HOUDINI WAS INTO his third minute of holding his breath underwater when he saw a blurry figure approach the glass water tank from the main aisle of the empty Hippodrome Theatre. It was a boy, or maybe a girl, dressed in ragged dark trousers, a dirty collared shirt and a flat cap.
The child walked right up on stage, the brazen thing, and knocked hard on the glass. Houdini felt his heartbeat speed up in annoyance; that would only use up his oxygen faster. There was no point in trying to beat his record now. He huffed out his breath and came to the surface of the tank. He gave the child his best look of indignation.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Harry Handcuff Houdini, the greatest magician on Earth!”
Houdini stepped out of the tank onto a stool, water from his one-piece bathing suit dripping onto the wooden stage.
“And do you know what the greatest magician on Earth does to children who interrupt his rehearsal?”
The child shrugged.
“He turns them into rabbits for his show!”
The child crossed his or her arms and raised an eyebrow.
“I seen your show. You don’t even use rabbits!”
Houdini suppressed a smile and toweled off. He could never stay angry at children for long.
“Very well. Why are you here?”
“I come to give you this.”
The child removed a small package wrapped in brown paper and handed it to the magician. It was about the size of three decks of cards put together and wrapped in twine. Houdini saw an address for Rome scribbled on it and a line of stamps slapped hurriedly across it.
“Who is it from?”
“An old fogey in a big coat. He had wire glasses and a little hat that looked like a—whaddya call ’em?—a doily. He gave me an entire sawbuck and told me to check the evening newspaper today. He must be loaded!”
“Check the paper for what?”
“He said to mail the package if there was no news. He said to bring the box to you if the Pope died.”
Houdini staggered a half step. He had been cooped up in the theater all day rehearsing for the evening show.
“The Pope is dead?”
The kid nodded.
“How?”
“Some kind of sickness. Pumonia or something. Here.”
The child handed Houdini a crumpled newspaper. He confirmed the date in the top corner: August 17, 1923. It was the leading story of the afternoon. The Vatican was reporting that Pope Benedict, who had been suffering from pneumonia the past three weeks, had finally succumbed to his illness.
Except that I just saw him here last night.
Houdini unwrapped the package. It was a polished wooden box with a geometric design carved on all six sides. He recognized it immediately as a Himitsu-Bako, a Japanese puzzle box. This one felt intricate, maybe twenty moves or more.
Houdini walked over to a table that held his clothes and removed a ten-dollar bill from his pocket; it was all he had on him. He handed it to the child.
“It’s customary to tip a courier.”
“But I already got ten clams!”
“Take it.”
The child gratefully pocketed the bill. If the kid didn’t get mugged, the twenty dollars could last him or her months on the street.
“Tell me,” Houdini said, “Are you a boy or a girl?”
The child made a fierce grimace.
“I don’t gotta tell you that!”
That meant she was a girl. A boy would have identified himself out of offense.
“It’s a good trick you have,” Houdini said. “I’ll keep your secret.”
The girl eyed him defiantly.
“They say you can withstand the punch of any man,” she said.
“It’s true,” he said. It was one of the stunts he often used outside a theater to draw attention before a show.
“Can I try?”
She balled her hands up into fists so tiny they wouldn’t threaten a pigeon.
“Not today, my little friend. Now run along.”
The girl jumped off stage and ran back down the long, dark aisle of the theater and out the double doors in the back.
Houdini turned to the box. He focused all of his attention on it. In only seconds he found the hairline crack along one edge. He slid a piece half an inch along one of the small sides of the box, and was then able to slide the top of the box open a fraction of an inch. He found another hidden piece and slid it, and then another. What would have taken a common man an hour or more, Houdini had open in less than a minute.
Inside was a folded note and, beneath it, the Ring of the Fisherman. Houdini unfolded the note and read the hastily scribbled message:
Houdini,
The dark beast has followed me here to New York, I’m sure of it. With my gift I can sense greed, anger, and lust for power. It is the emotional imprint of the same one who tried to break into the vault. I am about to embark onto my ship. If I arrive safely in Rome, this will follow me home. If I don’t, it is yours to keep to protect the Eye.
This is the true Ring of the Fisherman. The one I wear is a replica. It is also called the Ring of Humility. Jewelry is meant to bring attention to ourselves, but this ring is meant to deflect it. It is a reminder to every reigning pope that the more we dress ourselves in gold, the further we get from the Kingdom of God.
The cap of the ring flips open, and inside it is a small white tablet. Which leads me to one final rule, Houdini: Stay hidden, and don’t let the dark beast take you. At any cost.
Peace be with you,
Giacomo
Houdini removed a match from his pocket, struck it on the table, and lit a corner of the letter. As he watched the flame eat away at Benedict’s words, he thought about this warning.
It reminded Houdini of some advice his friend Jane had given to him years ago. Not advice so much as a warning. She had told him that he needed to both use his gift and hide it.
How does the world’s most famous magician stay hidden?
Houdini had never divulged his real ability to anyone but a select few. He didn’t have to tell Jane, she just knew. Such was her gift. Jane was old and weathered from years of life out in the sun—it was hard to tell where her leathery face ended and her buckskin vest began. But when she had a hunch about something, you’d best pay attention.
Houdini slipped out of his wet bathing suit and changed into his shirt and pants. Newton’s Eye was back at home. So was Bess. He felt a sudden urgency to get there as quickly as possible. The Pope was dead through some act of foul play. Someone was trying to cover it up. And, worst of all, whoever—or whatever—had done it was there in Manhattan.