenge than he’d agreed to.

Inside the prison he was taken to a room with a bare table. Zubatov was waiting there with a man who appeared to be some sort of doctor and an assembly of guards. Grigoriev was there as well, which surprised Houdini, but he decided not to let on that he knew him.

“We had an agreement that there would be no additional locks used,” he said to Zubatov.

“I wouldn’t think that a few extra locks would pose any impediment to a man of your skill. Am I to assume that you wish to back out?”

“No,” Houdini said, “it makes no difference to me.”

“And I assume you are still willing to consent to being searched?”

“Yes, of course.”

He removed his jacket and shirt. Two guards held his wrists and the doctor, a spectacled man with a sharp face and narrow eyes, ran his hands through his hair, then into his ears, and then over his neck. His mouth was forced open and the doctor’s fingers, ripe with the taste of stale tobacco, explored so far down his throat that he gagged.

The examination continued downward, and then his hands were forcibly held out in front of him. The doctor peered at them intently, turning them at every conceivable angle, checking the webbed skin between his fingers, then moving up his arms, pressing his thumbs hard into the flesh of his armpits.

The guards let go of his wrists but did not move away from him. Houdini removed his shoes and socks, then unbuckled his trousers and stepped out of them. The doctor performed an equally thorough search on his feet, beginning with the soles and working up his legs.

The guards at his side seized his wrists and the doctor pulled his briefs down.

“I assure you this is unnecessary,” Houdini said.

Zubatov remained immobile. “Standard procedure,” he said.

Whether this was standard procedure or not Houdini couldn’t say, but the ensuing search was both methodical and coarse. He had anticipated it, and the fact that they would immediately notice he was circumcised, a revelation that could prove far more dangerous than being locked in a wagon. To disguise this he’d constructed a fake penis of sorts—the tip was a prosthetic, convincing to the eye, but it would probably not hold up to a detailed examination. Fortunately the doctor did not seem interested in the tip of his penis.

His wrists were released and he pulled up his briefs. It was cold but he repressed the urge to shiver.

“I assume you’re satisfied that I am in possession of nothing but my wits?”

They returned to the courtyard. As they approached the wagon Houdini looked again at the additional locks, shaking his head and whistling. An officer came up behind him with a set of British handcuffs.

“Really?” Houdini said. “You’re changing the game, Chief Zubatov.” He extended his wrists and allowed the cuffs to be fastened. He then clambered into the wagon. The door was shut behind him and the locks engaged. A series of chains was wound around the door and additional locks fastened to these chains.

Zubatov’s face appeared in the window. “One more thing, Mr. Houdini. The lock for the door is a peculiar one. To prevent escape, and to discourage attempts to free the imprisoned, there is no key to the lock here at Butyrskaya. The only key is in the possession of the prison warder in Siberia. It will take about three weeks for you to get there.”

He heard laughter from the guards, and then the scuffling of their footsteps as they retreated inside the main prison building. He waited until he was satisfied they were gone and then got to work.

Three quick slams and the handcuffs popped open. The locks on the wagon door were irrelevant—he had no intention of dealing with them. He felt he could probably pick them, but there was an easier way out. Despite their attempts to search him, he had managed to get his tools inside. He reached down to his right hand and pulled off one of his fingers.

He smiled. It was amazing how similar all searches of his person were. Some were rougher than others, some looked harder than others, but once an area had been searched it was assumed irrevocably clean. Searches never made allowances for the possibility of change.

When they checked his hands, they found four fingers and a thumb on each one. They could look forever and all they’d see was an ordinary set of hands. After they’d searched his hands, however, they’d allowed him free use of them to remove his shoes and trousers, and he’d taken advantage of this to slip his hand into his waistband where a false finger was waiting. It was, as far as misdirection goes, a fairly easy manoeuvre. Once the finger was in place, all he had to do was contort his hand slightly and control the angle it was viewed at and no one would be the wiser. And they never searched his hands twice.

