Nevermore by William Hjortsberg Read Free Book Online

bastion of wealth and privilege. Once, back in ‘04, he had brought Bess and his mother here to celebrate the conclusion of their first successful European tour. The chill formality and polite disdain left a bad taste in his mouth in spite of the exquisite food. Fortunately, Mama didn’t speak English and had a wonderful time, always enjoying any display of her son’s phenomenal success.
    “My late husband and I ate here at least once each week,” Opal said, setting aside her bill of fare. “Either here, or at Sherry’s …” She glanced about her. “Such a wonderful place. A pity it’s also going out of business.”
    Houdini followed her gaze around the elegant room. More than half the tables stood empty. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out that Prohibition meant the end for most of the plush old establishments like Sherry’s and Delmonico’s. “It belongs in another time,” he said.
    “Yes,” she said. “And, so do you. And so do I.”
    She stared at him again with her burning intensity. He thought of all the cheap sideshow hypnotists, crystal readers, carny mitt-camp operators, and gypsy fortune-tellers he’d encountered in the course of a long career. He and Bess had even had an early success working a mentalist turn, wowing the rubes with their “telepathic” powers. What had once aided them did the same trick for Opal. She looked so fresh and guileless, the dew not yet dry on her petals.
    At the same time, Houdini felt something unsettling about her. She possessed a certain power. He thought of Mesmer, then reminded himself she was half his age and might easily have been the daughter he never had.
    “I was raised on a farm, Mr. Houdini,” she said, a disclosure utterly at odds with her beaded black Patou evening dress. “My folks didn’t talk much, but when they did, they got straight to the point.” She fitted a black cigarette into a long, gold-tipped ivory holder. “You put that ruler-thing in my cabinet.”
    She waited, leaning slightly forward, her carved ivory holder extended, ignoring the long silence, until at last a waiter stepped up and lighted her cigarette. Suddenly realizing his bad manners, Houdini made a hapless gesture of patting his pockets and stammered, “I … er, don’t smoke …”
    This produced a sly smile from Isis as she exhaled. The smoke smelled of cloves and spices. Definitely not tobacco.
    “I know you did this, not because I am psychic,” she continued. “I know it because I know nothing else. If I am innocent, then you must be guilty.” She paused to inhale. “You … or someone else wishing to discredit me.”
    “Those who prey on the tender emotions of the bereaved deserve no less.” He saw no hypocrisy in this statement, nor any humor in his lofty, second-bill comic father tone of moral indignation.
    “You condemn me without a trial.” Her eyes, shining with unwavering truth, never left his.
    “All right. I admit I made the plant. It was a cheap trick.” The magician cringed inwardly at this confession. Any violation of his strict Boy Scout sense of fair play brought on tidal waves of guilt, but he quickly took refuge in the iron-clad sanctuary of a puritan morality. “I know you use a gag. They all do. The Davenports did. The Fox Sisters… . All of them.”
    “I invite you to a private séance at my home. You may set whatever controls you wish, provided you forsake any further …” She smiled at him through a drifting garland of smoke. “Sleight-of-hand.”
    “Agreed!” Houdini slapped the tabletop for emphasis, causing polite heads to turn a few tables away. He pretended not to notice, but lowered his voice all the same. “Here is my card.”
    She set it beside her bread plate, tracing her fingertips over the embossed lettering. “I’ll have my secretary make the necessary arrangements.”
    He found himself lost in her eyes again and attempted awkward small talk, groping for a way out. “Isis in Search… . Catchy name for a