4/20/23
… headlines full of Poe mystery. Mr. Runyon is my partner in vengeance …
4/25/23
How divinely inspired! Mary Rogers, a speakeasy cigarette girl, worked for a brief time in H.H.’s troupe. Here is a sure sign my plan is the sacred sword of justice …
5/7/23
… the Village is such a tranquil neighborhood despite its boisterous bohemian reputation. Strangled M.R. in her Bleecker St. apt. Waited until after midnight to bring her body down to the sedan. Not a soul in sight …
6/16/23
… to the Biltmore Hotel on 43rd St. Watched H.H. as he was submerged in a coffin in the swimming pool. How provident for him to supply the equipment I require for my next Poe stunt …
“My God!” Houdini exclaimed. “He was there that day observing her, not me.”
“A most thoroughgoing and persistent fellow, indeed.”
6/28/23
… Vickery quite strong and agile, but, as always, chloroform effortlessly did the trick. There’s a chance he’ll be found before dying. Either way, the Poe fits. They already know about the chloroform. Thanks to Mr. Runyon, I know they know …
10/31/23
All Hallows’ Eve. The trap in place: bricks, mortar, a nice bottle of amontillado. A.C.D. costumed as a clown! More Divine Intervention. My Red Death proved an enticing bait. With the wine to slake his thirst, he might last a month.
Sir Arthur allowed a grim grin as he read of his immurement. “Cold-blooded rascal. Intriguing to read his thoughts in her hand.”
“Still a couple more entries,” Houdini said, turning a page.
11/2/23
Another successful trap. The magician fooled by a bit of clever misdirection. My sweetest success enhanced by his desperate terror. I can die happily with the sound of Houdini’s final scream enshrined in memory. My revenge is complete. How I wish I still were sitting in that dark theater. The train ride home from Chicago proves to be a terrible bore.
“He wrote this before leaving New York.” For the second time in his life, Houdini’s expression contained the same look of wonder he had so often induced on the upturned faces of his audience.
“All part of the master plan.”
“Last one’s got tomorrow’s date.”
11/4/23
Ennui. Utter boredom. The Poe Killer retires and I slide safely into his legend. Is this all the world is to know? What purpose is served by my revenge if no one understands that Houdini was punished for the shame he inflicted upon the realm of the spirits? How dull life seems bearing this secret to the grave. What better exit than to make death a proclaimer of the truth? My passing to join the shades is a final act of faith. Let this diary serve as an eloquent suicide letter. Chloroform should prove most appropriate.
“He means to kill her.” Conan Doyle took the volume from Houdini, rereading the passage.
“Master plan’s kaput now.”
The knight pulled his watch from his vest pocket. “What time did you say the Chicago train arrives?”
“Eight forty-five.”
“He got in fifteen minutes ago.” Closing the watch case, Conan Doyle frowned. “I believe Mrs. Fletcher may be in serious jeopardy. Rammage already made up his mind to kill her. Make her look like the murderess. His plan has altered, but the impulse remains.”
”If he caught a cab at Penn Station or Grand Central, he could possibly be there already. He’d be here by now. It’s a five-minute walk either way.”
When Houdini tried to phone a warning to Isis, central informed him that her line was inexplicably dead.
“We must hurry!” Conan Doyle shoved the forged diary into the Gladstone bag and the two men quickly gathered up the remaining evidence. They were out the door in less than a minute.
29
A WOW FINISH
AN OMINOUS DARKNESS FESTERED WITHIN the Fletcher mansion as Conan Doyle and Houdini rushed from a Yellow cab. They had been lucky, spotting a taxi discharging passengers outside the Hotel Martinique. Traffic was sparse and the cabby got them up to Eighty-fifth and Fifth in ten minutes flat.
“I don’t like the looks of this at all,” the knight muttered, glancing at the blackened windows.
“Maybe she went out?” Houdini slipped the bent-wire pick into the front door lock.
“Some lights would have been left burning. And surely, there are servants within.”
The magician opened the door. The two men whisked inside, stalking into the shadowed foyer. Houdini switched on the flashlight when they reached the stairs, mounting at a silent lope, two steps at a time, to the living quarters. Conan Doyle puffed at his side.
