Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

I turned and gazed across the street at the marquee of Thornton's Theater, which was emblazoned with the name of Miss Annie Cummings, the Songbird from Savannah. "You know," I said, "my brother really is as good as he says he is."

"Sure, Dash. And one day it'll be his name up there in tall letters. And shortly after that, I'll be elected president of the United States."

"What a gruff and crusty fellow you are, Albert."

"I'm a realist, Dash. I know your brother is talented, but it's not enough. His timing stinks. His delivery stinks. His patter stinks. His-"

"All of those things will get better. I'm telling you, he's a natural showman. He has a real instinct for drama. I've seen people literally holding their breath waiting to see if he'll find a way to escape from an old nailed-up packing crate. All he needs is a chance to show what he can do. Now, if Mr. Beckman should give him one of the warm-up spots at Thornton's, just a few minutes at the top of the show, I know Harry could-"

"Dash. It's a dance hall. Burleycue."

"Harry's worked burlesque halls before."

"Really? I wouldn't have thought he had the legs for it." Albert looked at his watch and tossed away the stump of his cigar. "Do me a favor, wouldja? Run the bally for me? Chester's down with the grippe."

The bally, I should probably explain, is an act performed outside the tent or the theater to lure the marks inside. A crowd gathers to see the act-whatever it is-and the talker launches into an elaborate spiel, describing the many miracles and marvels to be found just beyond the ticket window. If the talker is any good-and Albert was one of the best-the marks will just about knock him over in their haste to get inside. Sometimes the bally would be a sword-swallower; sometimes a fire-eater. The absent Chester was an accomplished blockhead-meaning that he could drive three-inch spikes into his nose with a hammer.

Happily, Albert didn't expect anything quite that exotic from me. There was a set of heavy wooden Indian clubs sitting by the entrance. I picked them up and started juggling-an easy overhand pass routine-while Albert delivered his grind. I don't remember exactly how the patter went, but I do recall that it began with the words "Step right up, folks," and that it promised "a world of wonders such as mortal eyes have never beheld."

Between Albert's grind and my juggling, it wasn't long before we'd gathered a crowd of perhaps fourteen or fifteen people, about as many as could be expected on a chilly Tuesday evening. Albert collected a handful of coins, issued paper tickets, and ushered our small audience through the door.

The so-called Palace of Wonders had been established on the ruins of a failed butcher's shop, and the smell of salty meats still hung about the room. Mr. Beckman had used red and gold hanging banners to cover the walls and display windows, but otherwise the space was much as it had been-a long, dingy room with high windows along the left-hand wall. No one had even bothered to sweep the sawdust from the floor.

A narrow platform ran along the left wall beneath the windows, creating a performance ramp that Albert described as his "Arcade of Miracles." It was perhaps two feet high and no more than four feet deep, and the performers stood there in plain view waiting for the show to start. They all snapped to attention as the crowd filtered in, and bustled around the platform trying to make themselves look interesting.

Albert's job was to herd the crowd from one edge of the platform to the other, allowing them the requisite 180 seconds to enjoy each of the acts. He did this with uncommon skill. "Hurry along, folks!" he would cry, with a slight edge of alarm to his voice. "You won't want to miss our next Oddity of Nature!"

The Oddities of Nature, it must be said, were looking a little haggard, since this was their tenth show of the day. Nevertheless, they managed to rouse themselves as Albert urged the crowd forward. It started with Miss Missy, the Armless Wonder, who sat drinking tea from a China cup daintily clutched between her toes, and moved on to the Human Skye Terrier, whose shaggy dog head benefited greatly from artfully placed chin and chop pieces. Next came the Tattooed Lady and the Moss-Haired Girl, followed by the Sword-Swallower and the Double-Bodied Wonder, who had a pair of tiny legs-meant to be the remnants of a Siamese twin- poking out of his mid-section. The Living Skeleton, the Human Telescope, and Vranko the Glass-Eater rounded out the entertainments.

As each act finished in turn, the performers were given thirty seconds to hawk a souvenir item for a nickel or a dime, which gave them the chance to augment the meager salary they drew from Mr. Beckman. For the most part, these items took the form of a booklet or a keepsake scroll that related the performer's brave and heart-rending struggle against the cruel hand of nature. Miss Missy's story, I recall, was especially touching. It was a miniature volume entitled "My Blessed Life," with her portrait on the front in all her armless glory. It began with the words, "I am never too busy to lend a helping foot."

Other performers went for cheap wooden novelties. Harmi, the Sword-Swallower, offered little wooden sabers, and Benny, the Human Skye Terrier, did a brisk business in personalized grooming supplies. I can't remember what my brother was selling that year-it was either his "Teach Yourself Magic" booklet or "Professor Houdini's Ten Steps to Perfect Health."

When all the novelties were bought, Albert herded the audience toward the last act-Harry Houdini of Apple-ton, Wisconsin, performing as "The King of Kards and Konjuring." My brother never got a lot of credit for it, but he was a pretty fair card mechanic in his day. While he waited for the crowd to shift down to his end of the room, he stood at the front edge of the platform plucking card fans from thin air. He was dressed in a black suit with a string tie and a straw boater hat, and had his sleeves pushed back to show off his muscular forearms. As the crowd circled, Harry went into some flashy hand-to-hand cascades while Albert introduced him.

"Kidnapped by gypsies at the tender age of six months, the infant Harry was soon earning his keep by plucking coins and wallets from the pockets of unwary passers-by. By the age of five, the pint-sized prodigy was apprenticed to Signor Blitz, the greatest of all the magicians in the world, and by his twelfth year, the precocious prestidigitator was the favorite of the sultans and sheiks of far-away lands. He appears today by kind permission of the czar of Russia, to whom he serves as court conjurer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, the one, the only-Harry Houdini!"

It was a stirring intro, and I could feel a building sense of anticipation from the small crowd as they awaited this extraordinary young man's first miracle. Then Harry spoiled it. He talked.

I was reading my brother's biography the other day. It had many kind things to say about Harry's "mesmerizing stage presence" and "compelling natural charisma." Clearly the author had never been to Huber's Museum. The truth is, Harry didn't have a lot of natural charisma at that time. He was only beginning to learn to relax onstage. In a few years' time he became a lot breezier, and learned to treat the audience as if they were all in on a big secret. In those early days, he came across like some sort of German physics professor. He lectured the audience, and directed them on the proper manner in which to appreciate the genius of Houdini. It might have played well in Europe, where they still dressed up their magic acts as "philosophical experiments," but in New York, they just wanted entertainment.

"Ladies and gentlemen," my brother said from the platform, "I am the Great Houdini, the justly celebrated self-liberator and eclipsing sensation of Europe. I will now entertain you."