Had I known that the terrific folks at Scholastic would want a second story about Audacity Jones, I would never have ended the first book where I did, implying that the world-famous magician Harry Houdini would be part of Audie’s next adventure. Let this be a lesson to you: Always do your research! You see, Audacity Jones to the Rescue is set in the first month of 1910. It would seem logical that her next story would take place shortly after that. However, 1910 found our dear Mr. Houdini pursuing his passion for aviation … in Australia. I was sick at heart when I realized this, as there seemed no feasible way to get Audie down under. Further, today’s kids, if they know Houdini at all, know him as an escape artist, not an aviator. All was lost.

But as Audie herself says, “If it’s not splendid, it’s not the end.” After I panicked and cried on her shoulder, my gifted editor, Lisa Sandell, suggested giving myself permission to turn down the volume on the history portion of Audie’s escapades. It was brilliant advice, freeing me to focus on fun rather than facts. To borrow from Harry himself, “My brain is the key that sets me free.”

I allowed my imagination to be the key to unlock the story you’re holding in your hand. You will notice there are no dates mentioned, though I am imagining 1910 New York City, with its pushcarts, the Sixth Avenue El, and the Hippodrome. These are all elements of that time period’s scenery, as were the Hotel Evelyn (which truly was where many vaudevillians stayed) and the Hotel Belleclaire.

A bit about vaudeville: While motion pictures did lead to the virtual demise of this form of entertainment, much silver-screen talent was drawn from vaudeville’s stage. Archibald Leach actually was part of an English comic acrobatic team, though he is better known by his stage name, Cary Grant. You may not recognize any of these names, but I bet your grandparents will: Charlie Chaplin, Ed Wynn, and Bert Lahr (the Cowardly Lion in the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz) are all movie stars who got their beginnings in vaudeville. Though the world of theater did in many ways reflect societal attitudes, I like to think that Bimmy would have been welcomed at the Hippodrome, a place where one’s abilities were what counted, not race, religion, or sex. That belief stems from my research, exemplified by an anecdote from No Applause—Just Throw Money: The Book that Made Vaudeville Famous by Trav S.D., which reports that when, in 1911, the entire cast of Ziegfeld Follies threatened to walk out rather than appear with the African-American performer Bert Williams, Flo Ziegfeld reportedly said, “Go if you want to. I can replace every one of you, except the man you want me to fire” (page 11).

It’s hard to imagine making an elephant disappear. But Harry Houdini really did accomplish that feat, at least once. I couldn’t verify if he performed the illusion more times than that; reports vary. But I was able to confirm that he had help from fellow illusionist Charles Morritt, an Englishman who had created a successful vanishing donkey illusion. When Houdini was seeking a respite from his physically demanding escape tricks, he looked Morritt up and they concocted a plan to vanish an even larger creature. Morritt evidently designed the illusion, which was first performed at the Hippodrome on January 7, 1918. Houdini did indeed make Jennie disappear, but the audience was not as enthralled as I describe in Chapter Thirty. This was mainly because the theater was so enormous, very few people could see what was happening. But Jennie did vanish that evening (temporarily). And though both men took the secrets of this trick to their graves, Jim Steinmeyer has written a fascinating book on the topic, Hiding the Elephant.

Since this is my story (and Audie’s!) to tell, I decided to replace Charles Morritt with my own scientifically inclined assistant to the great Houdini, Theodora Quinn. I created her as a way to honor the many women who have contributed to all facets of the arts and sciences, but have never received recognition for their efforts.

And, finally: Captive baby elephants were called punks in this time period, and training techniques were cruel. To my knowledge, there were no elephant sanctuaries in the United States in the 1900s. But I wish there had been. A portion of my author’s royalties for this book will be donated to The Elephant Sanctuary in Hohenwald, Tennessee.