Harry Houdini Mysteries

by Daniel Stashower

  “A billet effect?” asked Kenneth Clairmont. “What do you mean, Houdini?”

  “Allow me to demonstrate.” Harry reached into the ceramic tray and picked up one of the slips of paper. Quickly refolding it, he pressed it to his forehead. “Let us suppose that I am attempting to divine the message written on this piece of paper. After concentrating for a moment, I am prepared to tell you that the message is ‘Success’ and that it was written by Mrs. Clairmont.”

  “Which is exactly what Mr. Craig did, Houdini,” said Dr. Wells. “I’m not sure where that gets us.”

  “No? Well, suppose I then unfolded the paper, as if to check that my reading had been correct. And suppose that instead of the message ‘Success,’ the paper actually held the word ‘Violet’ and the initials of Mr. Grange.”

  “Then you’d have been wrong, Houdini,” said Wells. “Your demonstration would be counted a failure.”

  “I think not,” Harry said. “I should only have failed if one of you were to see the contents of the paper. If I were to set it aside, you would have no way of knowing what it said. Imagine, then, that I picked up another slip of paper”—again Harry reached into the tray—”and after a further show of concentration, I told you that the message was ‘Violet,’ with the initials of Mr. Grange attached.”

  Kenneth spoke up. “But that slip of paper wasn’t Mr. Grange’s at all,” he said. “The previous one was his.”

  “Exactly,” said Harry. “This slip of paper says, ‘Remember the Maine,’ and it is initialed by our good friend Mr. Brunson. But you would have no reason to doubt me if I told you that it said ‘Violet,’ especially with Mr. Grange himself confirming that this was the word he wrote. Meanwhile, this deception leaves me free to take up the next slip of paper and tell you that it contains the message ‘Remember the Maine.’”

  “I see?” cried Kenneth excitedly. “That’s very good? You would only be pretending to reveal the message on each slip of paper. In reality, you would be telling us the contents of the previous message, the one you had opened moments earlier. You would always be one message ahead of what you were actually telling us.”

  “Precisely so,” said Harry.

  Edgar Grange cleared his throat. “It’s very clever, Mr. Houdini, but it seems to me there’s a fatal flaw in your reasoning. In order for your trick to work, you would have to know the contents of one of the messages before you could begin. To use your own example, you would need to know in advance that Augusta had written the word ‘Success’ on her paper. Otherwise you would have no excuse for opening that first slip of paper so as to put your system into effect.”

  “He’s got you there, Houdini,” agreed Dr. Wells. “In order to get one step ahead of the messages, you’d have to know what one of us had written in advance. I don’t see how you’d be able to do that—not in these circumstances, at any rate. Not unless you can read minds after all.”

  Harry reached for the pad of paper and pushed it across the table. “Dr. Wells, I wonder if I might ask you to write down a number between one and one hundred. Any number at all.”

  Wells picked up the pad and reached for a pencil. “What’s this supposed to prove, Houdini?”

  “Only that it is not as difficult to read your thoughts as you might suppose. All I ask is that you write down the first number that comes into your mind. Do you understand? Ah, very good.” Harry rose from his chair and walked toward the windows, turning his back to us. “Please be sure that the others are able to see the number that you have written, so that there is no misunderstanding afterwards. Next, take the slip of paper and place it into your pocket, so that there is no possibility of my sneaking a look at it. Have you done so? Good.”

  Harry turned and walked back to the table, carrying a candle holder from the desk. “Here is a pretty problem. I must find some means of apprehending what you have written on that slip of paper. How might I do this? There is one possibility. In ancient Mesopotamia it was believed that a man’s eye retained a faint image—like the flicker of this candle flame—of everything he had ever looked upon and that if we only knew how to look, we might see these images as plainly as you might look upon your own reflection in a mirror. It is possible that if—”

  “That’s poppycock!” cried Dr. Wells. “The eye merely transmits images, it doesn’t record them!”

