Free Nevermore by William Hjortsberg Page A

wall. The box-kite tail was emblazoned with the name HOUDINI in bold capitals. “Using aircraft for advertising.” Sir Arthur indicated the picture with a nod of his head. “Pure twentieth-century thought. I, for one, applaud it.”
    “That was my own machine,” Houdini said. “A Voison. Santos Dumont design. Had a British E.N.V. 60.80 horsepower petrol engine.”
    “By Jove, I didn’t know you were an aeronaut to boot.” Sir Arthur’s enthusiasm infected his grin.
    “I was the first man to make a successful airplane flight on the Australian continent. March 16, 1910.”
    Sir Arthur kept his grin in place. How absurd to speak in headlines like some demented town crier. Wouldn’t the celebrated Dr. Freud have a field day analyzing this man’s ego?
    Houdini pointed to a bronze plaque on the opposite wall next to the photograph: a winged globe in relief. “The Aerial League of Australia awarded me that trophy. I was touring down under. Next to shut. “
    “Beg your pardon… . Next to what?”
    “ ‘Next to shut’ is the featured turn on a vaudeville bill,” Dash interjected. “Shut is closing.”
    The magician firmed his jaw, still posing in the cockpit. “Shipped the Voison from Germany with all my gear. Put a mechanic on the payroll, too.”
    “Do you still fly?” inquired Lady Jean.
    “Took a spin in a Stinson four years ago. Out west making The Grim Game. ”
    “Amazing aerial photography in that.” Sir Arthur positively beamed. “Your leap between two aeroplanes while handcuffed is the most reckless feat of daring I have ever witnessed.”
    “The midair collision was unplanned. Turned out to be a lucky accident. Willat kept the camera running in the third plane and we worked the footage into the story.”
    Sir Arthur, entranced with the memory of viewing this daring moment at the cinema, stared up past the ceiling. “The way they spiraled down through the sky, locked together, like giant insects spent at the climax of their nuptial flight.” Everyone around the table smiled at the daring sexual allusion so discreetly phrased. “You were fortunate no one was injured.”
    Houdini nodded in agreement. “The planes separated mere moments before crash-landing.” The magician made no mention of the piano wire safety harness, or of the double who made the jump that day. Houdini had watched on the ground, his arm in a sling, having fractured his left wrist in a three-foot fall during a jailbreak sequence filmed the day before. This was a closely guarded secret. Always best never to let the truth get in the way of legend.
    Bernard Ernst patted the leather cigar case jutting from his breast pocket with affectionate anticipation. “Houdini was quick to gauge the import of moving pictures,” he said. “Why, if he was to have done that plane jump stunt before an audience, the most he could hope to draw is ten, maybe twenty thousand. On film, millions get to see him.”
    “So, where were the millions for Haldane of the Secret Service?” Houdini made a face of mock nausea. “I’m all through with pictures. Maybe they are the future. I know all the vaude houses are showing two-reelers as part of the bill these days.”
    “Vaudeville is dying,” Mrs. Ernst said. “That’s the pity of it.”
    “What can you do about it?” The magician shrugged. “Mourning the past is a waste of time. Far better to prepare for the future. When my touring contract is over next year, I plan on putting together a full evening show and playing nothing but legitimate theaters. Thurston’s been working that side of the street pretty successfully for fifteen years now.”
    “Perhaps this is an impossible question to answer …” Lady Jean’s melodious voice captivated everyone at the table. “But … I’d be interested to know what you consider your most difficult escape.”
    Houdini’s expression suggested pensive cogitation. How the man thrives on attention, thought Conan Doyle, shifting his gaze to his