The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (with bonus content) (77 page)

“How much for an envelope?” he said.

W
HEN THEY GOT OUT
on seventy-two, the boy led them to the left, past the doorways of an import company and a wig manufacturer, to a door whose opaque glass light was painted with the words
KORNBLUM VANISHING CREAMS, INC
. The boy turned to look at them, an eyebrow raised, seeing, the captain thought, if they got the joke, although Lieber wasn’t sure just what the joke was supposed to be. Then the boy knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again.

“Where is he?” he said.

“Captain Harley.”

They turned. A second building cop, Rensie, had joined them. He put a finger to his nose as if he was about to impart some delicate or embarrassing information.

“What is it?” Harley said warily.

“Our boy is up there,” Rensie said. “The leaper. Up on the o.d.”

“What?”
Lieber stared at the kid, more bewildered than he considered it competent for a detective to be.

“Costume?” Harley said.

Rensie nodded. “Nice blue one,” he said. “Big nose. Skinny. It’s him.”

“How’d he get there?”

“We don’t know, Captain. Swear to God, we were watching
everything
. We had a man on the stairs, and another on the elevators. I don’t know how he got in there. He just kind of showed up.”

“Come on,” Lieber said, already moving for the elevators. “And bring your son,” he told Sammy Clay; you had to bring a cleat to lash them to. The boy’s face had gone blank and bloodless with what looked to Lieber like astonishment. Somehow his hoax had come true.

They stepped into the elevator, with its elaborate chevrons and rays of inlaid wood.

“He’s on the parapet?” said Captain Harley. Rensie nodded.

“Wait a minute,” said Sammy. “I’m confused.”

Lieber allowed as how he was a tiny bit confused himself. He had thought that the mystery of the letter to the
Herald-Tribune
was solved: it was a harmless if inscrutable stunt, pulled by an eleven-year-old boy. No doubt, he thought, he had been fairly inscrutable himself at that age. The kid was looking for attention; he was trying to make a point that no one outside the family could possibly understand. Then, somehow, it had appeared that this long-lost cousin whom Lieber had assumed until that point to be a dead man, run down on the shoulder of some godforsaken road outside of Cat Butt, Wyoming, was actually holed up, somehow or other, in an office suite on the seventy-second floor of the Empire State. And now it looked as if the kid was not the author of the letter after all; the Escapist had kept his grim promise to the city of New York.

They had gone fourteen stories—special express all the way—when Rensie said in a small, unwilling voice, “There are orphans.”

“There are
what
?”

“Orphans,” said Clay. He had his arm crooked around his kid’s neck in a fatherly display of reproof masquerading as solicitude. It was an embrace that said
Wait till I get you home
. “Why are there—?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Harley said. “Why are there?”

“Well, it didn’t look like the, uh, the gentleman in the, uh, the blue suit was going to show,” Rensie said. “And the little brats came all the way down from Watertown. Ten hours on a bus.”

“An audience. Of little children,” Harley said. “Perfect.”

“What about you?” Lieber said to the boy. “You confused, too?”

The boy stared, then nodded slowly.

“You want to have your wits about you, Tom,” Lieber said. “We need you to talk to this uncle of yours.”

“First cousin,” Clay said. He cleared his throat. “Once removed.”

“Maybe you could talk to your first cousin once removed about those rubber bands,” Rensie said. “That’s a new one on me.”

“Rubber bands,”
Captain Harley said. “And orphans.” He rubbed at the wrecked half of his face. “I’m guessing there’s also a nun?”

“A padre.”

“Okay,” said Captain Harley. “Well, that’s something.”

T
WENTY-TWO ORPHANS
from the Orphanage of St. Vincent de Paul huddled on the windswept roof of the city, a thousand feet up. Gray light was smeared across the sky like ointment on a bandage. The heavy steel zippers of the children’s dark blue corduroy coats—donated by a Watertown department store the previous winter, along with the twenty-two chiming pairs of galoshes—were zipped tightly against the April chill. The children’s two keepers, Father Martin and Miss Mary Catherine Macomb, circled the children like a couple of nipping sheepdogs, trying to cinch them with their voices and hands. Father Martin’s eyes watered in the sharp breeze, and Miss Macomb’s thick arms were stippled with gooseflesh. They were not excitable people, but things had gotten out of hand and they were shouting.

“Stay back!” Miss Macomb told the children, several hundred times.

“For pity’s sake, man,” Father Martin told the leaper, “come down.”

There was something stunned in the faces of the children, blinking and tentative. The slow, dull, dark submarine of the lives in which they were the human cargo had abruptly surfaced. Their blood was filled with a kind of crippling nitrogen of wonder. Nobody was smiling or laughing, though with children, entertainment often seemed to be a grave business.

Atop the thick concrete parapet of the eighty-sixth floor, like a bright jagged hole punched in the clouds, balanced a smiling man in a mask and a gold-and-indigo suit. The suit clung to his lanky frame, dark blue with an iridescent glint of silk. He had on a pair of golden swim trunks, and on the front of his blue jersey was a thick golden appliqué, like the initial on a letterman’s jacket, in the shape of a skeleton key. He wore a pair of soft gold boots, rather shapeless, with thin rubber soles. The
trunks were nubbly and had a white streak on the seat, as if their wearer had once leaned against a freshly painted doorjamb. The tights were laddered and stretched out at the knees, the jersey sagged badly at the elbows, and the rubber soles of the flimsy boots were cracked and spotted with grease. His broad chest was girdled by a slender cord, studded with thousands of tiny knots, looped under his armpits, then stretched across the open-air promenade some twenty feet to the steel prong of an ornamental sun ray that jutted from the roof of the observation lounge. He gave the knotted cord a tug, and it twanged out a low D-flat.