  “Does it not?” Harry moved around the table to where Dr. Wells was sitting. “Well, we shall know soon enough.” He picked up the ceramic tray that held the discarded slips of paper. Dipping the candle he was holding, he touched the flame to the paper. As the scraps ignited, sending up an orange glow, Harry passed the tray back and forth in front of the doctor’s face. “Watch closely, if you would, Dr. Wells,” Harry said, “and please keep your eyes fixed upon the flames. I am trying to see if there is any trace of—ah ha! Excellent! How very interesting! How very interesting, indeed!”

  “What is it, Mr. Houdini?” asked Mrs. Clairmont. “What was it that you saw?”

  “Everything, my dear lady. Everything.” He reached across for the pad of paper and jotted a quick note, then turned the pad face down on the table. “Do you still have that slip of paper, Dr. Wells? Might I trouble you to place it upon the table? Good. Would you read the number that you have printed upon it?”

  “Forty-two,” said the doctor.

  “Very good. Mrs. Clairmont, may I ask you to turn over the pad of paper at the center of the table? Thank you. Now, would you read what I have written there?”

  “Forty-two!” cried Mrs. Clairmont. “But that’s wonderful, Mr. Houdini!”

  “Excellent!” agreed Dr. Wells, as the others around the table made various noises of agreement. “But I still maintain that business about reading the image in my eye was a pure fabrication. How did you manage it?”

  Harry sat down and folded his arms. “I might as well tell you,” he said with a sigh, “because if I do not, my brother Dash undoubtedly will. You are correct, Dr. Wells. My claim of seeing the number through your eyes was nothing more than a magician’s patter, meant to distract you from my true method. In fact, I knew what number you had chosen at the very instant you wrote it down.”

  “But how?”

  “Simplicity itself. I followed the movements of your pencil.”

  Kenneth Clairmont picked up one of the pencils lying on the table. “You’ve lost me there, Houdini.”

  “Let me show you,” said my brother, taking up the pad. “When I instructed Dr. Wells to write down a number, he was careful to hold the pad at an angle, facing himself, so that I would not be able to glimpse what he was writing. This was a worthwhile precaution, as it prevented me from seeing either the paper or the point of the pencil. However, it did not prevent me from seeing the other end of the pencil.”

  “I don’t see how the other end of the pencil could tell you anything,” said Edgar Grange.

  “It told me a great deal. Observe: if I hold the pad facing myself and write the number 1, the other end of the pencil makes a sharp upward stroke. If I make a 2, the end of the pencil makes a half-circle, followed by a sharp horizontal stroke. A 3 is a pair of half-circles. And so on. The same technique may be applied to letters of the alphabet. It is very difficult to keep track of a longer piece of writing, but with practice, a number or a short message may be followed easily enough simply by reading the movements of the pencil.”

  “Incredible,” said Dr. Wells. “Very good, Houdini.”

  Kenneth Clairmont rose from his chair and began pacing a slow circle around the table. “So you would have been able to do the trick of reading the slips of paper after all,” he said. “You would simply have fastened your attention on one of us and read the movements of his pencil. Then you would have known what that person’s message was, and you would have been able to use that knowledge as you pretended to divine each subsequent message, using the method you showed us earlier.” He glanced at Lucius Craig, who had said nothing during Harry’s demonstration. “That is most illuminating, Mr
. Houdini. I must see if I can’t learn to do that pencil-reading stunt myself.”

  “Actually, Mr. Clairmont, it may not be necessary to acquire that skill at all,” Harry said. “I daresay that if you were to undertake the billet-reading trick, you might find simpler ways of catching a glimpse of one of the messages at the table. In a gathering such as this, it is almost always possible to sneak a look at someone’s paper as they write. I took particular care to warn Dr. Wells to shield his message from my eyes. Mr. Craig issued no such warning. It would be no great surprise, therefore, to find that he had been able to glance at your mother’s message without her knowledge of—”

