Mary Rogers wondered about their destination, having already decided they were filthy rich, a latter-day Buster Brown and his governess. Who else but a millionaire’s brat could rattle off fancy car names like that? Were they going shopping? Did they live in one of the old family mansions on lower Fifth? Mary occupied herself with such speculation for the final few blocks past the Salamagundi Club and the gleaming, white brick Brevoort Hotel. At the last stop, she stepped down onto the pavement opposite Washington Mews.
She headed south into the park under the ceremonial marble arch designed by Stanford White. Washington Square before noon retained the serenity of a village green. A few nursemaids and mothers sat knitting on benches beside hooded perambulators. Sunshine burnished the dusty rose facade of a northern row of century-old town houses. Water splashed in the central fountain where once the civic gallows stood. Small children played hopscotch. Idlers listened to an old Italian cranking a hurdy-gurdy.
Mary lingered on the fringes of the group, humming along with the sad sounds of the barrel organ. The Italian had a little monkey on a leash all dressed up in red like a bellhop. Double rows of brass buttons flashed sunshine along his tunic. He looked so cute in his pillbox hat, scampering among the onlookers, holding a tin cup. Mary’s happiness gradually gave way to an uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching her. She looked all around and saw no one suspicious. Still, it gave her the heebie-jeebies.
Lacking spare coins to drop into the monkey’s cup, Mary turned and walked off before the animal came her way. She followed a brick-lined diagonal path under the arching sycamores to the southeast corner of the park, exiting onto MacDougal Street and walking slowly south into the mid-morning sun, past dim aromatic coffeehouses and shuttered basement restaurants. The nagging, creepy feeling persisted. She sensed a shadow on her tail and paused frequently to glance over her shoulder.
At the corner of MacDougal and Bleecker, Mary Rogers turned west, toward Sixth. She lived in a gabled brick building in the middle of the block, a survivor from the second decade of the last century. A Sicilian bakery beside the entrance sweetened the air with delicious aromas. Mary stared past her reflection in the show window at stacked pyramids of fresh-baked loaves. She killed time, not wanting to go inside until sure the coast was clear. A man with his dog on a leash stood nearby while a tiny leg lifted by a fire hydrant. Some kind of miniature schnauzer. After a couple of hard-won drops, they continued on their way. She watched them turn the corner. Why should he be tailing her?
Bleecker Street looked peaceful as a country lane. Neither the heavy-set woman selling roast corn nor the white-clad streetsweeper pushing his barrel-shaped Sanitation Department cart appeared in any way suspicious. Mary sighed, laughing inwardly at her foolishness. She climbed the two front steps and stepped into the tiny vestibule, ignoring any bills lurking behind the narrow, filigreed door of her brass mailbox.
Mary Rogers unlocked the front door and climbed the sagging wooden stairs. Her apartment was on the third floor. One flight up, she paused and looked over the railing. What did she expect to see? Nothing. Not even a stray cat. No sound disturbed the enclosing silence. She continued on her way, taking each step with slow caution. Outside her apartment door, she fumbled in her purse for her keyring, clumsily trying the wrong one in the lock. Damn! What was wrong with her? Was she so tired she imagined things?
Mary found the correct key. A soft footstep from behind made her freeze in terror. Before she could turn, strong hands pulled something over her head. Some kind of sack. Her outcry went unheard, stifled by a cloth inside the bag reeking with a strange chemical. Moments before plunging into the black well of unconsciousness, Mary Rogers thought of the hospital where she’d had a tonsillectomy when she was six. The nauseating drip of anesthesia onto the gauze cone covering her face …
10
METAMORPHOSIS
IT WAS AN HOUR before dawn. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle sat on a striped divan in the front room of his hotel suite, listening to the slow clop of hooves outside as ice wagons and milk delivery vans made their early morning rounds. Night’s dark winding sheet shrouded the still-sleeping city in shadows. Faint as the promise of an afterlife, electric streetlamps cast a dim glow on the uncurtained windows. Up well before his usual time, a practice the author initiated following his first Carnegie Hall lecture, Sir Arthur waited, patient as a hunter in his blind, his keen eyes fixed on the writing table in the corner alcove.
