13
THE FERRY ACROSS the Hudson was too slow for Doyle’s liking, though the sun was bright and the wind bracing. Seagulls cawed and circled the boat, then sailed away on the breeze. A family of German tourists—mother, father, and two little girls— joined Doyle at the railing and threw popcorn at the gulls. They were dressed in their Sunday finest for the ride. Doyle smiled; he always enjoyed the company of children. As the ferry rumbled into port, he patted the girls on their cheeks and tipped his hat to the parents.
Leaving the terminal, Doyle boarded a trolley for West Hoboken. Along the way, the car passed through a youthful neighborhood filled with a surge of new shops and cafés. The level of traffic still bothered Doyle. He winced every time a car swerved into the trolley’s path, and at the pedestrians who dodged not only trolleys but wagons, carriages, taxis, Model-T’s, and horses.
Ten minutes later, Doyle spied his destination—a nondescript three-story building sporting a sign that read: FDC—FILM DEVELOPMENT CORPORATION. He pulled on the wire running the length of the trolley car and disembarked.
A small crowd of autograph-seekers stood outside the door; mostly young men clutching magazines under their arms.
Sturdy boys, with their shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, smoked cigarettes. They stood atop a line of wagons parked outside the building and guarded cumbersome film equipment: floodlights, cameras, and a large backdrop painted to resemble a tropical beach.
Doyle approached a harried young woman in an ankle-length black dress wearing a cloche hat and carrying a clipboard. Her eyes were dark with mascara, and she stood sentry outside the front door. When she saw Doyle, she snapped, “Are you on the list?”
“I’m a friend.”
From the look on the woman’s face, that wouldn’t be enough. She scanned her sheet. “Name?”
Doyle sighed. “Arthur—”
“Knock me over with a feather, what are you doing here?” a cheerful voice called out from a window above.
Doyle looked up to see a pretty face with sleepy eyes and lustrous brown hair piled in a bun hanging out a second-story window. He smiled. “My dear Bess!”
“I’ll meet you downstairs. Let him in, Sandra.” And Bess vanished back inside.
Sandra raised her eyebrows, and opened the door.
Doyle entered, and found himself in near-total blackness. A wall stood before him, braced by wooden slats. Through its cracks streamed bright lights and movement.
A voice carried above the din. “. . . .the sincerest actor on the screen. Yes, and that’s the Hollywood papers, mind you, and they know of what they speak. Those are their words, Mr. Baker, not mine. Right. Yes, I’ll let you speak in a moment, but firstly your review—and I use that word reluctantly because ‘skewering’ might be the more appropriate one—your review obviously shows a sad lack of taste. But I wonder, sir, if you have any sense of fun?”
Doyle followed the sound of the voice around the walls, which he now realized were the backs of film sets. He crossed over to a table where three brawler types in whiteface ate pastries and chatted over coffee. The loud growl of an animal spun him around, and he found himself staring into the feral yellow eyes of a caged male lion. It stalked the tiny confines of its prison, a rumble stirring in its throat. Its handler sat by the cage door eating a grilled cheese sandwich. Dazed, Doyle turned back to the film set as the sound of high heels distracted him.
Bess emerged from the darkness, wearing a pink waistcoat and an ankle-length dress, smiling broadly. “Arthur.”
Doyle took her gloved hands and kissed her cheek, to which she responded with a not-so-gentle punch to his belly.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell us you were coming, silly man? We arrived back from California just two days ago. We’re coming to England, did you hear?”
“Urgent business forced me here, I’m afraid. I hate to bother him . . .”
“No, not at all.” Bess took his arm and led him toward the set. “He’s in quite a mood today, though, so be warned.” Bess led him through a thicket of technicians fiddling with the scorching floodlights, past the ever-moving crew members, and into a rush of sight and sound soon to be the site of the climax to
The Man
From Beyond,
starring . . .
. . . Harry Houdini.
Doyle shook his head at the sight of his old friend. A coiled ball of energy, Houdini moved at double the speed of those around him. His face was smeared with white greasepaint and his wiry hair was flecked with gray at the temples, but he was as fit as ever. His linen shirt was unbuttoned to his sternum, showing off a muscular chest. A hapless aide ran alongside, carrying the base of a telephone, whose receiver was at Houdini’s lips.
