Harry Houdini Mysteries

by Daniel Stashower

  Clairmont glanced at me. “Hardeen, is he serious?”

  “Harry is always serious,” I said.

  “I shall be pleased to offer an exhibition of my strange and wondrous talents,” my brother continued. “First, however, I must gather my spirit forces. I shall do so in the washroom. While I am away, you may order me another glass of minerals.” With that, Harry excused himself and slipped away.

  “He gets worse every year,” said Biggs, watching Harry retreat toward the rear of the bar. “I don’t know how or why you tolerate him, Dash.”

  “He doesn’t seem so bad,” said Clairmont, withdrawing a silver cigar case from his pocket. “He must be fascinating to watch on stage. A bit rough, perhaps, but a commanding presence, nonetheless.”

  “Life with my brother is never dull,” I said, accepting a flat-nosed diplomat cigar from Clairmont. “I can assure you, there is a reason for everything he does.”

  “Dash has been making excuses for Harry since we were boys,” said Biggs, leaning forward as Clairmont offered a light. “Dash always had the brains in the family, yet he plays down his own talents so that his brother’s monstrous ego may be allowed to thrive.” He sat back and sent up a stream of smoke. “Honestly, Dash, you are getting too old to be trailing along in your big brother’s shadow.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, drawing a light for my own cigar. “However vain and boastful he may appear, he believes every word that he says. When Harry claims that he is going to be the most celebrated entertainer in the world, he believes it to be the literal truth.” I leaned back as the end of my cigar began to glow. “And I suspect he may be right.”

  Biggs shook his head. “Because he can do some clever things with ropes and chains? That sort of thing is fine for the dime museum, but I can’t see that it will carry him any further than that.”

  “I wouldn’t be so certain,” said Clairmont. “Novelty acts are enjoying a vogue at the moment. There is a troupe of performing dogs holding the stage down at Proctor’s. Who’s to say that Houdini might not have some modest success along these lines?”

  “Modest,” said Biggs. “That is a word seldom used to describe anything to do with Houdini. He has the most titanic—”

  “I have returned to amaze and fascinate you,” said Harry, appearing suddenly at Clairmont’s elbow. “A brief spell of meditation has brought my psychic powers to the very peak of readiness.” He took his seat and reached for his glass of mineral water. “Mr. Clairmont,” he resumed, “you professed amazement that Lucius Craig was able to cause the word ‘petal’ to appear on a chalk slate, is that not so?”

  “That’s right, Houdini.”

  “Very good. Although I do not have a chalk slate with me this evening, I think we might essay a demonstration along similar lines. Would this be acceptable to you?”

  Clairmont tapped the ash from his cigar. “It certainly would.”

  “Excellent. I want you to fix your mind on some detail about your late father. Try to fix on something generally not known to the public. It must be simple—one word, really—so that it may be easily transmitted by the delicate mechanism of thought transference. Later, when a closer rapport has been established, it may be possible to achieve success with longer messages. For now, simplicity is the key. Your mother’s maiden name would do nicely, or perhaps the name of the town where your parents had their honeymoon. Have you something in mind?”

  Clairmont nodded.

  “Good. Now close your eyes and concentrate on your chosen message. Try to empty your mind of everything else, as any stray thought might compromise the experiment.”

  Although Clairmont seemed uncertain as to whether to take Harry’s theatrics seriously, he closed his eyes and composed his features into an expression of earnest concentration. Harry reached across the table and grasped Clairmont’s wrists. “Focus your thoughts,” said Harry, dropping his voice to a dramatic register. “Whatever strange sounds you may hear—whatever I may say or do—you must keep your eyes closed and your mind clear of all thoughts but the message. I will now endeavor to place myself into a trance-state.”

  “A trance-state?” asked Biggs. “What sort of nonsense is that?”

  “It is not nonsense at all,” Harry said. “It is a trick of the Hindu fakirs. I do not expect that a mind such as yours will comprehend the subtleties of my art, but I must ask you to keep silent. Your disbelief creates a climate of hostility that may compromise our success.” With this, my brother closed his eyes and commenced to hum.