Although ordinarily he withheld nothing from his wife, he had not spoken a word to Jean of these nocturnal vigils. He didn’t want to cause undue concern. Not that he doubted his reason or his sanity or anything so melodramatic. First and foremost, he needed to determine if the apparition was merely the by-product of an overactive imagination. His faith in a spirit life remained unshaken in spite of the fact that he had conjured up a ghost costumed like a West End stage illusion.
After many such early mornings spent waiting and watching, whenever he was back in New York between speaking engagements, the knight wondered if his doubts were indeed justified. The specter made no reappearance. Perhaps it had been nothing more than the aftereffects of a bit of undigested beef, as Scrooge supposed upon first discerning his dead partner’s features staring dolefully at him from off the door-knocker. Marley’s ghost was no figment of the miser’s indigestion. On he came, dragging his chains and ledgers.
Sir Arthur rubbed his eyes. What was he thinking of? Investing fictional characters with a reality even Dickens never intended. He suppressed a laugh. His detractors would have a field day with such thoughts as these. How they ridiculed him when he wrote of his belief in fairies, leprechauns, and other wee folks. Not that he blamed them. It did all sound preposterous, until one considered the evidence.
A soft, mournful sigh brought him back from his self-absorbed meditation. He thought it the wind, soughing outside. Another sad, weary exhalation clearly came from the corner of the room. Sir Arthur squinted into the shadows. A faint shimmering outline took shape before him. Undeniably the same ethereal form he had seen before, a seated man in garments stylish three-quarters of a century ago. “Are you Poe, the poet?” Conan Doyle inquired, awe reducing his words to a hushed whisper.
The specter turned, his hollow, haunted eyes burning like embers. “What apparition is this?” The voice seemed to come from very far away, a distant echo muffled by fog and rain.
“Can you see me?” Sir Arthur leaned eagerly forward.
“Alas. Must I surrender what little sanity is left to me in admitting that I do?”
“You are Edgar A. Poe, are you not?”
“I have that distinction.” A thin, languid hand the consistency of mist pointed toward the knight. “You are dressed very strangely. What manner of creature are you? Why have you come to torment me?”
Sir Arthur felt an eerie thrill, tempered by a certain confusion. “Have you not come to me?”
“I’d prefer not to think myself that mad. How is it you know my name?”
“I, too, am an author. I’ve admired your work since I was a student. But, surely, you’re accustomed to recognition. You must have known considerable fame when you were alive.”
The specter smiled, wistful, distant. “Do you take me for a corpse?”
For a few seconds, Sir Arthur sat dumbfounded, near incapable of speech. In all his experience with spirit contact, always previously guided by a medium, never had anything so inexplicable occurred. Nor had he ever before seen so clear and distinct a manifestation. “My dear Poe,” he began slowly, managing at last to find his voice again. “Do you not know…? This is the year of our Lord one thousand, nine hundred and twenty-three.”
Poe’s ghost, if such it was, threw back its vaporous head and howled with laughter; a wolf’s cry, utterly without mirth. “How excellent a jest!” The laughter ended in a sudden choking silence, like hearing a condemned man’s final protest cut short by the jerk of the noose. “A traveler from the future… . It might be a tale of my own invention
.”
Conan Doyle felt truly puzzled. How does one persuade a dead man he is indeed a ghost? “What year is it for you, Mr. Poe?” he asked gently.
“ ‘Forty-eight … or ‘forty-nine … thereabouts… .” The incorporeal hand described a listless half-circle in the air.
“And where do you suppose you are right now?”
“Why, New York City …” Poe’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “The Empire City,” he added with some bitterness.
“What is it you see when you look out the window?”
“Very little, for it is yet dark. Nights are long … so interminably long.”
“So I should imagine. It must seem an eternity for you.”
Sir Arthur was perplexed. He had come to believe that, by and large, spirits were a contented lot, at peace at last with their fate, freed forever from the pain and restraints of material existence. Not only were the dead aware of their condition, they sought contact with loved ones still living to reassure them of their well-being.