He’d identified the wagon’s weakness the day before. A quick look at the underside showed the floor was made of one-inch-thick wood planks, braced in two places. The floor was lined with zinc sheeting, not one solid piece but several strips overlapping each other. The zinc was presumably intended to aid in cleaning out the remarkable filth that would accumulate during the trip to Siberia, during which, if Zubatov was correct, the prisoner would at no time leave the wagon. But the zinc floor was the key to his escape.

In a situation like this escaping from the wagon wasn’t enough. He must also be able to conceal how he got out. From inside the false finger Houdini retrieved a small metal cutter, similar to a can opener, a Gigli saw, and a small hand drill. With the metal cutter he began to slice through the zinc, cutting a square just large enough for him to fit through, the cuts in a spot where the zinc sheets overlapped. He peeled back the first layer of zinc and then, leaving an inch of overlap, cut through the second layer.

Once he’d bent back the zinc and exposed the floorboards, he put down the cutter and picked up the Gigli saw, which was essentially a garrotte with teeth. He drilled a hole in one of the corners of his hatch, then another about ten inches away. It took some skill to thread the saw down one hole and up the next, but he was practised and patient. The wood was relatively soft. He focused on the rhythm of pulling the Gigli back and forth, and soon enough he’d cut two lines about a foot and a half long. He then cut away the short sides of the hatch. When he was done he had created a trapdoor in the wagon about eighteen inches wide and ten inches long with two inches of zinc sheeting extending beyond the wood.

In drilling the holes and sawing, he’d been careful to make sure his cuts were at an angle, so the boards wouldn’t fall straight down. From there it was a simple matter of pulling up the hatch, bending the zinc so the location of his cuts would be virtually invisible, and squeezing through the hole in the floor. Once outside he reached up and moved the hatch back into place, shaking the straw he’d piled on top so that it would fall naturally across the floor of the wagon. He used the metal cutter to dig a small hole, buried the false finger and his tools, concealed the hole, and scrambled out from underneath the wagon.

Now that he was free he considered undoing the locks—they were not complex locks by any standard—but decided against it. He had escaped, and while the courtyard was empty at present there was no guarantee it would stay that way. It would be a disaster if someone were to stumble upon him picking the locks outside the wagon. Now that he was free, even if his method was detected, Zubatov wouldn’t be willing to reveal it; it would seem to everyone that he was making it up.

Houdini smiled as he thought of the reaction waiting for him inside. Zubatov had seemed so smug. They would never let him publicize what he’d just done, but word would leak out nevertheless. He’d make sure of that.

The air inside the cabinet was hot and hard to breathe. His vision wobbled and his hands felt dull. From his pocket he retrieved his tools, and in less than thirty seconds he’d unscrewed the fastening mechanism on the cuffs and freed his hands. He then took his knife and cut away four inches of the stitching on the cushion. Inside was a small vial containing a phosphorescent liquid, a needle and thread, and the real Mirror cuffs. One shake of the vial and the cabinet was illuminated. He took the fake cuffs, placed them inside the cushion, and began to sew the seam back up. This should have taken him less than five minutes, but he was having trouble seeing straight, and he still felt as though he might pass out. After about ten minutes he succeeded in repairing the cushion.

He didn’t know what was going on outside. The escape was taking far longer than it should have. He’d been in the cabinet for almost an hour, he thought, and there was a fine line between tension and boredom. His escapes offered very little for the audience to witness—it was mostly done out of their sight—and he relied on their tension to sustain the show. This was a lot to sustain, even given the frenzy they were in.

But he wasn’t ready to leave the cabinet. There was more going on than he could process in his drugged state, and he didn’t know who he could trust.

All magicians had to be on guard for jealous rivals. But there was something different about this. This was not the normal way that a magician would go about destroying a rival, and it was too sophisticated for a regular Joe. The common man used far blunter instruments than poison.

The man who’d inspected the water. Houdini still couldn’t place him, but he had no doubt that he knew him. He had to be the one. It would be easy for him to have spiked the water. Magician or not, it would be a simple sleight of hand.

He had to decide what to do. He couldn’t stay in the cabinet forever, but there was someone onstage intent on malice. Either way he was in trouble.

