January 30, 1978

Rarely did this part of the earthly realm suffer foul weather. The sun shone brilliantly while wispy cirrus clouds continued gathering thousands of miles above the calm ocean. The occasional dolphin breached the otherwise glassy sheen of the sea. Terns steered clear of the approaching Grumman Widgeon seaplane that made its way to a paradise tropical island.

The amphibious aircraft knew its course. The pilot never lost his wonderment despite the regular trajectory. Unlike some islands formed by volcanic activity, continental drift raised this particular island creating a magnificent upheaved rock formation on the leeside. Three enticing waterfalls flowed into a lush lagoon that native inhabitants enjoyed. The plane continued its descent.

Opening the shutters, Roarke looked towards the sky and smiled. Once again, he anticipated new weekend guests intent on fulfilling fantasies. He charged what was appropriate, which included several instances of young children doling out five or seven dollars (or whatever amount available) accumulated from savings gathered by way of porcelain pigs.

As he had done thousands of times, Tattoo ascended the tower, tolled the carillon bell, and cried, "De plane! De plane!"

With the locals alerted to the incoming craft, beautiful young women raced excitedly from the main house wearing an array of brightly patterned pa'u skirts with matching bra tops. Roarke calmly strolled onto the porch and waited for his dearest friend. He knew Tattoo struggled as his age caught up to him and caused difficulty. Tattoo seemed unusually out of breath when he arrived. Roarke silently vowed to simplify the bell ringing process through automation.

Roarke smiled, "The day is young, my friend."

Tattoo managed a smile, "Indeed, Boss."

"Let us meet our guests," said Roarke.

The two walked to the waiting Plymouth Volaré. Roarke enjoyed sitting in the back seat next to Tattoo and allowed the indulgence of a new driver. He wanted the locals to feel pride at earning a decent wage in a modern world while still embracing a rich and ancient Polynesian heritage. This particular young man knew the way to the dock well enough to make good time.

Proving his worth, the driver arrived just as the Grumman Widgeon approached the dock. Roarke and Tattoo exited the vehicle and took their places as dancers and musicians assembled. As he had done countless times before, Roarke cued the ensemble. Traditional Polynesian music filled the air and exotic women danced an inviting hula. Greeters lined the pier ready with leis and beverages.

As the seaplane passenger door opened, Roarke smiled broadly and cried, "Smiles, everyone – smiles!"

A man dressed in a conservative black business suit with matching tie and white shirt exited the seaplane. His black Oxford shoes brilliantly reflected the tropical sun. The black argyle socks with primarily white accent offered the only hint of departure from a typical businessman. The septuagenarian doffed his Tyrolean hat in appreciation as a young man in a sarong took his luggage. His choice of a Mai Tai contradicted the formal presentation.

Tattoo asked, "Boss, who is that man?"

Roarke replied, "That, my dear friend is indeed the question. Herr Reinhold Winkler is what he calls himself now, but that is not his birth name."

Tattoo asked, "Why is he here?"

Roarke said, "Again, that is another good question. He is a man of many regrets, of that we can be certain, but there is a darkness within his heart. He claims he wishes to retire here on Fantasy Island and is scouting locations to build a home and perhaps do some farming."

Tattoo assuredly stated, "He's trouble."

Roarke said with a slight tone of cynicism, "Yes." A beautiful young woman approached with a tray bearing iced champagne. He took the glass, raised it in toast, and cried, "My dear guests! I am your host, Mister Roarke. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

The German man smiled broadly, as he accepted an offer of a second Mai Tai. He raised the glass in toast and cried, "Prost!" He was intoxicated with the tropical environment. The Mai Tai drinks proved pleasant but not having enough alcoholic content to satisfy his need. Still, the gray-haired man with tidy mustache enjoyed the warmth, even though his country currently experienced 12 degree centigrade temperatures.

Roarke proved gracious yet concerned. He needed more information. Sometimes, answers only revealed themselves when he had proximity with his guests. The conversation between the two resolved nothing. Winkler reaffirmed his desire to retire on Fantasy Island as a simple farmer. Roarke's feelings rarely betrayed his rational thinking. Winkler was not who he claimed.

#HH x FI#

LeBeau resisted the urge to scream wildly when he entered his beloved kitchen. He was gone three days but the minions of destruction saw fit to wreak havoc. It was supposed to be a simple favor for his employer: reprise his alter ego Ipsy Dauphin, better known as the Great Dauphin, to help a young escapologist learn there was more to life than being the best in the world. While he smiled inwardly at the results of helping with the fantasy, on the outside he barked orders to his staff. Magician Gregory Udall left with his doting wife a better man. LeBeau returned to his kitchen in shambles.

