So there it is. A pitch I know well. Every so often, a crafty charmer will come around, flaunting Tinseltown connections, seeking much more than a screen test.

And yet, something about this man doesn’t fit the mold. “You’re not a Hollywood scout…are you?”

“Me? No, no.” He chuckles. “Although I was in the employ of the film industry at one time. As a director of publicity, as it were.”

I smile courteously. But just then, from the tilt of his shadowed face, recognition hits. He’s the man from the audience. The one who stood without clapping, his stare penetrating, unreadable.

My feet angle slightly away.

“Mind you, that is neither here nor there, in view of the matter at hand.”

“Which is?”

“Why, a tremendous opportunity to do your bit.”

I blink at him, thrown off. “My bit?”

“For the war effort.”

“Yes, I…understand the reference, but…”

“Allow me to explain.” His manner is proper but amiable, as if we were chatting over tea, not standing in the middle of a dark, rainy street discussing—what? Performing at rallies? Promoting war bonds?

“It is strictly official business, for my work in the War Office in London, that has brought me here this week—to America, that is. Nevertheless, having learned of Monsieur Bouchard’s performance, I had planned to attend for leisure. I daresay I have long been an admirer of escapology and, like you, of Houdini in particular.”

In the show, my “mind-reading” act with Charles relies heavily on observation to gather clues and people’s tells. Although this man presents as genuine, I remain skeptical. “And what, sir, now brings you to me?”

“If I am to be candid? Intuition,” he replies without irony. “Furthermore, you are the mastermind behind the scenes, are you not?”

His knowledge of this is surprising.

Then again, he could be probing.

“What ever would lead you to think that?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Your stagehands were kindly informative.”

Ah, yes. For a couple bucks, no doubt.

“At any rate, there is an assisting role I have been keen to fill for some weeks. By luck, or fate perchance, it seems I have found an unlikely candidate.” He tips his head toward me for emphasis, sending drips from his hat, then warns, “For form’s sake, the War Office would require your completing some paperwork, a bit tedious—pettifogging bureaucrats—but there is a war on, and the Hun spies could get in anywhere, you know.”

My thoughts jumble at the rush of it all. I attempt to wrangle the pieces.

“So this…is a job offer.”

A corner of his mouth perks. “Indeed.”

“In London.”

“Thereabouts.”

“For the position of…?”

“A temporary civil servant.”

“Meaning, what exactly?”

“Your work would be, shall we say, extremely specialized and, above all, devoted to saving Allied lives.” His eyes shine with enthusiasm, an expectation of invoking intrigue.