Harry Houdini Mysteries

by Daniel Stashower

  “What about Edgar Grange? That was as calculated as anything one could imagine. Why did you have to kill him, too?”

  “He had the plans to the Foster tube. He even had a model of the receiving unit. It would only have been a matter of time before he made the connection between my invention and the ghostly apparitions upstairs. I can’t say I was sorry to see him go, in any case. He had seized control of the estate and was blocking every attempt I made to get what was owing to me. Worse, I believe that in time he would have married Augusta. That would have defeated all my plans. He had to go, and I found it pleasant that television was the instrument of his departure. The best part is, no one will ever suspect me. I wasn’t even in the room when the killing occurred. Had I been present, I might well have emerged as the most likely suspect. But who would be suspicious of a man who was nowhere near the scene of the crime? Several people saw me carried from the house, but no one saw me creep back into the cellar. It enabled me to be suitably indignant afterwards. I was terribly convincing, don’t you think?”

  “There was something on your face,” I said, trying to recall. “A dark smudge.”

  “Makeup. I was experimenting. The scanner is not so refined as I hope to make it. In order to register the features, they must be outlined with heavy coal and ochre. A mask was better suited to my purpose, but in some cases only the human face will do.” He stepped over to a shelf near the furnace. “Which reminds me, Mr. Hardeen,” he said, fingering a tube of thick greasepaint, “it’s time to get you ready.”

  “Ready? What do you mean?”

  “Just sit still. This won’t take long.” He crouched over me and began dabbing thick smears of makeup on my face. “Hold still! Otherwise they won’t be able to make out who you are.”

  “Who I am? What are you talking about?”

  “Dear boy, must I explain everything? I thought you were a bright young man.” He sighed and smoothed a line of dark foundation cream along my jawline. “I’m planning to put you on television, Mr. Hardeen. You’ll be quite a sensation, I’ve no doubt.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. I shifted in the chair and tried to continue working at the knots around my wrists. “But why?” I asked, hoping to distract him from my movements. “Is this device really so important?”

  “Important? My dear fellow, the Foster tube will put Edison’s lamp in the shade! My little device will consolidate the work of Paul Nipkow and launch an entire industry! Have you any idea what sort of money this device of mine is worth? Millions!”

  I glanced at the oddly shaped glass tube. “But what is it for? What does television do?”

  “Can’t you guess?”

  I shook my head.

  Foster straightened up and wiped a smear of makeup with his handkerchief. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s for sending navigational maps to ships at sea! That’s what made it so perfect for my brother-in-law! Have you any idea how much money is lost each year due to maritime disasters? Do you know how many lives are forfeit at sea due to foul weather incidents? With the Foster television system, a ship’s captain would have the very latest weather information maps broadcast directly to the bridge from the nearest observational point on shore! It will revolutionize the shipping business!”

  “Weather maps?” My eyes widened with disbelief. “All this for weather maps?”

  “All this for the safety of ships and seamen” he said piously. “There is a considerable difference. One day the entire world will see it that way. I will be hailed as the man who rescued sea commerce from Mother Nature.”

  “But you’ve killed two men!”

  “Three men, actually.” He stepped back to appraise the makeup on my face. “I’m afraid we must count you in that total. I’m sorry for this, Mr. Hardeen. I truly am.” His tone was disconcertingly light, as though remarking on a sudden change of weather. I tried to match the lack of concern in his tone.

  “But how do you expect to get away with killing me?” I asked. “A third body will surely bring an even more thorough investigation by the police.”

  “Oh, they’ll never find your body,” he said cheerily. “You see, I’m planning to incinerate you.” He uncorked a glass retort from the work table. The smell of kerosene filled the chamber. “Your death will not be in vain, however. I’m going to set fire to you on television. There’s a kind of symmetry to it, you see. First Edgar was stabbed by a vengeful spirit, now you are to be consigned to the flames of hell. I trust the display will give my sister sufficient respect for the spirit realm.”

