Mrs. Houdini(39)

Charles took a seat on one of the barstools and asked for a glass of soda water, pulling a folded newspaper from his briefcase and laying it out in front of him. To his right was a young woman, a Mary Hay look-alike, in a blue embroidered evening dress. He leaned over to speak to her and laid his hand on her arm. Bess sat down on the seat to his left and ordered herself a gin on ice.

It became clear to her immediately that Charles and the woman on his right had just become acquainted. But he had told her his name was Wallace, and she was asking him about his work in the bank. For a moment Bess was alarmed; she wondered if the real Charles Radley was still waiting for her in the lobby somewhere, until it occurred to her that he was very likely making up stories about himself to impress the girl.

After a few minutes the woman in the blue dress stood up. “My friends have arrived,” she said. “Perhaps we can chat more later.”

Charles’s shoulders fell. “Oh. Of course.” Bess felt a wave of affection for him. He was not skilled with women.

“Your name isn’t really Wallace, is it?” she asked Charles when the woman had left.

He turned to her, alarmed. “Pardon?” She saw a look of recognition cross his face. “Why—you’re Bess Houdini, aren’t you?”

“I am. But you’re not a banker. I know when a man is lying to impress a woman.”

He blinked at her, startled. She looked at his glass. “Why bother coming to a place like this if you’re only going to drink water?” She called over the bartender and ordered him a whiskey.

He stared at her. “Do you always order whiskey for men you’ve just met?” He pushed the glass away. “I don’t drink whiskey.”

His candor surprised her. “I’m—I’m sorry.” She was mortified; she had tried too hard to charm him and had ended up coming off as domineering. She may just have ruined the one chance she had to gain his confidence.

Around them, the room was filling up with people. The conversations grew louder, and the smoke thicker.

“My name is actually Charles, not Wallace,” he said, pulling his water glass back toward himself.

She looked down. “I know.”

He sat up straighter. “How do you know?”

“I’m John Thomas Wilson.”

Charles stared at her, confused. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”

“I’m sorry for the deception. I didn’t want there to be any expectations, you see. But I needed to speak with you.” Bess took a long sip of her drink, trying to keep her nerves at bay. “My husband and I used to come here. Many years ago, before he died.”

“But—how do you know who I am? We’ve never met—have we?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But that’s what I came here to find out.”

He laughed. “Are you really Bess Houdini? Is this some kind of a joke?”

“It’s not, I promise you. I have something very important to discuss with you. I’m here because . . . I believe you may have some kind of information for me. About my husband.”

“About Harry Houdini?” Charles looked at her with disbelief. “I don’t know what kind of information I could have. The closest I ever got to him was seeing his jump at Young’s Pier, when I was a kid.”

Her heart sunk. “So—you don’t have anything for me? You never knew him?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, no.” He looked at her pityingly. “I read about what happened to you,” he said gently. “For what it’s worth, I believe you were duped.”

“Thank you.” The speed of the music was picking up. She felt she had to find out more about him; surely, there was something of importance there. “Is there somewhere else we could talk that’s quieter?”

He shrugged. “We could go over to Doc’s Oyster House. They have a good seafood menu.”

“What about your woman in blue?”

Charles looked around the room, locating her on one of the leather sofas between two men, flirtatiously fingering the tiny white buttons at her neckline. His face turned red. “Oh, that was nothing. And it’s not every day I get to have dinner with Bess Houdini.”

“It’s probably just as well.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows.

“She’s too pretty to be respectable. That’s advice coming from a woman who was never very pretty.”

Charles laughed. “Pretty? What do you need pretty for? You’re Mrs. Harry Houdini!” He caught himself. “What I mean is, you’ve got glamour.”

Bess shook her head. “Everyone with money is glamorous to those who don’t have it.”

He frowned. “I was the one who photographed Evelyn Nesbit in a nightclub the night before her husband murdered her lover. It brought me quite a bit of glamour of my own, for a few weeks.”

“You see, being a photographer is far more interesting than being a banker. You should use the truth to impress the ladies instead.”

Charles laughed. “This coming from a woman who met me under false pretenses?”

She turned to see Stella coming through the door. “Oh no.” She stood up. “I have to go. Could you meet me tomorrow? It’s imperative that I speak with you about this.” She put on her gloves. “I’ll pay for the drinks. I’m sorry I was presumptuous.”