“Curious about her murder.”
“Whoever knocked her off did the world a favor.”
“That kind of talk can get you in big trouble.”
“You’re telling me. The cops tried to frame me at first because it’s no secret we hated each other’s guts. They figured I was sore because she broke up the act. Bitch was going on the road with a new partner. Lucky thing I had an iron-clad alibi.”
“What was that?”
“I was in the hospital close to a month. Appendix operation. She was still alive when I went in and they found the body before my discharge.”
“Good break for you.”
Dapper Dave sipped his coffee. “In more ways than one. They caught that appendix just in the nick of time.”
“So, listen.” Houdini leaned forward, his intense, burning stare locked on Dave Conrad. “What can you tell me about Mrs. Speers?”
“Anything you want to know. She was no Mrs., for one thing. She never married Freddy Speers. Slot in church, anyhow.”
“What about him? This Speers? Think he might’ve had it in for her?”
“Not a chance. Freddy shook my hand and wished me luck when she jilted him. Turns out, cutting in on his gal was the best favor I could’ve done him.”
“She broke up your romance and your act at the same time. Sounds like enough motive for playing outpatient with an axe.”
“You’re all wet, brother. There was no more romance. Not for better’n three years. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple. Can’t even tell you the names of the cake-eaters she was screwing. Didn’t give a damn.”
Houdini winced at the profanity, his reaction occasioned more by guilt at the thought of his own screwing around than from inherent prudery. “Okay. I don’t see this as any crime of passion.”
“Some crazy maniac with a library card.”
“Maybe… . Maybe crazy like a fox.” Houdini patted the edge of the table. “This might seem like a funny kind of question, but, what do you know about her beliefs?”
“You mean like how did she vote and what church didn’t she go to…?”
“Actually, I was thinking about ghosts.”
“Did she believe in ghosts…?”
“Mediums… . Palm readers… . Crystal balls… . Did she go in for that kind of thing?”
Dapper Dave scratched behind his ear and grinned in unconscious imitation of Will Rogers. “Now that you mention it, she was goofy that way,” he said. “Used to get her horoscope done. You know, couldn’t make a decision without checking on her stars.”
“What about séances?” Houdini’s eyes gleamed with anticipation.
“Well, I didn’t exactly follow her around.” Dave Conrad silently shook his head at the absurdity of this thought. “I remember once she told me about going to a spook show at some spiffy Fifth Avenue joint. There was this stage-door Johnny squiring her around. Must’ve been twice her age, but ultra swank. He took her someplace very hoity-toity.”
“Opal Crosby Fletcher?”
Dapper Dave looked puzzled at the magician’s enthusiastic outburst. “Who’s that?”
“The medium. Was she called Isis?”
“Search me. All I recall is how gaga Violette was telling me about it. Said all the other guests were these top-drawer blue bloods. Said it was like dying and going to heaven. I guess she knows more about that stuff now.”
A flush of excitement tinged Houdini’s cheeks. “Did she say anything about her hostess being the medium?”
“Maybe. To be honest with you, I didn’t pay much attention. It was just Vi, hogging the spotlight, like always.”
“But you remember her saying Fifth Avenue?”
“I wouldn’t swear an oath on it. Maybe it was Park. What difference does it make?”
Houdini looked grim. “Perhaps the difference between life and death,” he said, one showman to another, milking the moment for all it was worth.
A fresh, crisp breeze whipped in across the harbor, making whitecaps dance around a Staten Island-bound ferry. Gulls wheeled shrieking above a tug-towed garbage scow heading for the Narrows. The salty sea air tasted clean and invigorating to Sgt. James Patrick Heegan, accustomed to breathing a poisonous midtown miasma composed of equal parts truck exhaust and coal furnace fumes. He sat on a park bench behind the aquarium in Castle Clinton, staring out at the Jersey shore and the distant, arsenic-green Statue of Liberty.
The sergeant had arranged to meet Damon Runyon in Battery Park. It wasn’t far from headquarters on Centre Street and he wanted the reporter to come see him for a change. At the same time, it seemed a little too close for comfort, being as he was in uniform. Rather than some more convenient spot near City Hall, Heegan suggested the park as neutral territory, not wanting another cop to see him talking to the press.
