Harry Houdini Mysteries

by Daniel Stashower

  “I’m only trying to figure all the angles,” I said. “Everyone else seems to have a possible motive—or at least some form of grudge against the dead man. If we are to rule out Kenneth as a suspect, we must at least be candid in assessing what he stands to gain.”

  Biggs shook his head. “I don’t see how Grange’s death changes things for Kenneth. His father’s finances are now thrown into further disarray, and he will now have an even more difficult time fighting off the grasping claws of his father’s competitors—not to mention those of his uncle, Sterling Foster. Apart from that, I do not see a great change in his prospects.”

  “What about those of Mrs. Clairmont herself?”

  “What a mind you have, Dash!” Biggs said, shaking his head. “You imagine that Mrs. Clairmont plunged a knife into the lawyer’s back? It’s a pleasing image, I’ll admit, but I just can’t feature it. Mrs. Clairmont as a kind of Lizzie Borden in pearls? You see how frail her constitution is, Dash. Moreover, there can’t be any motive.”

  “Why not? We know nothing of how Grange had been managing her husband’s affairs. Perhaps he had been dipping his hands into the pot. Maybe she found him out.”

  “She would surely have other forms of recourse than murdering him in a room filled with seven other people.”

  I sighed. “You’re right, of course. But I can’t help but feel that there is more beneath the surface. She seems so blind in her devotion to Mr. Craig’s mediumship, I cannot help but feel that she is not quite in her right mind.”

  “What about Lucius Craig himself? Surely his motives are as strong as anyone’s.”

  “I should have thought that was apparent. Kenneth said as much the other night. Craig has been exerting a great influence over Mrs. Clairmont, which in turn would naturally place him in a position to influence the disposition of the Clairmont fortune. Edgar Grange had some harsh words for Mr. Craig last night. He objected to the manner in which Craig was assuming control over the household. If Grange himself had designs on the Clairmont fortune, that would bring the two men into direct opposition.”

  “Which would give Craig a motive, albeit a shaky one, for murdering Edgar Grange.” Biggs reached across the manuscript table for his notepad. “You say he was tied to a chair at the time of the murder?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Even Harry would have had trouble freeing himself, and when the lights came back up, Craig’s bonds did not appear to have been disturbed in any way. It would be useful to know if Craig has any background as a magician.”

  “I wish I could help you there,” said Biggs, “but I’ve noticed something very curious about our Mr. Craig.”

  “What is that?”

  “He doesn’t seem to have existed prior to the year 1888.”

  “Pardon?”

  “There is simply no record of the man,” Biggs explained. “It’s as though he sprang into being just over ten years ago, clutching a snuff shaker in one hand and a chalk slate in the other.”

  “He must have changed his name,” I said. “He is a performer of sorts. Perhaps he found it expedient to adopt a separate identity for his spiritualist endeavors.”

  Biggs indicated the wall of battered wooden filing cabinets where the packets of theatricals were kept. “That was the first thing that occurred to me,” he said, pulling open a file drawer, “but our system of records makes allowances for such things. For instance, when I consult the packet marked Theodore Hardeen, I find a notation informing me that the subject’s name at birth was, in fact, Ferencz Deszo Weiss.” Biggs cocked an eyebrow. “Ferencz?”

  “Named for a relative back in the old country, I’m told.”

  “It suits you,” Biggs said drily. “In any case, I’ve consulted our records on immigration and all other likely sources—including prison records—and I can find nothing on Mr. Lucius Craig prior to a town meeting in 1888. Barely a decade. He is not exactly a young man, Dash. What was he doing—and under what name—prior to that date?”

  “How odd. It’s as though his past has been wiped clean.”

  “Well put, Ferencz.”

  “You can forget you ever saw that,” I said, “and I’ll be good enough to forget that we used to call you Stinky.”

  “Fair enough. But I’m still baffled as to what Mr. Craig might have been doing for the first forty years or so of his life.”

