Page 20 - Unlikely Stories 1

Madagascar Madness

Private Seidell took off his cap and mopped his brow and
neck with a handkerchief. His face took on a new, strained
expression.
“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

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