  “They’ll never believe it,” I said.

  “Perhaps not, but at least you won’t be in any position to contradict me. It’s a sort of distinction, I suppose, being killed on television. Ironic, really.” He closed one eye and sized me up as though preparing to carve a guinea fowl. “What worries me is the mess. I’ll put the remains in the furnace, of course, but the rest will be a real bother to tidy up. Can’t very well have the girl do it.”

  I felt a sense of cold dread as he advanced on me with the kerosene bottle. “My brother will never stop looking. He’ll track you down if it takes the rest of his life.”

  “But your brother wasn’t the one to find me, was he? Your brother does not strike me as a titan of the intellectual processes. No, I think the secret is safe with us.” His eyes drifted back toward the work table. “Let us see, did I remember to leave the music box running upstairs? I believe so. Now then, Mr. Hardeen...” He raised the bottle and began splashing the foul-smelling liquid onto my clothing.

  It had been my plan to keep him talking long enough to allow me to escape from the wrist restraints. As it happened, I had not yet managed to do so. Perhaps if my arm had not been so badly injured I might have succeeded, but as matters stood I was as securely fastened as ever. I was entirely helpless.

  Or very nearly, in any case. I waited until Foster passed in front of me, then aimed a rabbit kick at his right kneecap. He went down hard, with the white cloak billowing like a collapsing sail. I pitched forward and struggled to my feet, dragging the ladder-back chair a couple of feet until I was nearly on top of him. I put the chair down and positioned myself to send another kick at Foster’s skull. His head snapped back and his eyes closed.

  I hoped he would stay under long enough for me to free myself, but I didn’t have a lot of confidence in my awkward kick. I hopped over to the laboratory table and looked for some means of freeing myself. Hot waves of pain rose from my injured arm, and I had to set the chair down again before I reached the table. I could hear Foster groaning behind me and realized I didn’t have much time. Then my eyes fell on the metal Nipkow disk.

  I dragged myself over to the device and found the lateral trip-switch at the base. Straining forward, I gripped the lever in my teeth, flipping the crossbar over to strike the contact points. I heard a sudden crackle of electricity and the smell of burning sulphur hit my nostrils. The disk began spinning, slowly at first, then gathering speed as the sound of a high-pitched metallic whine filled the air.

  I don’t know precisely what I hoped to accomplish. I believe I had it in mind that I would use the edge of the whirling disk to sever my bonds, in the manner of a spinning buzz saw. In any event, I had barely managed to turn my bonds toward the disk when Sterling Foster barrelled into me from behind, sending me sprawling onto the floor in front of the laboratory table. Instinctively I tried to maneuver onto my back to ward off his next blow. Burdened as I was by the chair strapped to my back, I could only flail helplessly on my side. Foster reared back and kicked savagely, catching my injured arm and shoulder with the full force of his boot. A bolt of pain blasted through me. My eyes began to dim. I bit down hard and tried to rouse myself, knowing that if I blacked out he would finish me. As my vision cleared I saw Foster stooping to pick up his knife from the floor. Bracing myself against the laboratory table, I swept his knees with my right leg and sent him sprawling. The knife skittered toward the furnace.

  I knew that I could not hold my own aga
inst him for much longer. Twisting furiously, I braced my feet against the bottom of the laboratory table. The pain burned through me. Gasping with effort, I pushed against the table with my legs, trying to make it pitch forward. Foster, meanwhile, had crawled across the floor to recover the knife. He jumped to his feet and whirled to face me, the knife in one hand and the kerosene bottle in the other. His features contorted with fury.

  The table teetered for a moment on two legs and then toppled over, sending all of the laboratory equipment crashing to the floor in a clatter of broken glass and jangling metal. As the whirling disk and glass Foster tube struck the floor, the flame from a shattered Bunsen burner touched off a pool of spilled chemicals, sending jets of flame snaking across the floor in a wild pattern. At the sight of the spreading inferno, Foster darted forward to save his precious invention.