In reaction to Houdini’s escape, Zubatov had barely said a word, just stood in the corner and chewed his lip. Grigoriev gave no indication whether he was pleased. Houdini was escorted out of the prison without fanfare and told it would be unwise if he were to in any way advertise what had happened. Zubatov’s grand spectacle of the American escapist being carted off to Siberia had been so unsuccessful that it might be wise for Houdini to leave Russia.

By the time his show started at the Yar restaurant that night, it was clear that even the Okhrana couldn’t keep a secret. When Houdini stepped onstage, he knew that the story had spread. His presence was met with a mixture of whispering and applause, and he could see Bess growing more and more agitated as she became aware of the crowd’s fevered interest. Houdini searched the room for Okhrana agents but couldn’t detect any, which was in itself suspicious. There had always been at least a few, stern men whose modest dress stood out amid the opulence.

Afterward Houdini retreated to his dressing room with Bess. They were both unnerved.

“I want to go back to America, or at least England,” Bess said.

“We can’t,” he said. “Not now.”

“What are you trying to prove?” she asked. “Why is it you need to conquer the world? We have a good life. Or we could, if you would let yourself enjoy it.”

“I enjoy our life.”

She shook her head and began to fold a pile of discarded clothes, even though there were people who would do this for them. “Moments, maybe. But you’re never truly content. You’re always thinking about what’s next, what awaits you. It’s as though the present doesn’t exist for you. Only the past and the future. Why can’t you ever stay still?”

He tried to answer her. There was a restlessness he could not contain—that his ever-expanding act could not contain, that other women could not contain—but he didn’t know how to describe it to her any more than he knew how to explain Wilkie’s and Melville’s holds on him. Facts and feelings were jumbled as they stood there, staring at each other.

When the knock at the door sounded, his first impulse was relief—he had once again escaped. One more look at Bess, though, and he knew it had robbed him of a chance to explain himself to her, or at least to try to assure her that things were going to get better, that he would not always be this way.

The knock repeated. He recognized it as Grigoriev’s and opened the door. As before, Grigoriev entered the room without saying a word. He handed an envelope to Houdini and bowed to Bess.

“Mrs. Houdini. Such a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

Houdini watched Bess blush as Grigoriev kissed her hand. He didn’t seem at all Russian, or at least he didn’t seem like the Russians Houdini had met thus far.

Grigoriev turned to Houdini. “That was quite a display you gave Zubatov today.”

“I only did what could be expected of me as an escapist.”

Grigoriev laughed. “Of course you did. There’s no need to be worried. Zubatov would love to have you disappear permanently, but he is no longer in a position to achieve that.”

“Is that why there weren’t any Okhrana agents in the audience tonight?” Bess asked.

“Oh no,” Grigoriev said, shaking his head. “There were at least ten that I counted. But they were of a superior grade. No, the crème de la crème of Okhrana were here tonight. They probably still are.”

“I don’t understand,” Houdini said.

“The Okhrana have many jobs. One of them, the most important, is protecting the royal family.”

“What does the royal family have to do with this?”

“If you look in your hands, Mr. Houdini, you will see that I have come bearing an invitation to perform for Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Elizabeth at Kleinmichel Palace tomorrow evening. There is as well an excellent chance that the czar will be in attendance, in addition to several other members of the royal family.”

Houdini tried to appear nonchalant. He had performed for royalty before. But this was a triumph for him. He imagined it would be of some interest to Wilkie and Melville as well.

“Needless to say,” Grigoriev continued, “the interest the royal family has shown has eliminated any chance of Zubatov punishing you for embarrassing him. I think his days as head of the Okhrana are numbered anyway.”

“Would you like a drink to celebrate, Mr. Grigoriev?” Bess asked.

“Of course, that would be fine.”

Bess brought two glasses of brandy and handed one to Grigoriev, who took note that Bess didn’t bring Houdini one, and paused.

“Will you be joining us in a drink?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t drink,” Houdini said. “As a magician I cannot afford to dull my senses.”