  This continued for some moments. After a time, Harry began to vary his pitch and make strange guttural noises at the back of his throat. Biggs looked at me with a bemused expression, as if to ask how much longer this might last. I nudged Harry’s leg under the table. He ignored me.

  By now, the gentlemen at the tables adjacent to ours had paused in their conversations to peer over at the strange young man in the black suit and red bow tie who appeared to be chanting and holding the hands of his companion. “Uh, Harry—?” I began.

  Just then, Harry’s head slumped forward, as though entering a Hindu trance-state. His hands, still grasping Clairmont’s wrists, gave a sudden spasm, knocking a glass of mineral water into Biggs’s lap.

  “What the—!” Biggs cried, as a steward hurried forward with a cloth. “For heaven’s sake!”

  “It’s all right,” I said to the steward, taking the cloth and passing it to Biggs. “My brother is attempting to demonstrate that he is able to read minds.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the steward.

  Harry’s head snapped up, though his eyes were still closed tight. “The spirits are uneasy this evening,” he intoned, his voice quavering, “but a picture begins to form. I can almost reach out and grasp it. Who is there? Can you hear me? Who is it who comes before us?”

  A small knot of onlookers had now formed beside our table. To his credit, Kenneth Clairmont managed to keep his eyes closed and his expression composed, even as my brother’s tremulous voice rose in pitch.

  “The picture remains cloudy,” he continued, “as though the spirits are repelled by a skeptic in our midst.”

  Biggs, still dabbing at his trousers with the cloth, paused and shot a baleful look at my brother.

  “Spirit friends! The Great Houdini beckons to you! Present us with some small token or sign of your presence! I feel that you are almost within reach now, that I might almost reach out and grasp—just a bit further—yes! I have it!” At this, Harry’s head slumped forward once again.

  After a moment or two, Harry released Clairmont’s wrists and sat upright. “You have done well, Mr. Clairmont,” Harry said, resuming his normal speaking voice. “Your energies are most powerful.”

  Clairmont’s eyes blinked open, and he flushed as he saw the gathering of spectators beside our table. “Houdini? Exactly what is it you hoped to accomplish by all of this?”

  By way of an answer, Harry removed his jacket. “When I asked you to focus on a message, many disparate thoughts passed through your mind, did they not? There was some difficulty in selecting an appropriate one.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Can you tell me what word or name you selected?”

  Clairmont hesitated. “Well, I thought of my father’s middle name. Ellsworth.”

  Harry smiled serenely and stood up, so that the men from the surrounding tables might have a better view. Thrusting his left arm in the air, he unfastened his shirt cuff.

  “Ellsworth, you say? A most unusual name.”

  “Houdini,” muttered Biggs, “don’t make a spectacle. You’re embarrassing Kenneth.”

  Harry, needless to say, was relishing the attention. He raised his voice so as to be heard more clearly by the impromptu audience. “Would it not be stunning if our spirit guides have been able to divine your message?” he declaimed, rolling back his sleeve. “Our experiment was a difficult one, and it must also be said that a public house does not provide the most favorable atmosphere
for such an undertaking. Nevertheless, I believe that the Great Houdini has been able to produce yet another miracle.”

  “Miracle?” asked Biggs. “What—?”

  Harry silenced him with a gesture. Reaching across the table, he scooped a handful of cigar ashes from the glass tray. He studied them intently for a moment, as if appraising their quality. Then, with a vigorous sweep of his hand, he rubbed the ashes across his inner forearm, creating a thick smear across the pale flesh.

  “Houdini!” cried Biggs. “This really is too—”

  “Behold!” cried Harry, turning his forearm for Biggs and Clairmont to see. There, standing out in relief against the gray ash, was a crude handwritten message: Ellsworth.

  A wild ovation went up among the crowd that had gathered by our table. Harry acknowledged the applause and hoots of approval with a deep bow, then turned back to face Biggs and Clairmont, whose expressions attested to their astonishment.

  “Well done, Houdini,” said Clairmont as the crowd of onlookers dispersed. “I dare say that would have done credit to Lucius Craig himself!”