The sergeant clutched a rolled copy of a novelty publishing experiment, a weekly news magazine called Time. The first issue had appeared five months earlier. Heegan didn’t give it much chance of success. He only bought the magazine as a silent rebuke for Damon Runyon. Give the arrogant bastard a clue. Let him see maybe his future wasn’t all that secure.
The reporter strolled into Battery Park after walking down Broadway from Trinity Church, where he’d mistakenly asked the cabby to drop him. This wasn’t his part of town. The last time he’d been down on Wall Street had been three years before when anarchists exploded a junk cart full of scrap metal in front of the House of Morgan, killing thirty. Although Runyon considered himself a sportswriter, William Randolph Hearst liked having him cover certain big stories of a criminal nature. In 1916 he’d even jogged along on muleback beside Black Jack Pershing at the head of the Thirteenth Cavalry, chasing after Pancho Villa in Old Mexico.
Runyon dressed like a sporty racetrack tout in two-tone tan-and-white shoes, a pale blue linen suit, and polka-dot bow tie. His heartless eyes swept the benches behind Castle Clinton, spotting the bulky blue figure of Sergeant Heegan alone by the iron rail at the water’s edge. The taxpayer’s burden, he thought.
“What have you got for me today Sergeant?” asked Damon Runyon, settling himself on the opposite end of the bench.
Heegan fixed the reporter with his sternest third-degree stare. “The question is, Mr. Runyon, what’ve you got for me?”
Time to nip this deal in the bud. Behind the implacable round-lensed glasses, the Westerner’s eyes narrowed with anger. “Don’t confuse newspaper work with how you coppers conduct business,” he said. “I don’t pay for favors.”
The policeman affected a pained expression. “I’m not asking for grift. What I want is a favor from you.”
“Name it.”
“Well, I been feeding you all the lowdown for some time. That Ed Poe caper come from me. Seems like you’ve been scoring big points with that one.” He waved the copy of Time, a pen-and-ink portrait of treasury secretary Andrew W. Mellon staring furtively off the cover.
“Give it to me straight, Heegan.”
“Look. I read the papers every day, year in and year out. I see how you put your friends in your column. Make a big deal up out of nothing …”
“You’d like to see your name in the paper?”
“Sure would tickle my wife and kids.”
“Heegan. You’re on.” Damon Runyon sprang to his feet and clapped the sergeant on his shoulder. “In two paragraphs, I’ll make you the biggest hero in the city. The little woman and all the rug rats will fight for the privilege of bringing your pipe and slippers.”
Much further uptown, another al fresco meeting had been planned for that afternoon. Harry Houdini sat on a green-painted bench in the garden mall extending down the center of Park Avenue. A cobbled pedestrian walkway divided the grassy islands, connecting ovals in the middle of each block where benches were arranged. A single lane of traffic ran along either side. Houdini faced west, into the sun, watching taxis race downtown.
After parting from Dapper Dave Conrad, the magician telephoned Isis at her home, arranging a r
endezvous in an hour’s time. She suggested he drop by for tea, but he decided against taking chances. No more private séances and cloakroom encounters. He wanted to get together in the open without any furtive hanky-panky.
She, of course, was late. The magician managed a grim smile at his own annoyance. Considering the woman might well be a maniacal killer, it seemed a bit silly to worry about her tardiness. He tried to imagine Isis in the act of murder; driving an axe into Violette Speers’s skull; costumed as a gorilla, carrying Ingrid Esp down a midnight street. The graphic mental pictures came all too easily.
“Penny for your thoughts …”
Jolted from his homicidal reveries by the unexpected sound of her voice, Houdini gasped with surprise. “Do you always sneak up on people like that?”
“There was no sneaking.” Isis smiled slyly. “You just weren’t paying attention.” She sat next to him on the bench, so close their shoulders touched. “I missed you,” she said, tracing a familiar finger along the crease in his trousers.
Houdini got abruptly to his feet. “If we’re to have this conference, I must insist you keep your hands to yourself.”