Keep busy, thought LeBeau. The fantasy stirred up old memories. He remained spry despite his being fifty-eight years old. He despised prisons. He bore his role well at Luftstalag 13 as a prisoner of war. As if out of nowhere, he remembered his serial number when he was a caporal in the Armée de l'Air: 19176546. Funny, as he always struggled with it whenever interrogated by the filthy bosche.

While he loved cooking, LeBeau made a decent career as an escapologist for twenty-three years. His time with Hogan's unit taught him to overcome his claustrophobia. He had to give it up, not for himself but for the other up and coming escapologists trying to emulate his acts. When a third magician died, LeBeau had to make his greatest escape – from the world.

Roarke knew his history, which comforted the Frenchman. Roarke helped stage his death as Ipsy Dauphin, allowing Louis LeBeau to blossom as a master chef once again. He enjoyed his life until two days ago when he remembered that he missed the excitement and danger. He stormed out of the kitchen and onto a patio. He lit a cigarette and began pacing.

"Quelque chose ne va pas?"

LeBeau turned around and saw his friend Tattoo. He appreciated having a fellow Frenchman to commiserate with in his native tongue. He went to one of the tables and sat in a chair. Tattoo joined him. LeBeau liked to sit and talk with Tattoo rather than standing, knowing how awkward it felt to be so short. It put the two men at eye level despite the two foot height difference.

LeBeau sighed, "I miss it, Tattoo. I want to do one more performance. I have to do the Upside Down."

Tattoo exclaimed, "Not that! You could die like Harry Houdini."

LeBeau laughed, "He didn't die performing that trick. Some college kid kept punching him in the stomach and ruptured his appendix. He died on Halloween in 1926, you know."

Tattoo said, "He was a great showman."

LeBeau said, "Quite true."

Tattoo said, "Well, if you must, you must. I know a magician's artisan. I'm sure that he'll make a tank for you."

LeBeau said, "I still have mine."

Tattoo stood, "I will speak with the boss and arrange everything."

"Thank you, my friend," smiled LeBeau. He watched Tattoo hurry away and sighed. Then he steeled himself to go to his house. He had many memories adorning walls, shelves, and even the mantle above his fireplace. His favorite picture took the prized place as centerpiece. He thought about his friends from Luftstalag XIII. Together, they achieved the impossible. He knew he could do it one more time.

#HH x FI#

Standing offstage, LeBeau marveled at Tattoo's ability to organize a show in one day. He had to do it while he felt the fire and passion. He watched Tattoo take center stage and listened with pride. He fidgeted with the bathrobe tie. People needed a sense of doubt to heighten the fear and dread.

Tattoo announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. It is with great pleasure that the Fantasy Island Theater presents to you one of the finest tribute acts to the late magician the Great Dauphin. Let's give a big round of applause for the Great Dauphin's Stepson."

LeBeau entered from stage right and quietly thanked Tattoo before his friend exited stage left. Only three people understood the Great Dauphin still lived. That illusion must continue. He took the microphone and announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I will perform for you the trick made famous by the greatest escapologist ever, Harry Houdini. I caution any who have a weak heart to leave now while I prepare for the Upside Down."

As the curtain raised to reveal the water tank, LeBeau teased the audience as he fumbled about trying to untie the bathrobe. The tank was already filled with water and at room temperature. Submerging into a tank of cold water interfered with breathing and concentration.

After a moment of feigned ineptness, he removed the robe and discarded it to his right, revealing an old-fashioned men's bathing suit from the early twentieth century. He laid on the stage directly in front of the tank. Assistants shackled his legs after he nodded, signaling that he had his lock picks in his hands.

LeBeau relaxed as the assistants used the hoist to raise him above the tank. He embraced the rushing blood to his head. Then the assistants dropped him head first into the tank. Displaced water gushed over the sides and onto a tarp. He heard the muted sounds of the orchestra playing Asleep in the Deep, one of Houdini's favorites. He was already making good pace with the hand shackles.

His eyes locked in icy stare. No – it was impossible. The audience always looked like a black mass after the first three rows. Within the tank, he usually could not even make those out due to the elevated stage. Yet he saw a face from his past as clear as day in the audience. His heart raced wildly out of control. He began flailing uncontrollably as the lights dimmed. He realized in horror that the assistants must be emplacing the cabinet around the tank. Only one shackle undone, he pounded on the tank.

It kept getting darker even though LeBeau felt himself being extracted hurriedly from the tank. For a moment, he felt nothing, but managed to open his eyes. Someone covered him with a blanket. A medic took his vitals. He saw Tattoo and tried to speak but his throat was sore.

Tattoo reassured, "It's alright. We'll take good care of you."