Grigoriev chuckled. “Fair enough. As a member of the Romanov household, I can’t afford not to.” He raised his glass to Bess and took a large mouthful, swallowing it without any indication whether he enjoyed it or not.

“Tomorrow night, should the czar ask you to have a drink with him, I suggest you relax your policy. As well, should the czar attempt to give you money, you would do well to decline. If you accept, the royal family will see you as a commoner, which would greatly diminish you in their eyes.”

Houdini was about to protest that he was a commoner, then thought better of it.

“I must ask one thing of you, Mr. Houdini. The czar and czarina are extremely susceptible to fraudulent holy men. We have just succeeded in ridding ourselves of a man known as Philippe de Lyon, who using hypnosis convinced them that he could predict the future. Only after several incorrect and very public predictions that the czarina was pregnant with a son did we convince them that he was a charlatan. As I understand it, you do not suppose that you have mystical powers?”

Houdini smiled. “No, I do not suppose so. Everything I do is by natural means.”

“So any man could do what you do if he had access to your secrets?”

“No, I don’t think so. I have cultivated and mastered abilities that few men would have either the patience or talent for.”

He took off one shoe and sock and removed a length of rope from his pocket. He didn’t look down, stared Grigoriev straight in the eye, while the toes on his left foot tied the rope into a series of knots and then untied them.

Grigoriev clapped his hands together, almost forgetting the glass of brandy he held. “Wonderful,” he said, laughing. Bess smiled as well, and Houdini put his shoe and sock back on and returned the rope to his pocket. “Best of all, I think, is that you keep a rope in your pocket.” Grigoriev threw back the remainder of his glass and stood. “I’m afraid I have other matters to attend to tonight. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’m sure the royal family is in for a treat.”

“What on earth are we going to do for them?” Bess demanded as soon as he was gone. “We can’t pack in props or any large equipment.”

“Don’t worry,” Houdini said. “I have some ideas.” He went to the desk in the corner of the room, sat, and took out some paper and a pen. Bess crossed behind him, pouring herself another drink.

“Are you writing a letter?”

“I am,” he replied, not looking up, writing quickly.

“To who?”

“Mother, of course.” The coded message to Wilkie was indeed addressed to his mother. He hated lying to Bess, but even more he hated how easy it was becoming, how he was able to do it almost offhandedly.

“Oh.” She sat down on the far side of the room.

He thought of his mother, far away at home. He missed her. “Ehrie,” she would say, “you should not have become involved with such men. No good will come of it. Do your tricks, entertain people. Be a good husband. That’s what you’re best at.”

He put his pen down. Perhaps the letter could wait. He turned to Bess. “I was thinking we’d do some close-up, and a couple of other things I’ve got worked out.”

“That sounds fine,” she said without enthusiasm.

He thought she wasn’t upset at him so much as she was worn down by the seeming futility of his endeavours. He was beginning to think there might be a fundamental flaw in his approach to life, the way he set about attaining goals that never seemed to bring him any real peace or happiness. But he wasn’t sure what to do about this other than simply redouble his efforts. When he did finally succeed in a manner that satisfied him, she would also be fulfilled. He was sure of it.

The next evening a carriage brought them to Kleinmichel Palace. Houdini had spent the day preparing, and whatever mood had overtaken Bess the night before had run its course. They soon found themselves in a high-ceilinged room, surrounded by various members of the Romanov family. Grigoriev chaperoned him around the room, speaking in French or English or Russian depending on the situation and translating for him when necessary. They paused in front of a painting that he was pretty sure was a Rembrandt.

When he returned home his mother would want the whole story, as would both Wilkie and Melville, though they’d be interested in entirely different details. He noted the marble floors, polished to a high sheen, the plush Persian rugs, the ornately carved furniture. He catalogued the elaborate dresses and the pomp of the uniforms and formal wear on the men. Nearly everyone in the room was wearing diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds. He had recently, at great expense, purchased for his mother a dress made for Queen Victoria. What he saw now made him feel fraudulent.

“Are you ready to begin?” Grigoriev asked him. “The czar will arrive at any moment.”

