Page 20 - Unlikely Stories 1
P. 20

Madagascar Madness



          “So am I. And you don’t know how right you are: I have seen the
        death camps.”
          “Then the rumors were true. I suppose it was inevitable, once the
        British pushed the Axis out of here in ’42. Please come up here out
        of the sun, young man. You may as well rest a little before you return
        to your base.” He spoke a few words in a language Seidell did not
        understand  to  a  woman  standing  in  the  shadows  of  the  verandah.
        “Yes, sit with me a while and have a cool drink.”
          “Thank  you,  sir.”  Seidell  climbed  the  rickety  stairs.  A  dog  lying
        next  to  his  host  lifted  its  head  to  sniff  at  him,  then  resumed  its
        sprawled  posture.  The  two  men,  one  old,  stiff  and  immobile,  the
        other  an  energetic  youth,  faced  each  other  across  a  low  bamboo
        table.  The  woman  set  down  wooden  cups  of  a  local  fermented
        beverage and retired to the inside of the house.
          “I will tell you my story,” said the elder after sipping reflectively at
        the drink. “But I cannot go with you. My real name is Erich Weiss.
        Does that mean anything to you?”
          “No, sir. It does not.”
          Erich Weiss sighed. “I’m not surprised. You were an infant when I
        died.”
          Herbert Seidell frowned, looked at the contents of his cup.
          “No,  I  didn’t  mean  that  literally,”  said  Weiss.  “But  the  world,
        except for a very small number of people,  is convinced that Harry
        Houdini, the world’s greatest magician, died October 31, 1926.”
          “Houdini! But he did die! I saw photographs of his funeral. It was
        huge. And then his widow held a séance every Halloween to make
        contact with his spirit.”
          Weiss smiled again.  “It was my  greatest escape and disappearing
        act,  all  in  one.  I  couldn’t  have  done  it  without  Bess’s  help,  of
        course—she  was  my  wife.  She  let  me  go  with  several  thousand
        dollars—never mind how much—in return for letting her manage my
        legacy  and  sell  my  collections.  It  may  seem  heartless  to  you,  a
        youngster with at least some illusions intact, but it was the cleanest
        way for me to leave a life of which I had become fatigued and ill-
        equipped to continue. Neither of us wanted a rancorous divorce and

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