Nevermore by William Hjortsberg Page B

impartial observer. Midway through his tour, when the April daffodils bloomed in saffron profusion about the countryside, the great Self-Liberator journeyed down to Windlesham, the Conan Doyles’ home in Crowborough, for a well-remembered luncheon.
    They had hoped to get together again last year when Sir Arthur first lectured in America, but Houdini’s busy vaudeville schedule made this impossible until the very last moment. Two nights before sailing back to England, the Conan Doyles were guests of the magician at the Earl Carroll Theater for a performance of Raymond Hitchcock’s “Pinwheel Revue.” The occasion was a celebration of Mr. and Mrs. Houdini’s twenty-eighth wedding anniversary.
    Sir Arthur remembered a splendid evening. “Hitchy,” the irrepressible master of ceremonies, introduced him to the audience and urged Houdini onto the stage where, after an uncharacteristic display of modesty, the magician agreed to perform his famous “Needle Mystery.” Houdini stopped the show. Sir Arthur never forgot the startling appearance of all those glittering threaded needles. There had been no time to prepare any sort of trick. Clearly, he had witnessed a supreme psychic manifestation.
    The cab pulled to a stop in front of a four-story brownstone house at 278 West 113th Street. Every window glowed with electric light. In contrast with its more somber neighbors, the building declared itself boldly on the dark street, a bit of the Great White Way transplanted uptown. “Quite festive,” observed Lady Jean.
    Houdini himself opened the door mere seconds after Sir Arthur pressed the buzzer. His welcome warm and effusive, the magician ushered them into a wood-paneled foyer where a slender Oriental servant took their coats. A tiny, dark-haired woman with bright intelligent eyes and a broad, full-lipped smile stood shyly to one side. Two small energetic dogs scampered about her feet.
    “Mrs. Houdini,” Conan Doyle called in his bluff, hearty manner. “Delightful to see you once again. You’re looking quite splendid.” Stooping, he tousled a furry canine neck.
    “Welcome, welcome,” Bess said, taking Jean by the hand.
    “And this is the brother of the great Houdini,” the magician trumpeted like a carnival barker, pointing to a square-jawed man in the doorway behind his wife. Not a hint of irony in his voice. Houdini gestured expansively at his newly arrived guests. “Dash. I want you to meet the man who gave the world Sherlock Holmes: Sir Arthur and Lady Conan Doyle.”
    The knight caught his lady’s eye as the “great” man’s brother stepped up to shake hands. He detected a definite twinkle, but she kept her face blank as a card player holding trumps.
    “Theo Weiss,” the brother said, by way of introduction. “My friends call me Dash.”
    “Dash it is then, what?”
    Houdini suggested his wife and brother might want to get Lady Conan Doyle some refreshment and keep her company until the other guests arrived. His gracious manner belied his impatience. “I know Sir Arthur is anxious to have a look at the library.”
    In fact, the magician was the one who was anxious. His extensive collection of books and memorabilia dealing with magic, witchcraft, conjuring, spiritualism, and the theater was his pride and joy. He believed it to be the finest library of its kind on earth and was always eager to show it off to an appreciative audience.
    “If it’s no trouble,” said Sir Arthur, “I should be pleased to do some browsing.”
    Houdini bowed the knight toward a set of double doors, his “Alphonse and Gaston” manner unintentionally comic. The library occupied a huge room on the ground floor. Shelves of books rising to the ceiling lined all four walls. They surrounded hundreds of other stacked volumes. The two men wove between a waist-high colonnade as if negotiating a maze. Houdini showed Sir Arthur his proudest treasures: David Garrick’s diary, a Bible autographed by Martin Luther, Edgar A. Poe’s