  “Perhaps he was living in another country. That accent of his suggests that he’s spent considerable time in some part of Britain. Ireland, do you suppose?”

  “Scotland,” Biggs said firmly. “I’d know those diphthongs anywhere. He has Scottish blood in him, as do I. The south, most likely. Auld Reekie, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Auld Reekie?”

  “Edinburgh. I’ve wired to a colleague at The Scotsman to see if their files are any more illuminating than ours. So long as Mr. Craig’s past remains an enigma, it seems to me that there is more than one mystery hanging over the events of last night. It seems to me that it might throw some light on our endeavors if we were to discover why a man should completely obliterate all traces of his own past.”

  “Sterling Foster indicated that he knew something of Mr. Craig’s history,” I recalled. “He seemed pleased that Harry and I shared his suspicions of Craig’s psychic powers. Of course, this was only moments before he took a swing at us and had to be carried from the house.”

  “Foster grumbled something of that sort in my ear, as well,” Biggs said. “It had to do with the daughter.”

  “Yes, but he didn’t give any specifics.”

  “Nor does the file. I can find no record of a marriage, far less a notation of the daughter’s birth. Of course, this doesn’t stop Mr. Craig from using his status as a widower to play upon the sympathies of his audiences.”

  “How so?”

  “He makes frequent references to his ‘dear departed wife’ and ‘the sainted mother of my dear Lila.’”

  “I didn’t hear him do so last night.”

  “No? I did. More than once. He keeps her portrait and a lock of her hair in a silver locket. Every so often he brings it out and gazes longingly in a manner calculated to melt the hearts of any wealthy widows who happen to be in the vicinity.”

  “You’re a very cynical man, Biggs.”

  He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Me? It’s simply a pose to deflect attention from my staggering good looks.”

  “You’ve exceeded all expectations.” I fished out my pocket watch and popped open the cover. “I’d better be heading to Gramercy Park,” I said. “The lieutenant wanted us back for another round of questions.”

  “Ah, yes!” Biggs cried, his eyes alight. “The suspects are assembled once more under the watchful gaze of Dash Hardeen! How long can the murderer hope to remain at large now that our intrepid amateur sleuth is on the case? The cause of justice has found a sure and steady champion in this diligent and intriguing young man, whose rakish appearance conceals the shrewd intelligence of a—”

  “That’s enough, Biggs.”

  “I think not!” he said, leading me through the maze of offices back toward the press room. “After all, we still have not decided which of the suspects is most deserving of our youthful paladin’s attention! Will it be the sinister Lucius Craig, whose claim of paranormal ability may conceal a darker and more earth-bound purpose? Or perhaps the bluff and genial Dr. Richardson Wells, whose youth in the rugged mining communities of California may hold the key to a surprising secret? And let us not forget the profligate brother-in-law, Sterling Foster, whose early ambitions have long since been sacrificed on the altar of Bacchus. Which of these three men had the motive and opportunity of plunging a knife into the back of the family lawyer? Or could it have been one of the less likely suspects—Kenneth Clairmont, Lila Craig, Brunson the butler, or perhaps even Mrs. Clairmont herself? How shall the brave young Dash Hardeen be able to—”

  “All right, Biggs,” I said, cutting him short. “I believe you’ve made your point. Besides, I wouldn’t be
surprised if Lieutenant Murray had already solved the case by now.”

  “Possibly,” said Biggs, climbing back onto the stool behind his compositor’s desk, “but just in case he hasn’t, I’d like you to give me your word—”

  “I know, Biggs,” I said, reaching for my hat. “As soon as something breaks, you’ll be the first to know.”

  8

  WE PRECIPITATE A HOBGOBLIN

  I SPOTTED HARRY ACROSS THE GREEN AS I ROUNDED EAST 21ST Street into Gramercy Park. His shaggy astrakhan coat would have made him conspicuous even among the crowds of Broadway, as did the fact that his gait resembled that of an elderly man.

  “What’s the matter with your feet?” I asked, easily overtaking him as he reached the front of the Clair-mont home.

