Escape Artist

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I was getting ready to leave the city room when Sam Ryan mentioned Harry Houdini. Curious, I dawdled at the pinewood table that served as my desk, fiddled with the ancient Oliver typewriter, and shifted some papers.

“Last time he was in town, some years back, he performed at the Opera House.” The old man, publisher of the Appleton Crescent, leaned back in his chair.

I had no interest in showy carnival antics, too slapdash Circus Maximus for my taste, but Houdini, whose early boyhood had been spent on Appleton streets, always made for good copy. My parents often talked about the escape artist whose father at one time had been rabbi at Zion Congregation.

“The great Houdini.” That was Matthias Boon, the new city editor. “The celebrated handcuff king himself.”

Miss Ivy, Sam’s sister, looked up. “I hear he is staying for a week with David Baum.”

Matthias Boon looked surprised. “Who’s that?”

“A childhood friend.”

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