They hurried along the darkened hallway, flicking the light beam into empty rooms. A pungent medicinal reek lingered in the air outside the library.
“Chloroform,” Sir Arthur whispered. Houdini probed the shadow-shrouded library with his flashlight.
Distant metallic clanging resonated from somewhere high above. The magician and the knight stared straight up, straining to hear. Long silent seconds passed. “The roof!” Houdini cried, suddenly recognizing the sound.
No longer concerned about stealth, they ran pell-mell for the service stairs at the far end of the hall. Scrambling up three flights in the dark, footfalls loud on the uncarpeted steps, the two men felt desperation verging on panic.
They paused on the landing below the open door to the roof, instinctively knowing the need for calm and surprise. Loud above their panting silence, a cold birdsong clank rang through the night. Someone dragged a length of chain. Conan Doyle drew the Webley-Green from his pocket, aware of its weight and lethal danger. He pointed the revolver carefully away from Houdini.
The rasping chain chattered like the evil laugh of an incubus. “Houdini will go first,” the magician hissed. “No light. Speed’n silence is the ticket.”
Houdini climbed the final steps and slipped out like a shadow. Conan Doyle was right behind, astonished at the tom-tomming of his heart. A war hero who never saw combat, he thought ruefully.
A narrow balcony fronted by a crenelated parapet ran along the back side of the house. Facing east, it overlooked a tidy row of brownstones. The two men moved along with deliberate silence. Street light from Fifth provided ample illumination in contrast with the mineshaft gloom of the service stairs. Houdini held the inactive flashlight at his side in much the same manner as Conan Doyle handled the revolver.
Turning a corner, they encountered an iron catwalk arching across a narrow courtyard to a conical slate-roofed turret. A hunched silhouette balanced on the stark skeletal railing, hauling tight on a shadowy chain. “Hold!” Houdini cried, switching on the flashlight.
Rammage squinted into the harsh, unexpected gleam. He perched like a gargoyle on the slender railing. “What in hell…?” Blinded by the light, the tiny Englishman tightened his grip on the length of chain wound around the railing. The chain descended at a sharp angle into the beam’s penumbral corona. There, supine on the catwalk, the bodies of two women lay chained together. Cheap rubber novelty monkey masks were secured over both their faces. Neither appeared to move.
Conan Doyle trained his Webley-Green on Rammage’s crouching form. The knight could not stop his extended arm from trembling, although he was an experienced shot with his own private pistol range. “I am armed and will not hesitate to shoot you down.” He cocked the revolver, struggling to control his abhorrence at the notion of taking a human life.
“Show’s over, Rammage,” Houdini taunted.
“Harry…?” The rival magician teetered on the rail, clinging to the length of chain. “Is that you?”
“You always were all washed up. You threw your biggest challenge at me and I’m here to tell you it wasn’t good enough. You’ve never been good enough, have you, Rammage?”
“Good enough to create the mystery of the Poe Murders.” Rammage crouched on the rail. “You brought a policeman with you. Ask him, Harry. A diverting entertainment this pas
t summer, don’t you think, Officer?”
“It is Conan Doyle,” the knight called. “You have twice failed.”
. “Ah… . Life is full of mishaps.” Clinging like a trained monkey, Rammage shied from the light. “Tell me, Sir Arthur… . You are a literary man. Do you recognize the source of my final performance?”
“Poe’s ‘Hop Frog.’ You’re shy six orangutans.”
“I had to work on such short notice. Bought the masks from a news butcher at the railway station.” Reaching between absurdly thrust knees, Rammage groped in the shadows behind the women.
“Mmmmm… . Gnmmm… . Nnnnnnmmm.” Opal Crosby Fletcher’s muffled voice sounded a plea of inarticulate desperation.
“She’s alive!” Houdini cried.
“Take courage, Mrs. Fletcher.” Conan Doyle steadied his wobbling aim. “No harm will befall you.”
Rammage grasped something unseen and drew himself slowly upright by pulling on the chain. “I trust you remember the ending of the tale?” Rammage waved a fuel can above his head. “Righty-o!” He poured a stream of amber liquid out over the recumbent women. “Gasoline… .” His nervous giggle gave way to eerie maniacal cackling.
