Jim Steinmeyer (45 page)

John Mulholland, the magic writer and historian, later wrote, “Those very few who had the privilege of reading John Northern Hilliard’s manuscript on the life of Howard Thurston and then read the Thurston autobiography hardly could accept that the two accounts were about the same man.”

O
ne of Thurston’s most ambitious children’s matinees was presented at Bellvue Hospital in Albany, New York, in May 1927. Thurston wasn’t known for small tricks; in order to satisfy his audience, his entire company joined the show, setting up a truckload of colorful illusions on an outdoor setting up a truckload of colorful illusions on an outdoor platform. Thurston, in a tweed business suit, welcomed the children and then presented his escape trunk, bird tricks, and duck tricks. He finished with the Sawing in Half, with a ring of doctors in hospital whites supervising the magical operation.

Thurston was now regularly called upon for shows at veteran’s hospitals or special performances for crippled children. For these happy occasions, a chance for the patients to take their minds off their pains, Thurston referred to himself as a “sunshine maker,” as opposed to a “rainmaker.” In 1929, a man named Fred Dawson visited Thurston in his dressing room and asked if he’d perform a free show at a YMCA. The magician looked tired. He reluctantly explained that he supported the YMCA, but his doctor had advised him to avoid more performances; he was already performing as many shows for children and veterans as possible. Dawson casually mentioned that he was a graduate of Mount Hermon, and Thurston bounded to his feet, shaking his hand. “The words, Mount Hermon, are always a password to my dressing any time, any where!” he announced. He credited the school with his success, and bragged that he read his Bible and said his prayers every day. “Not asking for things,” he told Dawson, “but just saying thanks.” He talked to his new friend up to the time of the performance.

In fact, Thurston had written checks to his alma mater and even returned there, several years earlier, to give an impromptu show for the students in West Hall. He spoke to them about his adventures and advised that there were two types of people in life, “wise guys” and “easy marks.” Thurston’s use of con man lingo was an odd touch, although he advised that the devil was proudest of the wise guys, and the Lord loved the marks, who were always thankful and enthusiastic.

 

 

DANTE PROVED
to be Thurston’s best investment. The Dante show played in smaller towns through the Midwest and East Coast, until both men realized that the best opportunities were overseas. In 1927 the show moved to Puerto Rico, and Howard, Jane, and Leotha attended the opening there. “You have reached the highest pinnacle of magic,” Thurston proudly told his associate. “You may take the show to any part of the world. I am sure you will never have to look back.” The Thurstons returned to New York and Dante proceeded to South America.

It was the last time they ever saw each other, though they compared business in regular correspondence. Thurston relished Dante’s newsy letters and lived his foreign adventures vicariously. They reminded him of his own travels, and he often mused that he would like to join Dante on the road. In fact, since joining Kellar, Thurston had only left the country on that one occasion, for Dante’s Puerto Rico premiere. “I have given up my whole life to magic,” he told an interviewer.

GUS FASOLA,
one of Thurston’s oldest friends and supporters, had toured America for several years with happy and prosperous results. In 1928, Thurston kept him busy with ideas for his own show. Inspired by Houdini’s illusion, Fasola developed an Appearing Elephant Illusion. Thurston tried, in vain, to purchase a baby elephant, realizing that Fasola’s invention would provide wonderful publicity for his show. Fasola also researched an English illusion called the Million Dollar Mystery, which had been featured by Selbit. In consultation with Thurston’s patent attorney, James Wobensmith, they drew up an American patent of the effect so that it could be produced for Thurston’s show.

Fasola had longed to return to England and produce his own illusion show using Thurston’s popular effects. By the time he reached London in 1928, he was horrified to see that variety entertainments had virtually disappeared. Motion pictures had replaced many music-hall shows, and magicians—especially the magicians with costly, heavy illusions—were out of work. His plans dashed, Fasola experienced a breakdown, too nervous to work and too unsure of the business to make any long-term plans. Thurston supported him with occasional checks. In exchange, he pleaded with Fasola to send him information on the latest European tricks, negotiate deals, or supply Thurston with small props for the show. In November, Fasola wrote to Thurston:

Thurston underestimated his condition, responding with cheery notes wishing him well and asking for his tricks. His continual requests only aggravated Fasola, whose responses suggested his helplessness.

