As was his custom, the magician had slept but a few hours. Upon waking—the hands on the mantel clock pointed to twelve and three—he slipped quietly from the room he shared with his wife. Bessie was long accustomed to his restless habits; she didn’t stir. Did not even open her eyes. And would not open them until a much more civilized hour. Say, noon.

Snugging the sash of his monogrammed silk dressing gown around his trim middle, he strode down the hall and up the stairs to his library-office in slippered feet; the fox terrier, Bobby, followed fast on his heels. Bobby was a new addition to the household, joining it shortly after the passing of Charlie the Pomeranian. Like Charlie, Bobby was a keen student and quickly took to the proscribed repertoire of tricks (remove thoughts of the lowly “shake” and “speak” from your mind); like his master, Bobby had become an escape artist par excellence. In addition, the little tan-and-black terrier was extraordinarily sensitive to the magician’s emotional ups and downs. He nosed at the air as he trotted, as if to sniff out whatever might be troubling his man. Should Bobby find the cause, he would grab hold and shake it as his breed does a rat, putting an end to his master’s woes.

A reasonable person might surmise that the magician had awakened fretful about his latest boast. Surely this time the famous Harry Houdini had overpromised. Surely not even he could pull off such a feat.

But that is not what had roused Houdini from his warm bed. Vanishing a woman, vanishing an elephant: It was merely a matter of scale. Having accomplished the former, he could certainly accomplish the latter. The magician was supremely confident that this new illusion would live up to the grandiose descriptions in the New York press. Descriptions he himself had provided to reporters; among his other many gifts, the magician was a crackerjack self-promoter.

No, he foresaw not one ounce of difficulty in successfully performing the Vanishing Elephant illusion. And what better place to inaugurate such a feat than at the Hippodrome Theater? Every wall in that space, from the promenades to the auditorium, was adorned with elephant heads crafted of marble, each gold tusk punctuated at the tip with a glowing round orb of light. It was one of the few places in New York City, let alone the country, with room enough to house the actual beasts. As luck would have it, Powers’ Elephants were that month performing a run at the Hippodrome. The act comprised four enormous Asian females: Lena, Julie, Roxie, and Jennie. It was the latter, Jennie, the largest of the four, that Houdini had in mind to borrow for his new illusion.

He smiled to think of the picture he would make, five foot six with lifts, standing next to the seven-foot-tall Jennie. Without an ounce of fear, he would face the full house, shouting out, “Laadies and gintlemen!” The audience would hear his every word, even in the cheap seats. (The ability to project his voice was yet another of his gifts.) And what a house: Five thousand seats and each occupied by a man, woman, or child eager to see a pachyderm go poof.

The magician reached for a sheaf of paper and a pen from his desk. Prepare to be amazed as Houdini makes a pachyderm go poof, he wrote. There was a line to spark the imagination. He would add it to the handbill he was having printed. Best increase the print run. Ten thousand was more like it.

Bobby sniffed around the edges of the office, stopping at an enormous red trunk labeled M-1. It was one of many that accompanied the magician on his travels. According to Houdini’s own inventory, the trunk contained, among a dozen other items, the following: four Mahatma Plumes, one fishbowl trick, and one skull. Bobby’s acute sense of smell ascertained that some backstage assistant had stored an onion bagel under the skull during a recent performance. The lingering aroma caused him to lick his chops. He scampered across the room to nudge at the silk dressing gown pocket where oft could be found treats. At the insistent message from the small, damp, black nose, the magician fumbled in said pocket, conjured up a dog biscuit, and tossed it to Bobby, without any demand for a trick in return.

The man was that distracted.

Houdini was not troubled about fulfilling a brash promise to vanish an elephant. He could scarcely eat, he was that thrilled to perform it.

No. What drove him from his warm bed at this ungodly hour was a man. A particular man. A child, really. A scientific prodigy by the name of Theo Quinn. Houdini genuinely regretted ever getting involved with Quinn, though, to be fair, there would be no Vanishing Elephant without him. The rough sketches Quinn had mailed were proof of his intellect. Houdini had seen in an instant that the concept was brilliant and, more important, that it would work.