Isis made an exaggerated show of sliding to the opposite side of the bench. “Please, sit back down. I won’t bite. Honest.” She watched him settle as far from her as possible. “After all, you were the one who called me.”
“Yes, but not with any romantic intentions, I assure you.”
“Romance is not an attribute I would ever make the mistake of associating with you, my elusive Osiris.”
Houdini looked puzzled, unsure of his feelings. If she didn’t want him, why had her pursuit been so ardent? “Well,” he said, primly folding his hands on his knee. “Fine. It seemed to me we needed to have a talk, especially in light of your recent allegations.”
“Am I accused of not telling the truth?”
“What makes you so sure I’m the father?”
Isis smiled. “A woman knows these things. Although you’ve been unchivalrous enough to suggest promiscuity, I’ve been with no other man this past year but you. We can always let a judge decide.”
“No. There’s no need for something like that.” Any inquiry would immediately become public knowledge and Houdini dreaded the adverse publicity. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I believe you. What is it you want from me?”
“Not a thing. I’ve already gotten everything I need.”
“Everything…?”
“Separated from Osiris, Isis is incomplete. So, she sets out in search of him. I found you. Life comes full circle. I am fulfilled. Whole at last.”
A numb outrage blunted the magician’s self-righteous piety at this unexpected rejection. He felt violated. Outmaneuvered. “What about me?” he blurted. “Don’t I count for anything?”
Isis rose and looked him straight in the eye, her schoolgirl features hardening into an ageless indignation. “Quite honestly, Mr. Houdini,” she said. “I no longer give a damn if you live or die!”
23
GAMES
UPSTAIRS IN THEIR SUITE, the Conan Doyle children sat on the carpet around a Ouija board. Drawn drapes shut out the midday Colorado glare. After the glories of Hollywood, such enticements as the Mile-High City had to offer lacked a certain luster. Only the roller-coaster at Elitch’s Gardens provided sufficient temptation, and Sir Arthur had put a ban on further trips to the amusement park until the weekend. Making contact with the spirit world seemed a better adventure than roaming the streets of downtown Denver. They had already gone exploring for cowboys and red Indians, sadly encountering only businessmen, just like anywhere.
Denis, Malcolm, and Billy all believed in spiritual survival after death. Ghost stories did not frighten them. Although the Ouija was much more than a game, it still seemed mountains of fun. They knelt together on three sides of the board, with Billy in the middle, gently resting their fingertips on the triangular three-legged pointer. As the oldest, Denis assigned himself the task of recording any spirit contact. Several sheets of hotel stationery and a pencil lay on the carpet beside him.
“Are there spirits present?” Malcolm asked, without a trace of boyish irony. All three children concentrated very hard on clearing their minds of extraneous thought. They wanted to be open transmitters for visitors from the other side.
“Keen!” enthused Billy when her fingers started tingling.
Almost imperceptibly, the tripodal pointer began to tremble. The vibrations grew stronger and the little platform took on an independent life, pulling inexorably across the arcing alphabet, sweeping back and forth before coming to a resolute stop above an ornate letter.
“P!” shouted Malcolm.
Downstairs, in the soaring golden onyx lobby of the Brown Palace Hotel, Houdini and Conan Doyle sat in wing chairs, facing one another over a tea table. Sir Arthur sipped legal sherry. A local physician on the chamber of commerce wrote him a prescription for it. Nerve tonic. The magician had tea. He wore a black mourning band on his right sleeve.
Since the death of popular president Warren G. Harding from cerebral apoplexy in San Francisco five days before, the nation had plunged into a collective sorrow. Flags fluttering in patriotic Independence Day profusion only a month ago drooped at pathetic half-mast. Across the country, bereaved citizens dressed in black in spite of the summer heat. Theaters closed everywhere as a show of respect.
The Orpheum in Denver, where Houdini topped the bill, remained dark for a perfunctory single night. The magician, an intensely patriotic man, instructed his company to wear signs of mourning onstage at every performance. Most other acts followed suit. Viewing the program, this gesture deeply touched Sir Arthur, bringing back memories of his own personal grief amidst the national mourning for Edward VII.