  “Nothing’s wrong with my feet. Nothing at all.”

  “Then why are you walking like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like old Mrs. Brucher from the fruit stand.”

  Harry avoided looking me in the eye. “I have been doing some muscular expansionism involving weights strapped to my ankles,” he said with an air of affected nonchalance. “Perhaps I have strained a tendon. Were you able to learn anything at the newspaper office?”

  I spent a few moments reviewing my conversation with Biggs for him. Harry perked up when I mentioned the mysterious void in Mr. Craig’s history.

  “His background grows murkier all the time,” Harry said. “I wonder if—Dash, isn’t that Lila Craig playing in the park?” He pointed to the far corner of the green, where a slender, red-haired girl could be seen climbing in the sturdy branches of a maple tree.

  “I believe so,” I said.

  “I should like to have a word with her,” Harry said, crossing the street.

  “She didn’t strike me as a very talkative sort,” I said, falling in beside him. “She didn’t say a word to anyone except Mrs. Clairmont last night.”

  “She will speak to Houdini,” Harry said. “The Great Houdini has a marvellous way with children.”

  Lila Craig scrambled down from the tree as we approached, cradling a yellow tabby cat in her arms. Again I was struck by her bright and knowing eyes, which seemed at odds with her broad, girlish face. She trailed a length of yellow yarn between her fingers, holding it out while the cat batted it.

  “Hello, little girl,” said Harry as we came up beside her. “I am the Great Houdini. This is my brother, Dash Hardeen. You may have seen us last night, partaking of Mrs. Clairmont’s fine hospitality.”

  The girl said nothing.

  Harry tried again. “It is a fine day, is it not? The sky is blue and the air is clear. What a marvellous day to be frolicking in the park. I am reminded of an exciting story. Would you like to hear it?”

  Lila turned away and dangled the yellow yarn in front of the cat. Harry pressed on.

  “Long ago, in ancient Mesopotamia, there was a celebrated young conjurer by the name of Ari Ardeeni. He had many wonderful powers. It was said that young Ari had the ability to transport himself from one place to the next in the twinkling of an eye! One moment he might be roistering in a stream, and at the next instant he could be seen dancing atop the highest mountain! Stranger still, it was believed that this handsome conjuror possessed the ability to change places with any being of his choosing—at the merest snap of his fingers! But of all these wondrous talents, there was one that young Ari prized most of all.” Harry leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “It was said that the handsome young wizard could conjure spirits and ghosts out of thin air!”

  Lila Craig scooped up the tabby cat and began scratching its ears.

  Harry soldiered on. “Now, there is no need to be alarmed,” he said. “These ghosts and spirits were friends of young Ari, and would never have done anything to frighten anyone. They were jolly, happy spirits who loved to dance and play on their spirit clouds. Sometimes they brought candy for the children of the village. Is this not delightful?”

  The girl gave no answer. Instead, she set the cat on the grass and tried to push down its tail.

  “Of all the many people in the kingdom, the young wizard had one very special little friend. A young girl in whom he confided all his secrets. Her name was Mila. The magical Ari would carry her up to the enchanted meadow on his flying carpet and share his mystic secrets. He thought it was glorious to have a friend such as this. And little Mila shared her secrets in return. She loved to tell Ari all about her toys and her cloth bear and her kitty cat. It must be wonderful to have a friend such as this, don’t you think?”

  Lila twisted the yellow yarn around her index finger and gazed off across the park.

  “Of all the young wizard’s many secrets, there was one which Mila wished to know most of all. This was the secret of making ghosts and spirits appear. How was such a thing possible? She puzzled over the mystery for many a long day, but she could not imagine how anyone could do it—not even Ari, with all his fantastical powers. One fine day, she plucked up her courage and decided to ask young Ari how he—”

  “I need to go back.”

  It was the first thing either of us had ever heard her say, and I suppose the fact that she had spoken at all surprised us a bit.

  “Go?” Harry asked. “But I haven’t even told you about the dragon!”