Houdini could handle the illusion with one arm tied behind his back (he was the master of rope escapes, after all). But handling Quinn had become another matter altogether. The boy was most reclusive; he had turned down three invitations to visit Houdini at his stately home in Harlem. Three! Invitations that hundreds—nay, thousands—would jump at.

Time was running out, and Quinn had yet to deliver the final installment of the plans for the illusion. Plans toward which the magician had pledged a substantial sum. Fifteen hundred dollars, to be exact. Plans that were much needed with the performance less than a week away. Did Quinn think elephant-sized wagons could be built in a day? That Houdini could produce the mirrors required from his top hat? Houdini was completely stymied from moving forward as all the specifications were locked in that stubborn scientist’s head!

The magician’s stomach knotted as he pondered possible reasons for Quinn’s recent evasiveness. Had some competitor—that wretched Brindamour for example—gotten to Quinn, bribing him to reveal all? Quinn might be a prodigy in the world of optics, but he would have no idea about the cutthroat nature of magic and magicians. Anything could happen.

“Blast him!” The magician pounded a fist on the desktop; dog and books alike jumped. Houdini caught an inkwell before it tumbled to the floor. Quinn’s secrets about the Vanishing Elephant, fairly bought and soon to be paid for, were his. And they must remain that way.

Bobby, being relatively new to the household, was not as accustomed as Bess to Houdini’s long periods of reflection punctuated by noisy outbursts. The terrier’s soft whimpers did not garner any human attention, so he somersaulted across the thick wool rug in hopes of earning another biscuit. This spectacular trick failed to even register with the magician, who was intensely focused on that upstart, Quinn.

A less-than-civilized thought flitted through Houdini’s mind. Perhaps that Pinkerton man coming to keep an eye on Theo Quinn could help. Those Pinkertons likely kept company with the lesser class—snitches and cheats and worse—in order to obtain clues and the like. Surely a Pinkerton operative would have the means and resources to—Houdini couldn’t resist a throaty chuckle—permanently vanish an annoying young man.

That evil thought dissolved as quickly as it appeared. The particular Pinkerton he’d hired was a true gentleman, quite stately, really, with a grip of iron. As strong as Houdini himself, and some eight inches taller. Houdini recalled staring into the man’s eyes to determine if he could be trusted. He’d perceived an integrity there rarely found in others he met, especially fellow performers. And, along with that integrity, he sensed a habit of following the straight and narrow path. Houdini sighed. Of course, there would be no shenanigans with Quinn. Not only would the Pinkerton man not agree to it—of that, the magician was certain—but Houdini himself had no taste for violence. No, there would have to be another scheme to handle that confounded nuisance.

While he puzzled over the Quinn problem, Houdini absentmindedly autographed glossy photographs from the large stack on his desk. It was his favorite image of himself: directly and confidently staring at the camera, while heavy chains snaked over and around his nearly naked and powerful physique. The chains were affixed with padlocks at his neck and elbows and wrists and ankles. “Quite the impressive fellow, wouldn’t you say, Bobby?”

Hearing his name, the terrier snuffled awake, hopeful for a treat.

An idea flew at Houdini with a flash as bright as a white dove shooting out of a black top hat. “Why, that’s it!” He slapped his thigh, and reached for another sheaf of stationery. Hadn’t Queen Alexandra fairly swooned upon the occasion of Houdini’s audience with her? And hadn’t his mere presence often rendered even the toughest and most cynical of newspaper reporters speechless? If Quinn would not come to Harlem, Houdini would go to him. He smiled to think what effect his very presence would have. The poor lad’s legs would be atremble. His brain would fail to give him words. He would fall all over himself to be in such esteemed company. Houdini beamed. Take that, you whippersnapper!

The world-famous magician filled his Montblanc fountain pen. I shall appear to you this very afternoon, at three p.m., he wrote in black ink, underlining the words. With that, he sealed the envelope, which the postman would carry away when he came with the first mail delivery of the day.

Bobby, nose resting on front paws, resigned himself to a dearth of treats for the time being. He curled up at his master’s slippered feet as Houdini leaned back in his chair, so pleased with this course of action that he closed his eyes and nodded off. The magician remained in that position until his wife called him to luncheon and, whistling a cheery tune, he padded his way down two flights of stairs to join Bess at the elegant and expensive mahogany dining table.

Bobby followed close behind, hopeful of a tidbit of roast beef or morsel of cheese.