CHAPTER NINETEEN
“ARE YOU SURE you want to do this?”
Houdini nodded. There was no time to waste.
“That water tower fell right on him,” Chaplin said. “If the impact didn’t kill him, he surely drowned.”
Houdini opened the door to the black Tin Lizzie parked in Chaplin’s circular driveway. His mansion cast a shadow over them, hiding a low-hanging moon in the west.
“The one thing I’m learning is not to underestimate any of us,” Houdini said. “Including Atlas. And even if he is gone, we don’t know what has happened to that little beast.”
“His furry sidekick gives me the willies,” Chaplin said. “Whatever it is.”
Houdini got in and slammed the car door. In the dead quiet of Beverly Hills, it sounded loud enough to wake the entire city. Bess was already in the car, silent since they left the backlot.
“And you’re sure about the Eye?” Chaplin asked.
Houdini felt for it under his shirt. It was becoming a habit.
“I’ll hold onto it until we figure out what to do with it. Or until you find someone who can destroy it. You’ll promise to look?”
Chaplin winked and flashed a smile.
“I’ll talk to Mary and Doug after things have cooled down.”
According to Pope Benedict, the Eye couldn’t be destroyed—not by normal means, at least. But there were other great talents out there in the world; Houdini wondered if one of them might have the skill to unmake it.
The magician had pressed his friend for help on their car ride back to Chaplin’s mansion. Under the ruse of scouting for new actors and film locations, Chaplin agreed to use United Artists as a front to hunt for other Burdens. Between Chaplin, Pickford and Fairbanks, they had both access and funds unparalleled by anyone in the world. If anyone had a shot at finding the others, it was United Artists.
Houdini and Chaplin embraced.
“Good to see you, old friend,” Chaplin said.
Houdini turned the ignition and the car sputtered to life, but not without a fight. It was Chaplin’s first purchase after coming to Hollywood, an old jalopy Houdini doubted would make it over the state line.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Houdini,” Chaplin said, leaning into the car and gently kissing her cheek. “Your husband, he loves you more than magic.”
Bess’s mouth twitched but she said nothing.
The two drove in silence. After a number of confusing turns, they found themselves headed east out of the city on the National Old Trails Road. For the first few hours it was a well-paved road with two lanes in each direction. At some point in the night it became one lane, and as the sun rose in front of them, they found themselves on a gravel road somewhere between Barstow and Needles.
Still Bess didn’t speak. The towns grew smaller, the gas stations less frequent, and sometime after the state line, the road became dirt. The potholes became too much for the Tin Lizzie, and during the late afternoon the car limped, wheezed and finally died within a mile of Flagstaff.
During the hot and dusty walk into town, Houdini tried to speak to his wife.
“If I could only explain—”
She held up her hand. He fell silent.
Houdini might have tried to follow all of the potential threads of conversation, to find the one that would truly convey the spellbinding pull of Pickford’s beauty, to fully express the depth of his regret and shame. But now his wife could also follow all of the threads of possibility to counter his approach. There would be no end to it. Bess wanted him silent, so he would stay silent.
In Flagstaff, they caught a train bound for the East Coast, and spent their hours in uncomfortable silence. In Dallas, Bess picked up a newspaper and read about Houdini’s stunt at the Egyptian Theatre—the one he hadn’t yet told her about. She gave him a long, disapproving stare. Houdini was happy she looked at him at all.
Also in the newspaper was a report about the destruction at the MGM backlot. Louis B. Mayer had called it a freak accident; the damage was attributed to a faulty leg of the water tower, which had collapsed and destroyed a number of sets. A security guard had been killed.
The rest of the trip was a blur. They got off in New Orleans, then took a train northeast toward Atlanta, Charlotte, Philadelphia, New York.
Manhattan. Home.
Once they got off the train at Grand Central, the past couple of weeks sloughed off the magician like a dry, old skin. The Houdinis took the subway to Harlem, and walked the final block to their brownstone. Houdini entered their home first, just to be safe, but everything appeared to be in order.
While Bess showered, Houdini bought groceries and prepared their favorite dish, chicken paprikash with spätzle. He had cut up the dough for the dumplings, and was checking the water to see if it was hot enough when Bess entered the kitchen, her hair still wet.
She took his hand.
“Where’s my kiss?” she asked.
“Your kiss?”
“When you left here two weeks ago you promised two kisses. One for then and one for now. I’m collecting on the second one.”
“But aren’t you furious with me?”
“There will be plenty of time for hurt feelings, for arguments, for accusations of betrayal,” she said. “But not today. Today we are home, and we are safe, and I couldn’t be any happier.”
Houdini pulled her in tight and kissed her like he’d never kissed anyone before. There were beauties out there in the world, but none of them compared to Bess. Bess was his.
“Go,” she said. “Clean up and I’ll finish supper.”
Houdini turned but stopped in the doorway.
“You’re feeling better, then?”
“I’m learning to control your gift,” she said. “To balance the internal and the external. Your talent, it really is magic.”
“You know I don’t believe in the supernatural.”
“Maybe it’s not supernatural,” Bess said. “Maybe it’s simply natural. The way I see it, your gift, and the gifts of the others, are what we all should be, and it’s the rest of humanity that has fallen short.”
Houdini thought his wife even more insightful than himself.
“We should go into hiding for a while,” Houdini said. “And I think we should give up magic. For our safety.”
Bess approached him and held a wooden spoon under his chin, wielding it like a knife.
“We will not hide from the world,” she said. “You have a gift, and we will protect it at all costs—except at the cost of not using it.”
She patted him lightly on the cheek with the spoon.
“We will continue your magic, you and I. Even if it kills us.”
Houdini was never more proud of his wife, and never more frightened for her safety.
When he went upstairs, he found their luggage from the trip laid out on the bed, including the newspaper they had picked up in Dallas. What concerned him about the story of the MGM backlot was not what the article said, but what it didn’t.
There was no mention of a giant man, alive or dead.