was no stopping him.
One afternoon in 1901, following a show in San Francisco, Houdini was approached by three men. Two of them were sharply dressed, and he could tell immediately upon shaking their hands that they were gamblers. They introduced themselves as Simpson and Wallace, and the third man, whose hand surpassed the other two’s grace and dexterity, said his name was Findlay. He stood out from the other two, saying little.
Their proposition was simple. They wanted him to help them break into a casino—not to rob it but to plant marked cards. For thisthey offered him a hundred dollars. Wallace, who was the shorter of the two gamblers, did most of the talking. Simpson was an oddly shaped man of average height whose arms appeared too long for his body. He’d somehow managed to trim his moustache unevenly, so that one side of it curved upward. It gave him a look of perpetual mirth.
“We’ve seen your show, Mr. Houdini, and we know it’d be a quick matter for you to pop open the lock and get us in,” Wallace said, his voice hushed. He looked around and produced a roll of money from his pocket. Findlay stood back a few paces and made a pretense of rolling a cigarette.
Houdini looked at the money. He didn’t desperately need it. “You’re right, gentlemen, what you propose would present little challenge to me.” He had no issue with gambling—he had himself indulged more than once and Bess had nearly killed him in his sleep one night after he’d lost sixty dollars in a game of craps. He knew enough about casinos to know they weren’t on the level, and cheating a cheater was no problem to him. He almost relished the idea. But there was something about this he didn’t like. It was, for starters, breaking and entering, even if he didn’t go in, and he reasoned that if he were going to turn to crime it wouldn’t be with these three men.
“I’m afraid, however, I can’t help you. I only wish to break out of jail cells I’ve voluntarily entered.”
Simpson chuckled and then stopped. He looked at Wallace.
“Is it an issue of money?” Wallace asked.
“No, it’s an issue of morality. I don’t mind you cheating a casino; in fact I wish you luck. But I do not use my abilities for criminal pursuits.” Houdini tipped his hat to the men, wished them a goodday, and began the short walk back to the hotel where Bess was waiting for him. As he passed Findlay, who hadn’t moved since introducing himself, Findlay raised his eyes to meet his, and it seemed to him that something menacing was conveyed between them. On his walk back to the hotel he had the feeling he was being followed, but on the three or four occasions he looked behind him he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
Just before midnight, he received a telephone call that there was an urgent telegram from New York at the front desk for him. His first thought was that his mother had fallen ill, and he dressed and left the room without hesitation. As he rounded the corner in the hallway, however, he saw the unmistakable bewildered smile of Simpson. He felt something hard and metal press into his back.
“That’s a revolver, if you’re wondering,” Wallace said. “We’ve decided you’ve reconsidered our proposal.”
There was no sign of Findlay, but Houdini was sure he was somewhere, probably stationed as a lookout. As they descended the stairs he felt a great sense of relief pass over him—the telegram was a hoax and his mother was likely safe in bed. She missed his father, he knew. She talked about him often, as though he was still alive. “Ehrie,” she might say, “your father will like this a lot.” But he could see her sadness. He would tell her that he would take care of her, but even he didn’t really believe it. He mourned his father as much as she did.
They moved down the stairs and through the lobby of the hotel, and Findlay fell in step beside him.
“Is the gun really necessary?” he asked Findlay, even though it was in
One afternoon in 1901, following a show in San Francisco, Houdini was approached by three men. Two of them were sharply dressed, and he could tell immediately upon shaking their hands that they were gamblers. They introduced themselves as Simpson and Wallace, and the third man, whose hand surpassed the other two’s grace and dexterity, said his name was Findlay. He stood out from the other two, saying little.
Their proposition was simple. They wanted him to help them break into a casino—not to rob it but to plant marked cards. For thisthey offered him a hundred dollars. Wallace, who was the shorter of the two gamblers, did most of the talking. Simpson was an oddly shaped man of average height whose arms appeared too long for his body. He’d somehow managed to trim his moustache unevenly, so that one side of it curved upward. It gave him a look of perpetual mirth.
“We’ve seen your show, Mr. Houdini, and we know it’d be a quick matter for you to pop open the lock and get us in,” Wallace said, his voice hushed. He looked around and produced a roll of money from his pocket. Findlay stood back a few paces and made a pretense of rolling a cigarette.
Houdini looked at the money. He didn’t desperately need it. “You’re right, gentlemen, what you propose would present little challenge to me.” He had no issue with gambling—he had himself indulged more than once and Bess had nearly killed him in his sleep one night after he’d lost sixty dollars in a game of craps. He knew enough about casinos to know they weren’t on the level, and cheating a cheater was no problem to him. He almost relished the idea. But there was something about this he didn’t like. It was, for starters, breaking and entering, even if he didn’t go in, and he reasoned that if he were going to turn to crime it wouldn’t be with these three men.
“I’m afraid, however, I can’t help you. I only wish to break out of jail cells I’ve voluntarily entered.”
Simpson chuckled and then stopped. He looked at Wallace.
“Is it an issue of money?” Wallace asked.
“No, it’s an issue of morality. I don’t mind you cheating a casino; in fact I wish you luck. But I do not use my abilities for criminal pursuits.” Houdini tipped his hat to the men, wished them a goodday, and began the short walk back to the hotel where Bess was waiting for him. As he passed Findlay, who hadn’t moved since introducing himself, Findlay raised his eyes to meet his, and it seemed to him that something menacing was conveyed between them. On his walk back to the hotel he had the feeling he was being followed, but on the three or four occasions he looked behind him he could detect nothing out of the ordinary.
Just before midnight, he received a telephone call that there was an urgent telegram from New York at the front desk for him. His first thought was that his mother had fallen ill, and he dressed and left the room without hesitation. As he rounded the corner in the hallway, however, he saw the unmistakable bewildered smile of Simpson. He felt something hard and metal press into his back.
“That’s a revolver, if you’re wondering,” Wallace said. “We’ve decided you’ve reconsidered our proposal.”
There was no sign of Findlay, but Houdini was sure he was somewhere, probably stationed as a lookout. As they descended the stairs he felt a great sense of relief pass over him—the telegram was a hoax and his mother was likely safe in bed. She missed his father, he knew. She talked about him often, as though he was still alive. “Ehrie,” she might say, “your father will like this a lot.” But he could see her sadness. He would tell her that he would take care of her, but even he didn’t really believe it. He mourned his father as much as she did.
They moved down the stairs and through the lobby of the hotel, and Findlay fell in step beside him.
“Is the gun really necessary?” he asked Findlay, even though it was in
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