  Even Biggs could not contain his enthusiasm. “How’d you manage it, Houdini?”

  “It is a small matter,” Harry said. “Such things are well within the power of the Great Houdini. I merely attuned my mind to Mr. Clairmont’s psychic—”

  “It’s a carnival trick,” I said.

  Harry shot a withering look in my direction. “Dash, why do you insist upon—”

  I ignored him. “We’ve been doing that one since we were in short pants. Of course, we used dirt instead of cigar ash. All you have to do is write the word on your arm with a thin piece of soap. The dirt sticks to the soap and the word shows up plain as day. That’s what Harry was doing when he stepped away to ‘gather his spirit forces.’ He simply went to the washroom to find some soap.”

  “Clever,” said Biggs, “but that hardly explains how he knew what Kenneth was thinking. How could he possibly have known that Kenneth would choose his father’s middle name?”

  “A simple matter,” Harry said. “Nothing more than a convergence of energies.”

  “Probability,” I amended. “Remember Harry’s instructions? He wanted you to think of a single word. He mentioned maiden names and honeymoon destinations—thereby ensuring that you wouldn’t make either of those two choices. But Harry knew that the mention of those two possibilities would turn your mind down similar avenues. The two most likely considerations in that instance would be your father’s middle name or his place of birth. These are the two answers that show up time and again.”

  “Extraordinary!” cried Clairmont. “Now that you mention it, I very nearly did select Father’s place of birth. Now I wish I had. That would have confounded you, Houdini.”

  Harry sighed and rolled back his other shirtsleeve. As he rubbed a second handful of cigar ash onto his forearm, the word “Albany” rose up from the dark smear.

  Clairmont roared with laughter. “Bravo, Houdini!”

  Biggs appeared nonplussed. “But now you’ve run out of arms, Houdini. Suppose he hadn’t chosen either of those two words?”

  “Harry would have improvised,” I said. “He’d have distracted you with a deck of playing cards, then scrawled the word onto the face of one of the cards and brought it into play when you weren’t looking.”

  “It rarely happens, though,” Harry said.

  “But how in the world did you know Mr. Clairmont’s middle name?” Biggs asked. “I couldn’t have told you what it was—I didn’t know myself until tonight. And I certainly wouldn’t have known where he was born.”

  I looked at my brother. “How did you know, Harry?”

  He shrugged. “Do you recall the two older gentlemen who exchanged greetings with Mr. Clairmont earlier? I happened to notice that they were leaving as I excused myself from the table. I simply caught up with them and struck up a conversation. I doubt if they even realized that I had extracted any information from them.”

  Clairmont let out another roar of laughter. “You are precisely the man I need, Houdini! The two of you must join us for Mr. Craig’s séance tomorrow evening. I’m certain your presence will greatly enliven the proceedings. If nothing else, I can promise you a fine dinner with plenty of wine—” he checked himself. “And minerals for you, of course, Mr. Houdini. Will you come?”

  Harry and I glanced at one another. “We’d be delighted,” I said.

  “We have no other pressing business on hand at the moment,” Harry added.

  “Excellent! I shall look forward to receiving you at—”

  “What about the balance?” Harry asked.

  Clairmont stubbed out his cigar. “The balance?”

  “If Dash and I both attend, there will be two extra sitters at Mr. Craig’s séance. Mediums are quite particular about such things. He is sure to object if the numbers are out of balance.”

  Clairmont considered the problem. “Well, I’m quite certain that Brunson, our butler, will be only too pleased to surrender his place. That frees one chair. As to the other...Biggs...I am afraid I must withdraw—”

  “On one condition,” said Biggs. “You must agree to meet me here afterwards and give a full accounting.”

  Clairmont grinned with relief. “Done.”

  Biggs turned to Harry with an expression of glee. “Well, Harry,” he said, “I’ll bet that even the Hindu fakirs wouldn’t be able to tell you what I’m thinking now.”

  “A simple matter,” Harry said evenly. “You are filled with a new sense of admiration for the powers of the Great Houdini.”

  “Not quite.”