Conan Doyle, together with his wife and children, had been Houdini’s guests at the previous night’s performance.
Visiting backstage afterwards, there had been no opportunity for private conversation. The magician gave Billy a box of chocolates and Jean a pretty bouquet of violets.
They chatted for a few somber minutes about the national tragedy. Houdini mentioned he’d spent fifteen minutes with President Harding a year ago, recalling the vigor of his appearance. Shocking to contemplate how a simple case of ptomaine poisoning led, in just a week’s time, to such fatal conclusions. Human existence seemed pitifully fragile when life and death hung on a balance as trivial as a meal of dubious crabmeat. A somber silence precluded any further conversation and the two men soon parted, planning to meet again the next afternoon.
The second encounter began with some awkwardness, owing to Sir Arthur’s embarrassment over a story in the morning Denver Express: Doyle Defies Houdini; Offers to Bring Back Dead. He felt once again manipulated by the press. Clearly, they had put words in his mouth. A damned awkward business after all his sanctimony.
Houdini brushed aside the knight’s apologies. The magician hadn’t seen the papers. As a master manipulator of journalism’s propensity to exaggerate, he knew all too well how an innocent remark might be misquoted.
Sir Arthur looked remarkably fit. His tour had been the most successful since the final lectures of Mark Twain. Everywhere he traveled, he felt buoyed anew by the great affection the American public showed for him. In contrast, Houdini appeared pinched and drawn with worry. He carried the weight of weary sadness.
“It’s been what…?” Sir Arthur pondered aloud, lighting his pipe. “Seven weeks since you discovered Vickery’s murder?”
“Almost eight.”
“Hmmm… . Twice the time as that between any of the other killings. And you were for the most part away from New York during the same period.”
“Supports your theory that I’m the prime target.” Houdini rested his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin on upturned palms.
“At the very least, it doesn’t dispute it …” Sir Arthur puffed in silence. “Perhaps the atrocities have simply ceased; inexplicably, like the Ripper.”
“I doubt it.�
�� Gloom clouded the magician’s features. “I did a little poking around two weeks ago, between tours. I have testimony that Violette Speers attended a séance at the home of Opal Crosby Fletcher.”
“Pure circumstance.”
“There’s more. She sent me a copy of Poe while I was showing in Hoboken.”
Sir Arthur leaned forward, eagerness brightening his blue eyes. “Think she’s toying with you or merely exercising a remarkable gift?”
“Gift…?”
“Clairvoyance, old man.”
“You know I don’t buy it. Bess and I worked a mentalist act in our circus days. All the great ‘mind readers’ use trickery. You’ll never believe that, so I’m not gonna argue the point. I’m not interested in exposing Isis as a fake medium.”
“Might that not be because you know her abilities to be genuine?”
“I know plenty about her abilities. In fact, I know a whole lot about little Miss Isis.” Houdini caught his breath. Mustn’t let a burst of temper reveal too much. “I’ve been … conducting a … a … an undercover investigation.” Even as he said it, he knew it sounded absurd.
“Father!”
Malcolm’s voice, calling out high above, saved the magician from the knight’s quizzical eyes. Sir Arthur glanced up into a huge atrium. The lobby of the Brown Palace rose eight stories to a stained glass ceiling the size of a rugby field. Houdini peered upward at the surrounding vortex of filigreed cast-iron balconies. Hard to tell from which tier the sound had come.
“Over here, Father!” Denis called this time. All three children waved from the sixth-floor railing. The eldest boy held a paper glider, folded from a sheet of hotel stationery. “Here it comes,” he cried, launching the glider out into open space.
Sir Arthur watched the lazy downward spiral. “The children are having a séance,” he told the magician. “Said they’d send me details of any contact.”
The glider turned over the tops of the potted palms. Sir Arthur crossed the lobby to intercept it. Houdini followed him.
“A message from a ghost,” announced the knight, snatching the drifting glider from overhead. The magician stood beside him as he unfolded the intricate origami. Together they read the message. It consisted of a single syllable: Poe.
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