Houdini swallowed.

“The royal family is divided into those who believe in these so-called holy men and spiritualists, and those who do not. Your hosts tonight, Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich and Grand Duchess Elizabeth, do not, while Czar Nicholas and Czarina Alexandra do.”

“And how are they all related?”

Grigoriev shook his head. “It’s a spider’s web. The grand duke is uncle to the czar, and the grand duchess and the czarina are sisters, German princesses from the House of Hesse and granddaughters of Queen Victoria.”

Grigoriev motioned toward two young men standing in the far corner. “Those handsome gentlemen are Grand Duke Dimitri, the czar’s cousin, and Prince Felix Yusupov, one of the wealthiest men in Russia. They’re lovers. Prince Felix has been off at Oxford, and things have been going badly between them since his return.”

Houdini observed the two men, who were each surveying the room as though looking for something interesting and not finding it. They seemed like everyone else, an odd mixture of casual power and arrogance combined with a naïveté, as though they were completely unaware of the true nature of the position they occupied on this earth.

Bess was speaking with Grand Duchess Elizabeth, an extremely attractive woman of about forty. The grand duchess seemed absorbed by whatever Bess was saying. He smiled. Back when they were living in that one-room tenement in New York, would she have believed that she’d be making small talk with ranking members of the House of Romanov?

At that moment all heads turned toward the entrance. It reminded Houdini of the way a flock of birds changed direction in flight, each individual moving exactly the same way. Conversations halted midsentence.

The czar and czarina had arrived. The czar appeared somewhat younger than Houdini had expected. He wore black evening clothes with a high white collar and no visible sign of his rank. His beard was trimmed longer than was the general fashion but it suited him. His eyes were lively, and unlike some of the other men in the room he didn’t look to be a complete fool. The czarina did not share her sister’s good looks. While she was not exactly ugly, Houdini found her somewhat equine, though she carried herself with all of the grace befitting her upbringing.

Grand Duke Sergei and Grand Duchess Elizabeth stepped forward and bowed, and the rest of the room followed suit. Houdini joined in, and after a moment everyone rose and the music resumed.

Bess returned to his side and he took her hand. She smiled at him, and he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“Well, my dear, it looks like it’s time for us to begin.”

Before the assembled crowd he went through a series of sleight-of-hand moves, some close-up magic. Then he did the Needles, inviting Grand Duchess Elizabeth to pull the needles from his hand.

Both the czar and Grigoriev were watching him intently. There was a way that people often watched a magician, where their attention was focused on his actions, trying to divine the means with which he was able to perform his feats. While Czar Nicholas was looking at him like a man who already knew a secret, Grigoriev was looking at him as though he’d just discovered one.

He had one remaining trick, and it was a good one.

“I would like, if you may permit me, to ask a favour of you all,” he said in his most commanding voice. Bess began to pass slips of paper out, and then pencils. “I would like to perform an impossible task. Please write, as briefly as you can, something you would like me to do, something impossible. My dear wife will gather your suggestions when you finish.”

A murmur rose. Houdini saw the grand duchess whisper into her husband’s ear and smile at him, and the czar was participating as well. After a few minutes he signalled Bess to collect the slips of paper from each person and drop them in a hat.

Houdini retrieved the hat from Bess and approached the czar and czarina. He bowed.

“Your Imperial Majesty, would you be so kind as to draw one of the suggestions, at your pleasure, from the hat and read it aloud?”

The czar reached into the hat and his hand emerged with a slip of paper. He slowly unfolded it, read it to himself, and smiled.

“Mr. Houdini,” he said, in lightly accented English, “I fear you’ve done yourself in.” He showed the paper to his wife, who also smiled, and turned to the room. “Ring the bells of the Kremlin.”

Houdini kept his face blank as people laughed or gasped. He let it go for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What’s so difficult about ringing a couple of bells?”

Grand Duchess Elizabeth spoke. “My dear Houdini, the bells of the Kremlin haven’t been rung in at least a hundred years.”