“Stop it or I swear I’ll shoot!” Sir Arthur braced his shooting arm with his other hand.
“No, you won’t.” Rammage dropped the can and dug deep into his pocket. “You won’t dare. Because you don’t know if you can kill me before I strike a spark on my lighter.” Sidney Rammage held the regulation R.E.F. trench cigarette lighter triumphantly in his hand.
“He’s bluffing,” Houdini sneered.
“No. I don’t believe he is.” Sir Arthur squinted along the revolver’s barrel. “Hop Frog, the dwarf, took revenge by costuming the king and his ministers as orangutans and setting them on fire.”
“A most exquisite tale,” Rammage raved. “The master at his finest… . So, back away! Or watch them burn!”
“Shoot him,” hissed Houdini. “Now!”
The magician switched off the flashlight. The shadow form of Rammage made an easy target. In the sudden dark, Conan Doyle felt his hand tremble. His aim was unsure.
“Do it!” Houdini’s insistent whisper rent the night.
“Shall I count to ten,” Rammage teased.
Conan Doyle knew what had to be done. He glanced away for a second, thinking to fire on impulse when he looked back, and to his amazement, he saw the phosphorescent specter of Poe standing on the adjoining parapet.
Rammage gasped. “Poe … !” Astonished, he wobbled on the railing, fighting for balance.
“Shoot!” Houdini howled, hurling his Gladstone bag at Rammage.
The leather satchel caught the killer square in the face, spinning him around. Rammage lost his footing, plummeting backwards into the night. With a sharp jerk, the other end of the chain cinched tight around the iron rail.
Houdini leaned out over the edge, shining the flashlight down the taut, swaying chain. “Rammage…?”
Fifteen feet below the catwalk, Sidney Rammage swung on the chain, hanging on with one hand. His other hand defiantly gripped the cigarette lighter. Caught in the beam, he grinned up at Houdini through a volatile drizzle of dripping gasoline. He thumbed a flame alight. It flickered like a tiny firefly on his fingertips. Rammage stared ruefully at the feeble, wavering flame. “You win, Harry,” he said, letting go of the chain.
Rammage fell backwards without a sound, hurtling toward the ground in the flashlight’s widening shaft of illumination. He hit the paving stones with blunt finality and lay still. Houdini stared down at him.
“Mrs. Fletcher…?” Conan Doyle knelt beside the recumbent women, slipping the rubber ape masks off their faces. Houdini was suddenly at his side with the light. Isis and Martha were gagged, their eyes wide, alert with fear. The magician unknotted the handkerchief bound across Opal’s open mouth. “Did you see it?” Sir Arthur asked, working on Martha’s gag.
“See what?”
Conan Doyle glanced at the darkened turret. “Nothing.”
“Here is a future I could not foresee.” Isis smiled when Houdini removed her gag. “God bless you both.”
“I thought for certain we are dead,” Martha sobbed, her brittle accent cracking from the strain.
The two men set about freeing them, unwrapping the other end of the chain. Both women were bound hand and foot with strips of canvas webbing. The moment Isis felt her wrists untied, she bent to release her feet unassisted. Houdini watched her toss the military strap aside. “Recognize this…?” She handed him a square of damp cloth: the handkerchief that had gagged her.
The magician noted familiar hem-stitching; a torn corner and the monogram: H.H. “This is mine.”
“He also had your penknife. Planned on leaving it behind.”
“Make me the fall guy?”
“Last trick up his sleeve.” Conan Doyle helped the trembling Martha to her feet.
“How’d you know about the knife?” Houdini asked Isis, as she accepted his proffered arm.
“He told us. Bragged really. Took his time, organizing things. The ether, or whatever it was, soon wore off. Martha and I came to tied and gagged in the library. Mr. Rammage boasted of his clever scheme to ‘frame’ you.”
“Wait! You know his name.” Houdini grabbed her other wrist. “What do you have to do with Sidney Rammage?”
She twisted free from his grasp. “As little as possible, I assure you.”
Sir Arthur coughed in an obvious, throat-clearing sort of way and glanced over the railing at the shadowy courtyard five stories below. “Well, best thing now is to notify the authorities.”
