Houdini's Last Trick (The Burdens Trilogy) Read Free

face-to-face with another man. Houdini dropped his cigarette.
    “Shut the door,” the man said. “Quickly.”
    The man was cloaked in a long back overcoat. It was too hot to be wearing anything so heavy, but even so, the man’s face was as pale and glassy as the lake in Central Park in winter.
    Houdini closed and locked the door. When the man saw this, his shoulders dropped and he allowed himself a deep breath.
    “That’s quite a trick,” Houdini said, trying to keep his voice even. “And I should know.”
    The man had a diminutive frame and was rather somber looking, in his late sixties with the kind of long, sharp face meant for scholars or librarians. He wiped the lenses of his wire spectacles, then touched a white skullcap on his head, as if to assure himself it was still there.
    “We are both performers, of a sort,” the man said. “Only our audiences are different.”
    He had an Italian accent. Houdini picked up the dropped cigarette; he tried to do it casually but kept his eyes on the man.
    “Don’t be afraid,” the man said. “My name is Giacomo.”
    He extended his hand, and Harry stared at it as if it were a bear trap. Finally he shook it.
    “I’m Harry Handcuff Houdini.”
    When they touched, Houdini’s fear disappeared like a puff of smoke. He remembered being afraid of the man, but he didn’t feel it anymore; the emotion had simply evaporated.
    “Giacomo doesn’t sound like a Jewish name,” Houdini said, nodding to the man’s skullcap.
    “Oh, I’m not Jewish,” he said. “Although my boss was.”
    He removed his overcoat to reveal robes entirely of white. Hanging around his neck was an ornate crucifix made of gold. Even Houdini, a nonreligious Jew, recognized the man standing in front of him. It was the Pope. Pope Benedict XV.
    Houdini gave a slight bow but then thought better of it.
    “Forgive me,” Houdini said, “but I don’t know the proper protocol. Do I bow or kneel? Are you called ‘Your Majesty’ or ‘Your Highness’?”
    “I require no formality from you,” Benedict said. “Though many ask to kiss my ring.”
    “Then I too would like that honor,” Houdini said.
    The Pope held out his left hand, and on it was the papal ring, the Ring of the Fisherman. He leaned over and kissed it.
    Houdini had met many famous people throughout his career, popular vaudeville performers like Hadjji Sachla, the Sleeping Fakir, and silent film stars such as Rudolph Valentino. He had even met congressmen and a Supreme Court justice. But the Pope was someone altogether different.
    “That was quite a performance tonight,” Benedict said. “I had my doubts you would ever surface from that coffin.”
    So did I.
    Houdini pocketed the cigarette.
    “You were there? I’m sure I would have seen you.”
    “I prefer to go unnoticed.”
    Houdini saw that the Pope’s hands were still clenched tightly, as if they refused to forget something that the man himself was trying hard not to remember.
    The magician motioned to the couch for the Pope to sit down. Benedict’s face was lined with worry, and he looked as if he could use a drink.
    Houdini pulled a Bible down from the bookcase and removed from its hollowed-out pages a bottle of fine cognac he had purchased from a restaurant owner three years ago, the night before Prohibition had gone into effect. Although Houdini himself rarely drank, he kept it around for guests.
    “I’m glad you have some use for the Good Word,” Benedict said.
    Houdini poured two fingers and passed it to the man. He accepted it gratefully.
    “One thing I like about you Americans,” Benedict said, “is that you don’t feel obligated to adhere to the letter of the law.”
    It occurred to Houdini that the Pope was attended by no one. No guards, no advisors.
    Benedict took a long, deep whiff of the cognac, and Houdini had the sense he wasn’t merely assessing the quality of the drink.
    “I get sick of wine,” Benedict said. “But my attendants don’t let me drink