  It proved to be a costly decision. As Foster bent down, snatching at his glass tube, a crackle of flame from the floor spurted up to meet the kerosene spilling from the beaker in his hand. In an instant, a brilliant orange flare shot upward, engulfing him in a cocoon of fire. Shrieking madly, he staggered backward and slapped at the spreading flames. Instinctively, I made to help him, forgetting the ropes and the chair that held me fast. A spike of pain pinned me to the ground. I watched helplessly as Foster dropped to his knees. The smell of burning flesh reached my nostrils as his screams grew louder. The acrid bite of smoke and chemicals forced my eyes closed for an instant. When I opened them, a blackened face stared back, motionless on the floor beside me.

  I had little time to register this gruesome vision. Streaks of flame surrounded me, and I could do little to avoid them. A curtain of fire separated me from the opening on the other side of the room. Turning away from the spreading blaze, I pushed myself along on my side to get away from the flames. Each breath brought a searing heat into my lungs. I huddled in a far corner as best I could, my cheek pressed against the floor, my eyes swimming in the stinging heat.

  I closed my eyes, knowing that it would not be long now.

  * * *

  That’s when I felt myself lifted into the air like a sack of potatoes.

  “Easy, Dash,” came my brother’s voice. “We’ll be safe in a minute.”

  Cool air rushed against my face.

  “How—?” But my voice failed, ravaged by smoke. I opened my eyes. Harry’s hands, blackened with soot, were pulling at my bonds.

  “How did we find you?”

  I nodded.

  “That device. Whatever it was. It came on suddenly. We could see you. Only for an instant, but it was enough.”

  Suddenly my hands were free, and Dr. Wells bent forward with a cooling cloth. Lieutenant Murray hovered behind him, his face white with concern.

  “But—how—” my throat seemed to be embedded with shards of glass. “How did you find me in time?”

  Harry’s mouth tightened in a grim smile. “You have Mr. Brunson to thank for that,” he said.

  I turned my head to look at the elderly butler, who stood beside the lieutenant with an air of quiet pride.

  “With your permission, sir, it was that chair. That chair strapped to your back. It has been missing from the dining room for some time. I’ve asked Mr. Foster to return it several times...”

  My eyes closed under the press of a cool cloth. I could hear my brother’s laughter, and then nothing at all.

  12

  THE EYE OF THE NEEDLE

  “IT IS SO GOOD OF YOU TO JOIN US, MR. HARDEEN,” SAID MRS. Clairmont. “I trust your injuries are nearly mended?”

  I raised the plaster cast on my arm. “The doctor assures me I’ll be rid of this in another week or so. Otherwise, I’m perfectly sound.”

  “He’ll be right as rain,” agreed Dr. Wells. “Quite a hardy constitution on this lad.”

  “I’m so pleased,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “How lovely to see you again, as well, Mr. Houdini.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” my brother replied. “May I present my wife, Bess Houdini? I don’t believe the two of you were properly introduced the other evening.”

  “No, indeed,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Houdini, and may I say that I greatly prefer your present attire to the glowing sheet in which I first saw you. Ah, Lieutenant Murray! How pleasant!”

  “I’m pleased to see you looking so well, Mrs. Clairmont,” said the lieutenant, stepping forward to take her hand. “The commissioner sends his regards.”

  “My health is still a bit fragile,” she admitted, indicating the rolling basket chair in which she sat, “but I am grateful for the opportunity to take the air.”

  Several weeks had passed since the strange conclusion of the events at Gramercy Park. Much had occurred in the intervening time. Sterling Foster had been quietly interred in the family plot at Hyde Park, next to his late brother-in-law. The investigation into the murder of Edgar Grange had been quietly brought to a close by Lieutenant Murray, acting on direct orders from the commissioner.