“No. You can’t.” A note of panic edged her musical voice. “That’s impossible.”
“I know your telephone is out of order. There must be another somewhere nearby.”
“If you make that call, I’ll be ruined.”
“My dear lady …” Sir Arthur glanced significantly at the maid. “Perhaps it would be best to retire inside where this might be discussed privately?”
“I have no secrets from Martha,” Isis said, giving the older woman an affectionate hug. “She is my right arm.”
“This have something to do with that bastard Rammage?” Houdini bullied. Sir Arthur cocked an eyebrow at such un-gallant behavior.
“I met Sidney Rammage in Paris the year after my husband died. I had a flat in the Sixteenth, just off the Bois du Boulogne. Mr. Rammage advertised manuscripts for sale. Alchemical texts on parchment. I arranged for a showing and paid a good price. I believe it was on that first visit when Mr. Rammage conceived a passion for my skull.”
“Skull…?” Conan Doyle looked utterly nonplussed. “Most bizarre, what?”
“A pre-Columbian skull, cut from quartz crystal. Mr. Houdini is familiar with the object. I sometimes use it to communicate. There was no need during our session today.”
“I imagine it contains great power.” Sir Arthur nodded.
Houdini was not interested in any discussion of the occult. “Rammage try to steal the gizmo?” he demanded, glancing over the railing into the shadows below.
“He was far too subtle to try something like that. It’s my fault, really. I was guilty of… an indiscretion, that year in Paris. Foolish, I know, but I am young and foolish. Mr. Rammage came into possession of certain letters and photographs. I think you get the picture. He threatened to make this material public in New York. It would mean my social ruin.”
“Blackmail.” Houdini seemed bursting with compressed energy.
“Of the most insidious variety. I can survive anything except scandal.”
“Rammage wanted the skull as payment?” Sir Arthur tamped tobacco into his briar pipe.
“Exactly. We engaged in a delicate diplomacy. The skull is important to me. I felt time was on my side. The longer I held out, the more likely Mr. Rammage would accept a cash settlement.”
“You can save your money now.” The magician poked a thumb at the dark void behind him. “He don’t need i
t where he’s going. His murdering, blackmailing days are over.”
“Wrong. Mr. Rammage placed the documents in question in the care of his attorney. A sealed envelope. He left instructions that it was not to be opened except in the event of his death. Said it was his life insurance policy.”
Conan Doyle leaned on the railing. “And if you surrendered the crystal skull?”
“The attorney has instructions to give me the papers upon delivery.”
“No problem then!” Houdini clapped his hands like a wizard dispelling demons.
“No problem…?” Sir Arthur frowned. “Damnit man, of course there’s a problem.” The knight pointed down at the courtyard. “What about him?”
“Him! To hell with him. He tried to kill the three of us.” Houdini paced on the catwalk. “Why should he get away with destroying her life?”
“What do you suggest, then?”
“First, we better drag our friend inside. Get him out of sight.” Houdini led the way back to the stairs. “Can Martha help?”
“She will do what you ask of her.”
“Good. I have a plan. Sir Arthur? Were you not trained as a surgeon?”
They started down the darkened steps. “I am ever a doctor,” Conan Doyle said with pride.
“You travel with your medical bag?”
“It’s at the hotel.”
“Get it. I have errands to run as well. We’ll meet back here in an hour.” The magician’s swaggering authority proved a welcome reassurance. “It’ll be a busy night. If I’m gonna catch the Twentieth Century to Chicago, we’ll have to work overtime.”
30
LEGERDEMAIN
POLICE CAPTAIN FRANCIS XAVIER Boyle was furious. Although he appeared outwardly calm, flushed splotches on his cheeks gave away his rage. Sergeant Heegan had learned to recognize these signs of the captain’s displeasure way back in the winter of ‘99 when he walked a rookie’s beat out of the Twenty-ninth and Boyle had been precinct sergeant.
“… As I was saying, Jimmy, any situation reaching my desk automatically becomes a problem.” Captain Boyle’s bottled-in-bond murmur crooned softly in the wood-paneled office. “And when my good friend Captain Conny Willemse of homicide complains to me of a Judas Iscariot in his department, his problem becomes my problem.”
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