He was putting on a show for them, for the children and for the policemen who had gathered at his feet, cursing and cajoling and begging him to climb down. He was promising a demonstration of human flight of the sort still routinely found, even in this diminished era of super-heroism, in the pages of comic books.

“You will see,” he cried. “A man can fly.”

He demonstrated the strength of the elastic rope, woven out of eight separate strands, each strand made up of forty of the extra-long, extra-thick rubber bands he had picked up at Reliant Office Supplies. The policemen remained suspicious, but they were not sure what to believe. The midnight-blue costume, with its key symbol and its weird Hollywood sheen, affected their judgment. And then there was Joe’s professional manner, still remarkably smooth and workmanlike after so many years of disuse. His confidence in his ability to pull off the trick of leaping from the roof, plunging to a maximum of 162 feet in the direction of the far-distant sidewalk, then reascending, tugged skyward by the enormous rubber band, to alight smiling at the feet of the policemen, appeared to be absolute.

“The children won’t be able to see me flying,” Joe said, the glint of misdirection in his eyes. “Let them come to the edge.”

The children agreed, pressing forward. Horrified, Miss Macomb and Father Martin held them back.

“Joe!” It was Sammy. He and various policemen, uniformed and plainclothes, came stumbling in a confusion of waving arms out onto the windswept promenade. They were led by a wary-looking Tommy Clay.

When Joe saw the boy, his son, join the motley crowd that had convened on the observation deck to observe as a rash and imaginary promise was fulfilled, he suddenly remembered a remark that his teacher Bernard Kornblum had once made.

“Only love,” the old magician had said, “could pick a nested pair of steel Bramah locks.”

He had offered this observation toward the end of Joe’s last regular visit to the house on Maisel Street, as he rubbed a dab of calendula ointment into the skin of his raw, peeling cheeks. Generally, Kornblum said very little during the final portion of every lesson, sitting on the lid of the plain pine box that he had bought from a local coffin maker, smoking and taking his ease with a copy of
Di Cajt
while, inside the box, Joe lay curled, roped and chained, permitting himself sawdust-flavored sips of life through his nostrils, and making terrible, minute exertions. Kornblum sat, his only commentary an occasional derisive blast of flatulence, waiting for the triple rap from within which signified that Joe had loosed himself from cuffs and chains, prized out the three sawn-off dummy screw heads in the left-hand hinge of the lid, and was ready to emerge. At times, however, if Joe was particularly dilatory, or if the temptation of a literally captive audience proved too great, Kornblum would begin to speak, in his coarse if agile German—always limiting himself, however, to shoptalk. He reminisced fondly about performances in which he had, through bad luck or foolishness, nearly been killed; or recalled, in apostolic and tedious detail, one of the three golden occasions on which he had been fortunate enough to catch the act of his prophet, Houdini. Only this once, just before Joe attempted his ill-fated plunge into the Moldau, had Kornblum’s talk ever wandered from the path of professional retrospection into the shadowed, leafy margins of the personal.

He had been present, Kornblum said—his voice coming muffled through the inch of pine plank and the thin canvas sack in which Joe was cocooned—for what none but the closest confidants of the Handcuff King, and the few canny confreres who witnessed it, knew to be the hour when the great one failed. This was in London, Kornblum said, in 1906, at the Palladium, after Houdini had accepted a public challenge to free himself from a purportedly inescapable pair of handcuffs. The
challenge had been made by the
Mirror
of London, which had discovered a locksmith in the north of England who, after a lifetime of tinkering, had devised a pair of manacles fitted with a lock so convoluted and thorny that no one, not even its necromantic inventor, could pick it. Kornblum described the manacles, two thick steel circlets inflexibly welded to a cylindrical shaft. Within this rigid shaft lay the sinister mechanism of the Manchester locksmith—and here a tone of awe, even horror, entered Kornblum’s voice. It was a variation on the Bramah, a notoriously intransigent lock that could be opened—and even then with difficulty—only by a long, arcane, tubular key, intricately notched at one end. Devised by the Englishman Joseph Bramah in the 1760s, it had gone unpicked, inviolate, for over half a century until it was finally cracked. The lock that now confronted Houdini, on the stage of the Palladium, consisted of
two
Bramah tubes, one nested inside the other, and could be opened only by a bizarre double key that looked something like the collapsed halves of a telescope, one notched cylinder protruding from within another.

As five thousand cheering gentlemen and ladies, the young Kornblum among them, looked on, the Mysteriarch, in black cutaway and waistcoat, was fitted with the awful cuffs. Then, with a single, blank-faced, wordless nod to his wife, he retreated to his small cabinet to begin his impossible work. The orchestra struck up “Annie Laurie.” Twenty minutes later, wild cheering broke out as the magician’s head and shoulders emerged from the cabinet; but it turned out that Houdini wanted only to get a look at the cuffs, which still held him fast, in better light. He ducked back inside. The orchestra played the Overture to
Tales of Hoffmann
. Fifteen minutes later, the music died amid cheers as Houdini stepped from the cabinet. Kornblum hoped against hope that the master had succeeded, though he knew perfectly well that when the first, single-barreled Bramah was, after sixty years, finally picked, it had taken the successful lock-pick, an American master by the name of Hobbs,
two full days
of continuous effort. And now it turned out that Houdini, sweating, a queasy smile on his face, his collar snapped and dangling free at one end, had merely—oddly—come out to announce that, though his knees hurt from crouching in the cabinet, he was not yet ready to throw in the towel. The newspaper’s representative, in the
interests of good sportsmanship, allowed a cushion to be brought, and Houdini retreated to his cabinet once more.