  Lucius Craig was on his feet in an instant. “See here, Houdini!” he cried. “I have remained silent throughout this curious spectacle, but this is too much! You have gone too far!” His hands went to his cheeks, as though trying to hold back a flood of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “You are a fascinating young man,” he resumed in a more measured tone. “I have been as intrigued and entertained as the others by your interesting, if crude, approximation of the effects one sometimes experiences when moving among the spirits. But it is quite apparent that you do not fully understand these forces. It is one thing to a show us means by which the doings of the séance room may be mimicked by those such as yourself who possess no genuine psychic gifts. It is quite another thing, however, to state that your methods—the feints and dodges of a sideshow trickster—are the means by which true manifestations are achieved. I am not a performer like yourself, sir. I am simply a medium, a person who acts as a conduit between our world and the next. I can assure you, the spirits are not required to steal glances at a slip of paper or read the movements of a pencil.”

  “No?” Harry grinned broadly, warming to the challenge. “I defy you to demonstrate that you are able to produce the same effect in conditions set and monitored by my brother and myself!”

  “You don’t understand, Houdini,” the medium answered. “The spirits cannot be made to dance for coins and leap through hoops of fire!”

  Harry made to reply, but a glance at our hostess told him that he had drifted into dangerous waters.

  “Gentlemen,” Mrs. Clairmont said in a firm voice, “I will not have raised voices in this room.”

  Craig folded his hands. “You are quite right, Augusta,” he said. “I have allowed my passions to get the best of me.”

  Mrs. Clairmont turned to my brother. “Mr. Houdini, I must say that your behavior this evening has been most peculiar. You have presented yourself in my home under the cloak of an outlandish disguise, and yet you feel entitled to insult the integrity of one of my guests. What Mr. Craig seeks to accomplish is a thing of great importance to me. I will not have you make light of so sacred a matter.”

  I shot my brother another warning glance, hoping that he understood the precarious position into which he had thrust himself. He glanced back at me and tapped his nose with his forefinger, a signal we had devised for use in the escape act. It indicated that he was in trouble and needed help extricating himself.

  I stood and rested my hands on the back of my chair. “I must apologize,” I said. “I assure you that my brother did not mean to give offense. He has allowed his enthusiasm to get the best of him. This happens often, I am obliged to say, and if you knew him as I do you would know that he does not mean to attack Mr. Craig’s beliefs. This is all very new and unfamiliar to us. We cannot help but respond in the light of our own training and experiences. We are magicians. We are accustomed to solving puzzles. It is our business to devise methods of performing effects that seem to be impossible. When we are presented with a set of circumstances that appear to defy logic, we are naturally inclined to address the matter as we would a vanished rabbit or a floating sphere. I hope that you will accept our apologies, Mr. Craig.”

  The medium drew in a deep breath, evidently weighing his words carefully. He rested the fingers of one hand on the séance table while the other stole to his coat pocket and withdrew a glass snuff shaker. He tapped a small quantity onto the back of his hand and dispatched it with a brisk intake of air. He repeated the process with the other nostril, leaving us all waiting while he gathered his thoughts.

  “Your brother appears to be a wonderfully skillful magician,” he began. “I am not. As I stated earlier, there is no need to suppose because a clever man like Mr. Houdini may be able to duplicate some of what transpires in the séance room that the original effects themselves are somehow rendered invalid. Just because a signature may be forged, it does not mean that there is no such thing as an authentic signature.”

  “Precisely so, Mr. Craig,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “My very thought.”

  “I cannot entirely agree,” said Edgar Grange, raising the timbre of his voice as if addressing a courtroom. “You will admit that it does rather strike at one’s inclination to credit Mr. Craig’s effects when one sees how easily they may be manufactured by a man such as Houdini. As much as he might wish to deny it, Mr. Craig is inviting us to believe in the veracity of his so-called contacts with the spirit world simply because there is no other explanation for the feats and effects which he is able to accomplish. It is all well and good to speak as if the thing must be taken on faith, but the fact remains that you are attempting to foster our belief with these seemingly inexplicable feats.”