LeBeau realized two men lifted him onto a gurney. He coughed as the medic applied an oxygen mask. He trembled not from the cold but from the fear. He last saw that man at the Nuremberg Trials. The tribunal found that man guilty of war crimes and crimes against humanity. He grabbed Tattoo's arm and begged, "He's here! You must stop him!"

Tattoo raised his eyebrows and asked, "Who?"

LeBeau replied, "Hochstetter." His eyelids became too heavy and he succumbed to unconsciousness. Tattoo turned and saw Roarke. He felt extremely confused. The Boss will know what to do.

#HH x FI#

Roarke sat behind his desk waiting for his guest. He remained disappointed that he failed to identify properly the man calling himself Reinhold Winkler. He held great love for LeBeau and his heart felt tormented that his friend nearly died. He had concerns about LeBeau reprising the act in extreme haste but indulged the request.

Hearing that LeBeau claimed to see someone presumed dead raised several red flags. It could have been a delusion caused by the change in pressure from the submersion process. Roarke silently chastised himself for allowing the performance. The utterance proved a curious deus ex machina. Tattoo entered with the unwanted intruder.

Roarke sternly said, "I know who you really are, Herr Kriminalrat Wolfgang Hochstetter." He saw the brief flash of fear at recognition of an old name and rank. The face twisted back to a placid slate. Roarke continued, "Do not try my patience. There is no record of Reinhold Winkler before 1945. Wolfgang Hochstetter escaped the hangman's noose in December of 1945."

"You have no idea what I've been through," sighed the man.

"I offer no asylum to men convicted of crimes against humanity," Roarke flatly said. "You were no innocent bystander. You came here under false pretenses and have no intentions of repenting your actions."

While Roarke successfully deduced his identity, Hochstetter dare not admit it. He said, "You have no proof. I am sick and tired of people who accuse every German my age of being a butchering murderer."

Roarke calmly said, "You have been identified by one who witnessed some of your activities."

"Bah! Who? Who dares defile my reputation?"

Roarke said, "You were at the theater earlier this afternoon."

"Yes," replied Hochstetter. "So were two hundred other people. What of it?"

Roarke continued, "You watched the performance by the Great Dauphin."

"Bah," cried Hochstetter. "The Great Dauphin died ten years ago. That man on stage is a fraud yet you accuse me of being someone I am not."

"He is the Great Dauphin," said Roarke. "He wanted to retire and faked his death ten years ago. Ipsy Dauphin remembers you, Herr Hochstetter. He saw you at a very inopportune moment. He remembers the time you interrogated him. He vowed never again that any man would string him up by his thumbs."

Roarke watched as the blood drained from Hochstetter's face. The man seemed briefly confused, desperate to connect the name to a face from the past. Roarke knew the tribunal found Hochstetter guilty of murdering ninety-three members of Underground, fifteen members of the Resistance, and twelve prisoners of war. Some defendants claimed they were following orders when they activated the gas chambers. Hochstetter proved especially sadistic as he brutalized personally his victims for days before ending their misery.

Hochstetter finally spoke, "I suspect that is a lie. You cannot string up a person by his thumbs. It is impossible! The thumbs cannot support a man's weight. If someone did such a thing to that man, his hands would be crippled."

Roarke commented, "And you know this from personal experience."

"Simple yet intelligent speculation," said Hochstetter. "I once had the good fortune to conduct business in New Mexico and witnessed an interesting ceremony. There are people called Penitentes. Every Easter several of them willingly reenact the Crucifixion. They practice self-flagellation, wear crowns of thorns, carry crosses to a small hill, and then they are nailed through the palms and feet to those very crosses! Their arms and ankles are bound with rope. Otherwise, when they erect the crosses the weight of the body rips the hands to shreds."

Roarke said, "Indeed. They do not use iron spikes to impale the hands and heel bones as the Romans did. Theirs is an act of faith and devotion. Even the Romans bound their victims' arms with rope to the cross. The spikes immobilized the hands to prevent the victim from any attempt to loosen those ropes."

Hochstetter scoffed, "That man is a fraud AND a liar!"

Roarke calmly said, "You will be leaving Fantasy Island."

Hochstetter said, "If you are inclined to believe the Cockroach's lies without any proof, perhaps it is best that I leave. Guten tag, Herr Roarke." The two men in white suits said nothing until Hochstetter made his dramatic exit from the office.

Tattoo asked, "Cockroach?"

"Yes," Roarke thoughtfully replied. "Make sure that Monsieur LeBeau remains under guard at the hospital."

"It's all taken care of, Boss," said Tattoo.

Roarke said, "Good. The German authorities will not be here for another twenty-four hours. I will deal with Herr Hochstetter."