  The exact particulars had been concealed from Mrs. Clairmont, who was not present to witness the bizarre climax on that fateful evening. Her health had been thrown into a precarious state by the shock of the ghostly manifestations that night, and it was feared that the full truth would cause her permanent harm. Under the watchful eye of Richardson Wells, the matter had been entirely hushed up. To spare her the anguish of her brother’s perfidy, Mrs. Clairmont had been given to understand that Sterling Foster had fallen asleep amid his test tubes and beakers on the night in question, suffering a fatal heart attack when an untended experiment caught fire. In this more palatable version of the events, Lucius Craig had been cast as the sole villain, fleeing in such haste that he had been forced to leave his daughter behind.

  In fact, Sterling Foster had set the police on a false trail that evening, to allow him time to put his plan into effect. The confusion had allowed Lucius Craig to avoid capture and vanish without so much as a hint of his whereabouts, though the police had been relentless in their efforts to track him. There were scattered reports that he had been sighted in such far-flung places as California and Nova Scotia, but in each instance the local authorities came away empty-handed.

  Once again, to my brother’s distress, he had been denied any public credit for his part in the resolution of a murder investigation. “It’s just not fair,” he had groused, “I do all the detecting, and the world is denied the tale of my genius.”

  For my part, I had been content to emerge with my life. Only later, while relating the tale to my friend Biggs from my hospital bed, did I realize how very close I had come to sharing Sterling Foster’s fate. “I thought I’d had it,” I told him. “Harry literally walked through fire to pull me to safety.”

  “Funny,” Biggs had answered. “In his version, he’s walking on water.”

  Biggs, too, had been bound by the conspiracy of silence, though he had borne it with better humor than my brother. It pained him to miss out on breaking a good story, but his friendship for Kenneth left him sympathetic to the motives of Dr. Wells and the commissioner of police.

  It had come as something of a surprise, then, when Mrs. Clairmont wrote to ask us to meet her in Central Park on that crisp Saturday afternoon. We had found her in the shadow of the stately Belvedere Castle, busily working at a needlepoint sampler. She looked appropriately regal in a tied bonnet and high collar, with a red travelling blanket neatly tucked about her legs. Dr. Wells stood behind the wicker chair, anxiously adjusting the blanket to ward off the effects of a chill breeze sweeping across the meadow.

  “I’ve had a letter from Kenneth this morning,” Mrs. Clairmont said, waving away the doctor’s ministrations. “I’m certain that he would want me to send his warmest regards to the both of you. You’ve heard that he has resumed his medical studies?”

  I nodded. “We were delighted to hear it.”

  “Dr. Wells assures me that he has a promising career ahead of him.”

  “What about your husband’s business
concerns?” Harry asked. “We were given to understand that Kenneth was expected to take them up as soon as he was able.”

  Mrs. Clairmont smiled airily. “There are others outside of the family who may be able to carry on. I find that I am no longer so eager to retain control.” She tightened her grip on the shawl about her shoulders. “I never had the chance to thank you properly for all that you’ve done,” she said, raising her chin.

  “That’s not necessary,” said Harry.

  “I feel that it is. My brother’s passing has left me quite distraught, and I’m afraid I have become quite lax in certain matters. I could not let another day go by without expressing my gratitude. The two of you are in my thoughts every day. I can scarcely forgive myself for being so hoodwinked by Lucius Craig. If the two of you had not intervened, I might never have come to my senses.”

  Harry smiled and stole a glance at Lieutenant Murray. “You are exaggerating the role we played.”

  “I think not. And I had rather hoped that I might find some way of repaying the debt I owe you.”

  “It has been our pleasure,” my brother said. “No other reward is needed.”

  “How very gallant,” said Mrs. Clairmont, “but I had thought of something more tangible. It will be some time before I am able to move about in society again, but I have a number of friends who do considerable entertaining. Might I recommend your talents to some of my friends?”

  “As entertainers, you mean?”

  “Precisely. Kenneth tells me that you are working on a very interesting form of diversion, Mr. Houdini. What did he call you? A gustatory marvel?”