  “I think I can take a stab at it,” I said, setting down my cigar. “You’re wondering what the celebrated Mrs. Augusta Clairmont, doyenne of New York society, is going to make of the Brothers Houdini.”

  “Exactly,” said Biggs, sending up a smoke ring. “Harry Houdini faces his greatest challenge to date—the oyster knife and the finger bowl. I’m only sorry I won’t be there to see it.”

  4

  THE MYSTERIOUS DR. WEISS

  “HARRY,” I SAID, AS WE MADE OUR WAY ON FOOT TO THE CLAIRMONT residence the following evening, “I do wish you’d come along with me to see Mr. Sanders.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” cried Harry. “Our evening clothes are hand-tailored!”

  “If by that you mean that Mama was able to run them up on her sewing machine, then I suppose they are. But I doubt if any of Mrs. Clairmont’s other guests will be wearing tailcoats fitted with a special pouch for the concealment of rabbits and doves.” I fingered the shawl collar of my dinner jacket. “At least Mr. Sanders was able to give my trousers a bit of a touch-up.”

  Harry pursed his lips. “Mrs. Clairmont will have to take me as she finds me, Dash. We can’t all be strutting peacocks.”

  “Speaking of strutting peacocks, why are you walking so strangely? Have you hurt your leg?”

  “No,” he said. “My leg is fine. I am simply eager to arrive on time for our dinner engagement.”

  “We’d have plenty of time if you hadn’t disappeared for half the day. Where were you, anyway?”

  “I had business to address.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “Private business,” he said. His hand went to the right-hand pocket of his coat.

  “Harry, what have you got there? Don’t tell me you’ve brought Selma.” Selma was an aging, somewhat flatulent, lop-eared rabbit who often appeared from Harry’s top hat.

  “Selma is resting comfortably at home, Dash. You needn’t worry yourself about that.”

  “Then what have you got there?”

  “Just a precaution.” Harry increased his pace as we approached the north end of Gramercy Park. “Come on, Dash. Try to keep up.”

  I had no difficulty keeping pace with my brother, as he knew perfectly well. Throughout my life I have been a walker, and it was my habit in those days to walk several miles each day. I could not begin to count the number of times I have crissc
rossed Gramercy Park, enjoying the restful elegance of its brownstones and shade trees. Until that night, however, I had never crossed any of the thresholds.

  The late Jasper Ellsworth Clairmont, who did rather well for himself in the shipping business, had lived on the west side of the park in a graceful home with fine stone columns and an elaborate cast-iron porch. A pair of bilkin torches threw a guttering light over the path as we approached. As we passed an expensive brougham standing in front of the house, I paused to neaten my collar in the reflection of the carriage’s gleaming brass palm plate.

  “Dash! This is no time to preen your feathers!” cried Harry, pulling my elbow.

  “Harry, it’s bad enough that our clothing smells of rabbits. At least my tie should be straight.”

  “If you spent half as much time practicing your sleights as you do arranging your hair, you’d be a headliner by now.” He dragged me up a set of broad stone steps and pulled at the door chime.

  A pair of heavy, oval-paned doors swung inward, and we stepped into a large entryway, the chief feature of which was a heavy wooden staircase winding up to a minstrels’ gallery. A ruddy-faced butler took our cloaks, and I don’t think I’m imagining it when I say that his nose wrinkled a bit as he accepted Harry’s top hat.

  “Your name is Brunson, is it not?” Harry asked as the butler led us toward a reception room.

  “It is, sir.”

  “Would you ask Mr. Kenneth Clairmont to join us for a moment before we go through to meet the others? I should like a private word with him.”

  “Of course, sir.” Brunson withdrew, leaving us alone in the entry hall.

  “What’s this about, Harry?” I asked. “I don’t want to keep Mrs. Clairmont waiting.”

  “Just a minor precaution, Dash. I wish to ensure the success of our examination of Mr. Craig.”

  “Houdini!” called Kenneth Clairmont, strolling through from the reception room. “Good of you to come! Nice to see you again, too, Hardeen!”

  Harry put a finger to his lips. “Quiet! Do not use my name too freely!”