The czar nodded. “I would think that the ropes have long since rotted away. I’m afraid it’s quite impossible.”

Houdini frowned, though he knew full well that twenty years earlier the clapper from one of the bells had fallen onto a crowd of worshippers, killing nearly a hundred people, after which it had been decreed that the bells not be repaired. “Oh dear. That’s too bad. Well, let’s have a look anyway.” He smiled at Grand Duchess Elizabeth. “Which of these windows faces the Kremlin?”

Grand Duchess Elizabeth led him to a set of large double doors which gave onto a balcony. She opened them and stepped outside. Houdini followed her, with the czar, czarina, and others close behind. The Kremlin was visible, far in the distance, illuminated by moonlight. It had begun to snow. Houdini frowned.

“This will indeed be a difficult feat. But I must try.” He bowed his head in concentration and removed a handkerchief from his pocket. He waved it back and forth in the air, slowly at first, arcing his arm until his hand was above his head. He held it there, motionless, until he was sure every eye was locked onto it. Then he let the handkerchief go and the entire assembly of Russia’s most powerful family watched it fall to the ground.

It lay on the floor for a second, and it seemed as if this was all that would happen. Then, muffled by the falling snow, the sound of a bell ringing could be heard, followed by another, until the clamouring of bells punched into the room.

The czar’s eyes widened, his mouth half open with shock or incredulity or both. Someone cheered and people began to clap. The czar grabbed Houdini’s hand and raised it in the air in triumph. Bess beamed at him, and from the other end of the world Houdini could feel his mother’s pride. The czar leaned toward him, his lips close to his ear.

“I have been waiting for you, magician. Welcome to Russia.”

It snowed heavily throughout the night in Moscow. In the morning Houdini snuck out of bed, leaving Bess asleep, and went down to the lobby of the hotel to get breakfast. There were a dozen or so people in the restaurant, and he tried to determine which if any of them were Okhrana. There was no way to tell. Everyone seemed suspicious but no one stood out as exceptional. He shook his head—he was becoming paranoid.

His food had not yet arrived when Grigoriev sat down at his table without acknowledging him or asking permission. As usual he was dressed in black and his pale hair was impeccably neat.

“Well, Houdini, you’re extremely fortunate you’re not in jail right now,” he said.

Houdini smiled. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Was last night not to your liking?”

“I don’t think you do understand. You were there last night as a guest of the Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich. The governor-general of Moscow, the man who directly controls Chief Zubatov. The purpose of your visit was to put on a show that made the point that you do not possess magical powers. Instead you managed to convince the czar that you are some sort of wizard.”

“I never told the czar I had any occult powers.”

“Don’t be coy with me. You know what you did.” Grigoriev hailed a waiter and ordered coffee.

“I’m sorry for any trouble.”

“Sorry doesn’t matter. I was up most of the night attempting to convince the grand duke not to have you sent to Siberia.”

Houdini took a sip of his tea. “I’ve already escaped from your wagon.”

The waiter returned and set down the coffee. Houdini could tell that he’d misplayed this situation.

“Should it be wished that you were to be contained,” Grigoriev said, ignoring the coffee, “you would be placed in the Black Maria with only five digits on each hand to help you. You’re a clever man, Houdini, I give you that. When your wife palmed everyone’s slips of paper I wasn’t sure what you were up to. I assume all of the papers in the hat read the same thing. You’re lucky the snow didn’t stop you from signalling your confederate with your handkerchief. The same confederate who fired a series of gunshots at the bells of the Kremlin.”

Houdini said nothing. He didn’t know how Grigoriev had ascertained his secrets, but it was remarkable and frightening.

“In the end, I was unsuccessful in convincing the grand duke. The grand duchess attempted to intervene as well, also without success. Fortunately for you, as the sun rose the czar demanded an audience with the grand duke, during which he made a request that rendered the grand duke’s wishes inconsequential.”

“A request?”

“His Imperial Majesty wishes you to become his spiritual adviser.”