  Lila stood up, cradling the cat in her arms. “I need to go back,” she repeated.

  “But it’s a very good dragon!” Harry insisted.

  The girl set the cat down and watched as it darted away.

  I took out my linen handkerchief and knotted the corner. I draped it over the crook of my right hand and made a sprinkling motion with the fingers of my left. Slowly, the knotted corner began to twitch and wriggle. “Lila,” I said, “there have been some very strange things going on lately. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you know what happened last night?”

  She gnawed at her lower lip. “Yes.”

  “Do you know how it happened?”

  She shook her head.

  “Neither do we,” I said, as the knotted corner bobbed up and down. “My brother and I think it started out as a magic trick, like this one. It wasn’t like any trick we’d ever seen before, though. We hoped maybe you could explain it to us. You seem like a clever girl. I bet your father has taught you some tricks here and there, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Like this?” The handkerchief was now floating above my right hand in the manner of a dancing puppet.

  “Not like that.”

  “What sort of tricks, then?”

  “I’m not supposed to tell.”

  “That’s right. You’re not supposed to tell. Magicians never tell their secrets. Your father is a very fine magician, isn’t he?”

  “He’s not—” She gnawed her lip again. “He doesn’t like it when people say he’s a magician.”

  “No?” I untied the knot and poked the handkerchief down into my right fist. “I think he’s a very fine magician. One of the best.” I uncurled the fingers of my fist to show that the handkerchief had vanished. “I wish I knew how he did his tricks. Hold still for a moment—” I reached across with my left hand and plucked the handkerchief from behind her ear. “Thank you. You would make a fine magician’s assistant. Do you ever help out as your father’s assistant?”

  She watched as I spread the cloth over my palm and folded the corners inward. “Sometimes,” she said.

  “Do you? I thought as much. You strike me as a natural magician’s assistant.” I gripped the four corners and shook the handkerchief. Something rattled inside. “Did you help him last night?”

  “Last night?”

  I let the corners drop to show three walnuts cupped in my palm. “Sure. Last night. He did some tricks for us. I thought maybe you might have helped him.”

  Her eyes darted to the Clairmont house. “No,” she said, fixing her attention elsewhere. “I was in the kitchen. The whole time.”

  I followed her e
yes across the green. Lucius Craig could be seen standing in the bay window of Jasper Clairmont’s study, gazing down with a stern expression, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “I need to go back,” the girl repeated. “Good-bye.”

  “Wait a minute,” I called after her. She turned, and I tossed her the three walnuts one after the other. She caught them easily, then turned and hurried off toward the house, disappearing down the side lane that led to the kitchen entrance.

  “What do you make of that, Harry?” I asked.

  “The girl’s afraid of her father,” he answered. “She won’t tell us anything.”

  “There’s more to it than that,” I said. “Something doesn’t quite fit.”

  We fell silent as we crossed the green and mounted the broad stone steps to the Clairmont house. Harry pulled at the door chime, and once again the oval-paned doors swung inward. Brunson, looking no worse for the previous night’s drama, ushered us into the reception area. We divested ourselves of our hats and coats and were shown through to the drawing room. Richardson Wells and Kenneth Clairmont were helping themselves to tea from a silver service.

  “Hardeen!” called Kenneth. “There you are! Lieutenant Murray was just asking if you’d arrived yet. He’s upstairs with Lucius Craig at the moment. Dr. Wells and I were just wondering what further questions he might have for us today.”

  “I couldn’t say,” I answered. “We told him everything we could last night.”

  “Yes, but the two of you were up there rather a long time after the—the unpleasantness. He seemed to take a great deal longer with you than any of the rest of us.”

  “He was availing himself of our expertise in matters of the occult,” said Harry. “We had a very interesting discussion.”

  “Actually, I believe the lieutenant was just being thorough,” I said. “Harry and I have a slight acquaintance with him, so he may have questioned us a bit more closely than the rest of you.”

  “I see,” Kenneth said, though he did not seem entirely satisfied.