“By your standard, it’s a good review, Mr. Baker, not mine. And since when does the star of the picture, let alone the generator of the idea—the conceptualizer, if you will—get such scarce mention, when every other worthy journal on the continent acknowledges my performance for what it is: magnificent?” Houdini glanced across the set. “Not like that!” He jogged across and snatched a hammer from a set designer’s hand. The designer backed away. Houdini handed the phone to his aide, saying, “Keep Baker on there,” then he studied a box laden with heavy anchor chains. He proceeded to hammer nails into the box, stopping when the heads were a half an inch from the wood. “I need all these nails to have a little breathing room,” he said. Houdini assessed the effect, then flipped the hammer back into the arms of the designer. Then he grabbed the phone back from the aide and resumed his tirade. “Have you some bone to pick with me, sir? Because I assure you that Houdini is not a trifling enemy.”
Bess glanced at Doyle, grinning.
“What’s that?” Houdini paused. “Let me think about that. That might work. I don’t want to appear too eager, you understand, but an interview that rementions the film . . . Maybe that might work. If it focuses on my acting. There are new worlds to conquer, Mr. Baker; surely, you understand. As long as it isn’t another ‘Handcuff King’ article, then perhaps . . . well, that might work out, like I said. Let’s do it in my library at 278, eh? I have the largest collection of books on magic in the world, you know. We should talk about that. Perhaps a Sunday piece.”
Houdini began to wave angrily at two men setting a cardboard tree in place. He stalked over and pushed them away, righting the palm. Still into the phone, he said, “That might do fine. Good, then. I’ll see you this week. Call Franz; he’ll handle the details. We’ll have lunch, talk about the pictures, see the library, and that will be fine. I’m glad we chatted. Perhaps you should have the wife and children come along. We’ll tour the studio here. Yes? Marvelous. I’ll send a car. Call Franz about that, too. Yes, fine, Mr. Baker. No, no, call me Houdini. My closest friends—even my wife—refer to me only as Houdini. That’s right. Very good. Yes. Yes, I understand. You’re most welcome.” The phone snapped down on the receiver. Houdini looked around at a set filled with movement and asked, “What is everyone standing about for? There’s a picture to be made!”
Houdini turned to Bess and gave her a wink. She, in turn, flipped a thumb in Doyle’s direction.
It took Houdini a full five seconds to register Doyle’s presence.
“My God.” Houdini crossed the set; the man had unimpeachable posture. He held Doyle at arm’s length, looked at him with those piercing blue eyes, and repeated, “My God,” pulling him into an embrace, which surprised Doyle—until he recalled the man’s endearing, if over-the-top, sentimentality.
“It’s good to see you, old friend.” Doyle managed to pat Houdini on the back with his cane. “Good to see you, yes.”
Houdini released him in a rush and held him at arm’s length once more. “My God, Doyle, why didn’t you tell me you were here?”
“I—”
“We just arrived back from California.”
“I told him—” Bess began.
Houdini cut her off. “Have you been? Marvelous place. The sun never stops shining. You must write for the movies, by the way. You see all this around you?” Houdini spread his arms to the film set.
One wouldn’t know it, but there was a director, a somewhat forlorn gentleman wearing a black beret seated in the corner, face in his hands.
Houdini took Doyle by the arm, pointing out his favorite articles on the set. “What do you think? This is the medium of the century, I’m telling you! Get in on the ground floor. But we’re heading to England. Don’t you read the papers, man? We could have saved you the trip.” Houdini laughed and swatted Doyle hard on both shoulders.
“Houdini—”
“Wait. Ladies and gentlemen!” Houdini dragged Doyle into the center of the room. “May I present my dearest friend, and the creator of the world’s greatest detective, Sherlock Holmes—the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.” There was applause. Doyle raised a hand to the crew. A photographer appeared out of nowhere and popped a picture. Houdini took Doyle’s hand like a politician.
“I must speak with you.”
“Of course.” Houdini was already nodding to another visitor on the set.
“Alone,” Doyle insisted.
A haze of irritation passed across Houdini’s features. “Certainly, yes. Head up to my dressing room, Arthur. I’ll be there shortly.”