He learned this lesson from countless séances attended over the past two decades. Face to face for the first time with a visible manifestation, and able to speak without a medium’s intercession, he confronted a sudden reevaluation of all his beliefs. He thought of Saint Anthony alone in the wilderness. Could this be a demonic hallucination sent to test his faith?
“Tell me …” The specter interrupted his musing. “This future you inhabit, is it a pleasant place?”
“Compared to the world you knew, I should think not. We have had wars more terrible than anything you might imagine. There are flying machines now, and horseless carriages, and submarines, and—” The mocking smile on Poe’s face drew him up short. “You think I’m joking, don’t you?”
Poe grinned with disdain. “Oh, no, no… . Not a whit. Tell me about travel to the moon and transmuting lead into gold.”
Another stunning revelation. The spirit knew nothing of the present-day world and all that had transpired in the many long years since his death. Could he be stuck forever in an unchanging past? “Let me ask you a question …” Conan Doyle met the tormented, spectral stare.
“I am at your service.”
“How do I appear to you?”
“A large man. White mustache. Oddly dressed. I’d guess at a florid complexion, but that is difficult to ascertain.”
“Why?”
“Because you emanate a certain unearthly light. There is an almost palpable opalescent cast to your features.”
The knight’s heart raced. “What is it you think I am?”
“A ghost, of course.” Poe’s derisive smile eased. “What else could you be?”
“Arthur…?” Jean stood in the open doorway, holding her dressing gown close about her. “With whom are you talking, dear?”
“Darling… . Come in. This is most extraordinary.”
“What is?” She stood beside him by the divan.
Sir Arthur looked over at the writing table. Dawn’s pearly light gave the flanking alcove windows a nacreous sheen. The chair next to the writing table sat unoccupied. Poe’s ghost had vanished. “Sit down, my dear.” The knight took his lady’s outstretched hand. “I’m afraid we have a great deal to talk about.”
At eight o’clock in the evening, Sir Arthur and Lady Jean sat beside the Houdinis on the dais in the main ballroom of the McAlpin Hotel, among the guests of honor at the annual banquet of the Society of American Magicians. Initially, Conan Doyle had declined the invitation, writing to Houdini from Boston that he feared the evening’s entertainment would include “bogus spiritual phenomena” and thus make a mockery of a subject he looked upon as sacred. The magician responded by post immediately, assuring his friend as a gentleman “nothing will be performed or said which will offend anyone.” This letter did much to put Sir Arthur at ease and he wired Houdini the next morning that he and Lady Conan Doyle should be delighted to come.
The other guests at the head table included Adolph Ochs, publisher of the New York Times; Edward F. Albee; Melville Stone, founder of the Associated Press; master magician Howard Thurston; and the department store magnate Bernard Gimbel. As president of the Society, Houdini had planned this evening and personally invited all the distinguished individuals assembled on the dais. He smiled with smug satisfaction, pleased as if he’d materialized them all with a wave of his magic wand. The muted conversation of powerful men intoxicated him. Wouldn’t his mother smile to see him in such distinguished company?
Houdini’s self-satisfied expression altered imperceptibly into a frown on seeing Sidney Rammage rise from an adjacent table and head his way. Pompous little bastard’s probably going to make a stink about not having room at the main table for the secretary of the Society. “Enjoying yourself, Rammage?” He gave him the benefit of his best smile, hoping to deflect any undue criticism.
“Righty-o. Couldn’t want for better company.” The diminutive conjurer nodded his bald head in Sir Arthur’s direction. “Remember, Harry. A promise is a promise.”
For a moment, Houdini felt confusion, until their conversation in Carnegie Hall came flashing back. “Of course, of course …” Catching Sir Arthur’s eye, he said something about presenting a fellow countryman and the proper introductions were made.
“I’ve been a fan of yours ever so long,” Rammage gushed unctuously. “So devilishly clever, and every word born of inspiration.”
The knight’s amiable chuckle rumbled out of his chest. “Perspiration’s more like it.”