Though his initial impulse was to laugh, Houdini realized at once that Grigoriev wasn’t joking. But what could he possibly have to offer the czar of Russia in the way of spiritual advice? And what would happen when the czar discovered that he was a Jew and that he did not possess magical powers?

“This request has, obviously, changed the grand duke’s disposition. We have been hoping for a long time to have someone of your nature advising the czar. After a series of swindlers and imposters, it would be an advantage to have you guiding Nicholas.”

There was no question in Houdini’s mind that he did not want to accept this offer.

“I don’t think this wise. I have no ability or interest in matters of state.”

“You do not need these abilities. We will tell you all you need to know.”

“I have ambitions that go beyond being a servant, even to a man such as the czar. In America and Europe I’m rated as a star.”

“You would be well compensated. I’m not sure you understand the gravity of the situation, Houdini. Russia is on the brink. Anarchists and leftists threaten us at every moment. They assassinated the czar’s own grandfather twenty years ago. We will soon be at war with Japan. Without stable leadership and wise counsel we could lose everything.”

Houdini rubbed the back of his neck. “I understand the situation. Perhaps I can help you. I will need to discuss this with my wife, and of course I will have to play out my existing engagements on the Continent. But you seem to me to be a man who can be trusted, as is Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich. If I can do more here for the good of the world than I can do as an entertainer, then I must consider it.”

Grigoriev did not react. It was hard to tell if he believed him, and after a long silence Houdini became nervous. The waiter arrived with his breakfast, and Grigoriev stood.

“Very well. I cannot ask you to do more than consider our offer. In a few days the czar and most of the other members of the royal family will return to St. Petersburg. The grand duke will remain to fulfill his duties as governor-general of Moscow, but I will travel with the court. Please let me know your decision at your earliest convenience. I will in the meantime promise you that neither the grand duke nor Chief Zubatov will hinder your movements.”

Grigoriev bowed slightly, turned, and left. His coffee remained on the table, untouched. Houdini looked at his breakfast. He’d lost his appetite.

Staying in the cabinet was not an option. The band had begun yet another song, and he could hear that even their enthusiasm was waning. He knew he was on a precipice. If he remained in the cabinet, people’s minds would turn suspicious. It was now or never.

He picked up the Mirror cuffs and pushed the cushion to the back of the cabinet. It would be discreetly retrieved later and the dummy cuffs destroyed. That was the plan, at least. He would have to make certain it happened. He no longer knew who could be trusted.

After one last deep breath he pulled open the curtain and stumbled out onto the stage. At first it was unclear to the audience whether or not he still was contained by the cuffs, until he thrust them at Kelley. Kelley, fumbling, took them and at once dropped them. The sound of them hitting the floor ruptured the crowd’s incomprehension. Four thousand people leaped to their feet and bawled their delight.

The suddenness with which Houdini emerged from the cabinet left him light-headed, and he keeled forward. The hands of the onstage committee members reached out to him and stopped him from toppling. Bess rushed toward him and arrived just as he was about to lose consciousness. She cupped his face in her hands.

“Fight it,” she shouted, her voice nearly lost in the din. “I will get you backstage, but you need to hold on a bit longer.”

With her help he was able to make it across the Hippodrome’s vast stage and into the wings, and from there to a small dressing room. He collapsed into a chair. The crowd in the theatre had begun to chant his name.

Harmsworth and Kelley rushed into the room, obviously concerned, but Bess shooed them out and shut the door.

“Someone drugged the water,” he said.

Bess nodded and held out a small box of smelling salts. Houdini took it and inhaled deeply. As the sharp scent of ammonia dissipated, his head cleared a bit.

“There was a man onstage who inspected the water,” he said. “Did you see him?”

“I did. He left after that.” He could see she was concerned, though she was trying to hide it. He had forgotten how she did this—when he was weak, she became strong. It was one of the things he loved most about her.

“Have you seen him before?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Houdini took a slow breath, then another. He felt a little better.

“You need a doctor.”

“I know. But first I have to go back out there. Just give me a second.”

Bess stepped back. “You can’t be serious.”

“They need to see I’m okay. Otherwise this was all for nothing.”