DOYLE WAS ABOUT to read the New York Daily News for the second time running when Houdini burst through the dressing room door. He threw off his shirt, grabbed a robe, and started digging through a cardboard box. “Here. Wait. Sit. I insist. Down. Before you say another word, I must show you something. My God! It’s impossible to find anything around here. Ah, yes, here it is.” Houdini brandished a film reel and handed it to Doyle, who was seated at the makeup table. “For you. The very first print of
Terror Island,
the next box-office hit. Have you a screen? I’ll get you one; never you mind. Call Franz; he’ll arrange it. You’re at Windlesham, of course? I’ll send it there. Oh! Perhaps we can watch it together?” Houdini was at the sink, running the water and soaping his hands. “The ideas are all mine, you’ll see. Sensational! Some other fellow penned the words, of course—fine fellow, you should meet him, Ted somebody.” Houdini washed the makeup from his face. “Anyway, we shot the stunts dead-on, see? There’s no way to fake that. Just marvelous footage. But these son-of-a-bitch critics, excuse me, sons-of-bitches keep going after me. What can it be but jealousy? They don’t want me to cross over, see? Some don’t. Most do. Sold out most theaters in the last run. Did you see that picture? Damn good.” Houdini scrubbed himself dry with a towel. “Chaplin’s quite the fan. He’s a good chap. You should meet him. English, like yourself—”
“Houdini, enough!”
Houdini looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
Doyle stood, deposited the reel on Houdini’s desk, went to the door, and shut it. He turned back. “Sit down, please.”
“Doyle—”
“Sit down!”
Houdini sat.
Doyle settled both hands on the desk. “Duvall is dead.”
“I know,” Houdini answered.
This surprised Doyle. He hesitated.
“I am president of the American Society of Magicians; they have an adequate network, keep me apprised. It’s sad news.” Houdini’s words were an unspoken warning for Doyle to tread carefully.
“He was murdered. Did you know that as well?”
“Doyle—”
“Did you know that as well?” Doyle felt the press of time, felt Lovecraft’s panic and terror.
“He was struck by a motorcar,” Houdini said.
Doyle’s voice lowered to a growl. “Allow me to remind you who stands before you now. If I tell you he was murdered, then he was murdered. I’ve been known to smell a crime out. Upon occasion.”
“And what business is it of mine, I ask you?”
“The game’s afoot,” Doyle replied.
“No longer my game, sir.”
“But it was.”
“And will never be again.”
“A book is missing from the Hall of Relics. Duvall was killed for it. And now Lovecraft has been charged with murder—”
“That has nothing to do with me,” Houdini said.
“You and I, Houdini, we were Arcanum before it all—”
“That is not true. It was a distraction, an idling of time that grew out of control. A swerve into madness—”
“We saw phenomena that defied explanation, and yet you go about crusading against all you know to be true.”
“Rubbish. What? These psychic mediums? These charlatans?”
Doyle’s anger was getting the better of him. “But it’s earning you wonderful press coverage, isn’t it? And that’s really what matters, I suppose.”
“And you support them! You with this Spiritualist nonsense.”
“That nonsense happens to be my deep conviction.”
“They’re reporting you the fool, Doyle. Don’t you see? That’s what they’re saying. And why shouldn’t I reveal these psychics for what they are, hah? Why not? They take people’s money and prey on their grief, give them false hope. It sickens me. Let one—just one—do something I cannot explain, and I’ll believe. Christ, I want to believe! You don’t think I want to talk with Mother?” Sentimental as he was, the mere mention of the woman choked him up.
This tempered the heat of Doyle’s anger. “You can’t erase the past, no matter how hard you try.”
“I don’t want to hear its name spoken, Doyle. Not in my presence.”
“It was all a lie, then?”
“Duvall is dead.” Houdini turned away. “Let it die with him.”
“You owe him more than that.”
“I owe?” Houdini whirled around. “I owe? I’m Houdini! I was known around the world before I was twenty-two years old—”
“That’s all you bloody care about, isn’t it?”
“Mind your tongue. You lose yourself, Arthur.”
“Your world of fakery and illusion. That’s all, is it? Cheat death all you like, Harry Houdini; I know the cowardice you hide.”
“Were you not an old man, I’d teach you a lesson . . .”
“Don’t let age be your excuse, Harry; have a go. I insist on it.”
“I’m a gentleman—”
“You’re a fraud.”
“Damn your audacity!” The walls shook from the volume. All activity on the set below ceased. Then footsteps were heard, coming toward the stairs.
“People are dying,” Doyle insisted. “And Lovecraft’s in the bloody sanitarium. He’s next!”