“You’re far too modest, Sir Arthur. To read your books is to feel the presence of the keenest of minds.”
“Very kind of you to say so. Afraid the old blade’s been a bit dull of late.”
Rammage nodded as if sharing a confidence. “A touring schedule’s a grueling thing… . Tell me, any progress made on this Poe case?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“These beastly Poe murders. I read somewhere in the papers you were having a go at it. Any chance of cracking it soon?”
Sir Arthur shot Houdini a withering glance. “Look here, old chap,” he said to Rammage, “all that’s nothing but a lot of newspaper blather. You mustn’t take such balderdash so seriously.”
“Unduly modest once again, I’m afraid.” There was no stopping Rammage. “I’ve read of your success in solving several celebrated cases, and not just fictional ones, either.”
Conan Doyle exuded discomfort. “It’s true. I have in the past been able to provide the authorities with some assistance from time to time—”
“The mind of Sherlock Holmes,” Houdini cut in.
“They were relatively simple affairs.” Sir Arthur ignored the magician’s remark. “This ghastly Poe business is another matter altogether.”
“In what way is that?” asked Rammage.
“Well, the killings are quite obviously the arbitrary acts of a maniac. Very like the atrocities committed by our own Jack the Ripper. There’s precious little any one single individual can do in a case such as that. It calls for massive amounts of manpower. Without reliable witnesses and lacking any rational motive, I can’t see how the police can do much except hope for a lucky break.”
Rammage nodded with earnest sagacity. “You paint a very bleak picture indeed.”
“Random murder is not a pretty subject.”
Determined not to let such morbid considerations dispel the evening’s bonhomie, Houdini did his best to strike a note of enthusiastic good cheer. “Much better to talk about happy subjects,” he burbled, clapping Rammage on the shoulder. “What’s this I hear about you taking a new show on the road?”
“Well, it’s not me exactly …”
“No false modesty, Rammage, I read what Sime Silverman had to say in Variety. Return of the Sufi mystic. Ali ben Haroun resurrected. Dervish delights.”
Sidney Rammage permitted himself a sly smile, “I’ve resurrected the name, I’ll admit. This time I’m only managing the act. I’ve found a young man, very agile, an adept, really… . To
be honest, he’s no more a Sufi than I was. He’s half Greek and has a dark, mysterious look. I think he’s going to be very big.” Rammage pulled a handbill from the inside pocket of his dinner jacket and handed it to Houdini. “We open at the Albee in Brooklyn next week. I’ll comp you at the box office.” Turning to the Conan Doyles, he bowed slightly, said what a great honor it had been to meet them, and sauntered back to his table, secure in the knowledge of having scored a direct hit.
Houdini seethed as he read the handbill, a frozen smile disguising his true emotions.
ALI ben HAROUN
Master MYSTIFIER from the ORIENT
Schooled by SUFI MYSTICS & DERVISHES
His psychic power will amaze you. See him lie upon a bed of needle-sharp nails. Marvel as skewers pierce his flesh.
WONDERS NEVER SEEN
BURIED ALIVE!
While in a cataleptic trance, Ali ben Haroun is nailed into a coffin and BURIED ALIVE on stage in full view of the audience. With only enough oxygen to sustain five minutes of life, Ali ben Haroun will remain entombed for a FULL HOUR! See him emerge alive and unharmed at the end of the show.
DON’T MISS THIS SPECTACLE
Houdini read the handbill over a second, and a third time, feeling rage build inside him like steam in a pressure cooker. He wanted to scream and tear the paper to shreds but instead kept the false smile fixed on his face through sheer act of will. Looking up, he saw Rammage watching him, anticipating a tantrum.
With deliberate care and practiced nonchalance, Houdini folded the handbill and placed it in his pocket. It took every ounce of self-control in his possession, but he’d be damned if he’d give that shrimp of an S.O.B. the satisfaction of getting his goat. Resuming his seat, the magician did his best to appear interested in the conversation buzzing around him. In actuality, his thoughts remained focused on the fake Sufi and his advertised onstage burial.
Nevermore Page 10