Dante had always been disparaging about Fasola—they had worked in opposition in Australia in 1911, when Fasola’s manager copied one of Dante’s posters. Thurston wrote to Dante that he was “letting Fasola have three or four of my big tricks; he hasn’t decided which ones he wants to take.” Dante warned Thurston not to trust him—that he would steal Thurston’s illusions, use underhanded business practices, and suggest ideas that were impractical. In fact, Dante was mistaken. Fasola’s letters demonstrated his loyalty and glowed with enthusiastic ideas and support. It’s likely that Dante selfishly used his relationship with Thurston to undermine Fasola’s influence. He encouraged Thurston to push Fasola aside, just as Thurston had done with Tampa.

In 1928, Dante was touring through South America, anticipating his next move. After exchanging letters with Thurston, he decided to move his show to Europe, first the Continent and then England. Thurston had advised him to try the Orient; he knew, from Fasola’s letters, that business was poor in England. But Dante was insistent, and his decision sealed Fasola’s fate. Thurston promptly wrote to Fasola, ordering his old friend not to make use of any of the Thurston illusions until Dante was finished and left the country. Fasola responded dutifully, with a short note:

It was probably a technicality. Fasola had already explained that he was financially strapped, unable to build the Thurston illusions or sell a show in England. But at that time, he was depending on the support of friends, and Thurston’s betrayal left him feeling helpless. Even worse, it was apparent that he had lost Thurston’s favor, as Thurston had now turned his attention to Cyril Yettmah, the British illusionist, in search of the latest novelties. “Suppose Yettmah is with you now,” Fasola wrote, barely hiding his dejection. “Lucky fellow.”

Thurston responded:

On January 12, 1929, Fasola went into his cheap London rooms, took out his tool kit, and cut off a long length of strong music wire—the same strong high-carbon wire Thurston depended on for the Levitation of Princess Karnac. “The Great and Only Gustave Fasola, The Famous Indian Fakir” hanged himself, leaving a wife and son.

P. T. Selbit notified Thurston of the tragedy.

Thurston’s occasional checks and cheery letters may have been those of a “benefactor,” but his carelessly shifting loyalties had only intensified Fasola’s misery.

 

 

THURSTON SPENT
many precious months in 1929 working on a new play,
The Demon
. He wrote the script, a mystery thriller, intending it for Broadway. This mixture of magic and mystery had become a fashion in recent Broadway shows; the most successful was Fulton Oursler and Lowell Brentano’s
The Spider
, about a murder that occurs in the middle of a magic act. Thurston calculated that he could fill a mystery with visual marvels. Unfortunately, his script was also packed with clichés—starting with the dark, haunted house, the guests summoned to solve a crime, the frustrated detectives, and the mysterious Eastern mystic who seems to know all the secrets.

The Demon
did offer some genuine thrills. Thurston used a new system of invisible ultraviolet paint, developed by Alexander Strobl, in conjunction with ultraviolet lamps. In sudden darkness, monstrous glowing green eyes appeared hovering over the stage and a luminous ghost glided down the aisle, floating over the stage.
The Demon
occupied Thurston’s time and resources. He invested $10,000 in the project (the entire budget was just over $20,000) and many of his technical assistants worked backstage, including George White. When the production ran over budget, Howard inevitably wired Harry for emergency funds. Harry responded with $2,000, but grudging best wishes for the show. “I guess that you will have to go through with the venture.”

It ran for one week at Poli’s Theater in Washington, D.C., in October 1929, then moved to New Rochelle, New York. But it was abandoned before its announced Broadway opening on November 4. The plot was confusing, mixing psychology and mysticism in a strange stew, which simply confused the thin mystery story. Thurston’s glowing ghosts weren’t enough to save it. “As a play, it is no great shakes (excepting what shaking the audience may do),” according to the
Washington Press
. “The various mechanical props operate efficiently.” But the fate of
The Demon
also coincided with the fate of Wall Street—the stock market crashed during its run in Washington, D.C.

Harry offered the inevitable comeuppance, writing to his older brother that
The Demon
did him no good. “You’ve done enough. Concentrate on being a magician. Be a magician, and that only.”

 

 

HOWARD CAME
to rely on Harry’s money as well as his connections. In the spring of 1930, when he came through Chicago, Howard sent a telegram to his brother.