  Lucius Craig’s eyes flashed for a moment, and it was clear that he was having some difficulty mastering his temper. “You may see it that way, sir. If so, you have my pity. This is not a case to be tried in a court of law. This is my life’s pursuit. My gift. It must be approached not with the aggressive tilt of the barrister but with the open mind and pleading soul of a supplicant at the gates of a new revelation. One makes most of the progress on one’s knees.”

  Dr. Wells spoke up at this. “You mean to say that one must already believe in spiritualism in order to find confirmation? Sounds like circular logic to me. The dog chasing its own tail.”

  “An open mind,” Craig said evenly. “An open mind and a questing soul. Is that so very much to require when one stands at the brink of a new epoch of human thought? Is it so very different from what your clergyman asks of you each Sunday morning?”

  “See here,” said Wells, “you’re equating this spiritualism of yours with religion?”

  “Of course,” said Craig with a serene smile. “One that embraces all of the world’s peoples. And such matters are decided within the human heart, not by cold proofs but by warming faith. I have no doubt that Mr. Houdini might also contrive some clever means of changing water into wine. Would that tear at your beliefs, Dr. Wells? ‘Your judgement is at hand.’ Wasn’t that what Mr. Houdini said?”

  The doctor opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it.

  “Lucius,” said Mrs. Clairmont, “last night you promised that we would attempt to reach my husband. Perhaps that might serve to set aside any remaining doubts once and for all. Is there any chance that we may yet make the attempt?”

  Craig frowned as he considered the matter. “Mr. Houdini’s display has unsettled the balance of spirit energy in the room. I fear that it would be dangerous to proceed. In any event, there would be little point in making the attempt with such an avowed disbeliever in our midst. It creates a negative aura that prohibits spirit activity.”

  “There it is again,” Dr. Wells murmured. “One must already believe in order to find belief. One sees what one wants to see.”

  Kenneth Clairmont looked at me in despair. He had invited us to assess Lucius Craig’s mediumship, but Harry had tipped our hand too early in the proceedings. If Craig could not be encouraged to continue, Harry and I would be of no further use.

  “Mr. Craig,” I said, leaning forward, “my brother is not so closed-minded as you assume. It is only that he has not yet found a medium worthy of his attention. Harry and I are professional magicians. The chalk slate and the floating tambourine hold no great mystery for us, as you will appreciate. But surely a man such as yourself ha
s something to teach us? I assure you that we will free our minds of any preconceptions we may have brought with us tonight.” I picked up the chalk slate from the table and wiped it with my sleeve. “We will present you with a blank slate.”

  Craig was not mollified. “I will not have Mr. Houdini prodding and probing at my every movement. I am not a circus dog.”

  I glanced at my brother. “Harry?”

  “What my brother says is true,” Harry said, with surprising sincerity. “There is much in this world that I do not yet understand. My mind is supple. I am prepared to weigh the evidence.”

  The medium shook his head. “Your actions tonight suggest otherwise, Mr. Houdini.”

  “I beg to differ. I have done nothing that a man of science would not do. There are several distinguished scientific bodies dedicated to examining this type of phenomena. In London there is the Society for Psychical Research. There is an American counterpart as well, operating in Boston, I believe. Many distinguished men have been drawn into their ranks. The physicist Oliver Lodge. The naturalist Alfred Russel Wallace. The philosopher William James. These are men of judgement and reason, but they are also men of discernment. They would require proof. If there is a single grain of truth in this matter, I will happily embrace it. Perhaps that proof may reside with you, Mr. Craig.”

  I glanced at him in the dim light, surprised to find that he seemed to mean what he was saying. It is strange now to recall these sentiments coming from the lips of Harry Houdini, who in later life would become the scourge of spirit mediums at home and abroad. In time his reputation as an anti-spiritualist crusader would grow to be nearly as great as that of his exploits upon the stage. In his youth, however, his mind was far more plastic. Though he could never have been called a believer, more than once I heard him express a wistful hope that there might yet be magic in the world.