She crossed her arms and then she embraced him. He took one last breath and pushed himself to his feet. He kissed her.

“You ready?” he asked.

Houdini knew they couldn’t summarily leave Russia, but he had no desire to stay a moment longer than necessary. He finished his engagement at the Yar and did a few shows in neighbouring cities. He knew he was being watched, and he’d had to part with a significant amount of cash to secure the passage of his baggage across the border, but neither Grigoriev nor the grand duke made any visible attempt to prevent him from leaving the country. He supposed it wasn’t in their interests. They required him to be an ally, and so it only made sense that he should be free to leave. In London he received several telegrams from Grigoriev, and finally he responded.

I AM VERY SORRY. I WOULD LIKE TO BE OF SERVICE BUT CANNOT AT THIS TIME ABANDON MY CAREER. YOUR FRIEND, HOUDINI.

Soon after, he awoke one day to a summons from Melville to come to Scotland Yard. Melville was particularly interested in his assessment of various members of the Russian royal family. When he asked about Grand Duke Dimitri and Prince Felix Yusupov, Houdini relayed the rumour that they were lovers. Melville snorted.

“Oh, don’t worry, we know all about those two. We once caught Yusupov, dressed as a woman, flirting with King Edward. But he may yet have his uses.”

Houdini then told him about Grigoriev’s offer.

Melville’s mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I turned him down, of course.”

Houdini was entirely unprepared for the force of Melville’s vitriol. He leaped to his feet, unleashing a profanity-laden harangue that Houdini could barely understand.

“An opportunity to control the Crown of Russia and you say no? I’ve sent men to their deaths for a fraction of the information you would have seen on a daily basis.”

Houdini sat still until Melville’s rant had run its course. “I agreed to send you what information I could,” he said, his voice low and calm. “What you ask of me is beyond what I can do and beyond the scope of our arrangement. I’m sorry.”

A muscle in Melville’s neck pulsed. Houdini picked up a water glass, found it empty, and set it back down.

“You are dismissed,” Melville said.

Houdini rose and went to the door.

“If I were you,” Melville said, “I would be very careful how I inform Wilkie about this situation. I think you will not find him as forgiving.”

Houdini had the day before sent a coded letter to Wilkie, briefing him on the entire Russia trip. In the coming weeks he waited for a reply. He began a series of engagements and life returned to normal, more or less. Eventually he received a telegram.

INFORMATION RECEIVED

Nothing more. These men were beyond him, beyond what he wanted to know. He was foolish to have ever become involved with them.

He linked arms with Bess and stood in the wings, determined not to faint. The theatre manager saw them and hurried over, handing Bess a note.

You work for us. Always remember that, Mr. Weisz.

“Who is us?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He knew she didn’t believe him.

He squeezed her arm, smoothed his hair down, and stepped back onstage. Though it seemed impossible, the ovation grew louder. The assembly of men and women onstage reached out eagerly to shake his hand. He looked into the seats and saw a woman crying, though her face gleamed with a broad smile.

Harmsworth came up beside him and shook his hand. Houdini grinned at him, but he had not forgotten the man who’d spiked his water. Was Harmsworth involved? It seemed unlikely. A defeated Houdini would cease to sell future papers.

“They want you to speak!” Harmsworth shouted into his ear.

Houdini stepped forward and raised his arms. The crowd became marginally quieter.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. Where had he seen that man? He knew him. “I entered this room feeling like a doomed man. There were times when I did not believe I could get myself out of those handcuffs.”

It came to him. Like a name that’s been forgotten, or a word on the tip of his tongue, the face came rushing back.

“But your applause gave me courage. It gave me the strength to do or die. These handcuffs were the hardest I’ve ever seen, with locks inside locks.”

San Francisco. The gamblers. Houdini had seen his eyes. It was Findlay. Wilkie, the head of the Secret Service, had sent him.

“I thought this was my Waterloo, after nineteen years of hard work. I haven’t slept for nights. But I will sleep tonight.”

He bowed to the crowd and left the stage, leaning on Bess. It was time to return to America.