by Unknown
“Very well, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “So tell me how your husband may be linked to what happened to Lily the other night. Do you suspect that Lily’s death was a murder and that the same person is trying to kill your husband?”
She shuddered as she remembered. “I’m not sure. But I tell you that’s the first thing that came into my head when I saw her lying there.”
“So you’re suggesting that a murderer is loose in the theater—someone who is trying to kill illusionists or at least ruin their reputations?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know who that could be. The other acts on the bill, they’re real nice. They seem like gentlemen and it’s not as if they’re Harry’s particular rivals. None of them tries to do what Harry does. Of course he does have his rivals, but not on this bill. And it would be hard for an outsider to get backstage, particularly when a show’s going on.”
She paused, looking at me expectantly.
“So maybe you’d better start by telling me why you suspect someone wants to kill your husband.”
She leaned closer to me. “Ever since he got back to this country last week I’ve had this feeling of danger,” she said. “I can’t explain it, but I’m sort of looking over my shoulder all the time. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do,” I said. “We Celts are supposed to have that sixth sense and it has served me well in the past. So is there anything more concrete than a feeling of danger?”
“I think that we’re being watched,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure that someone tried to break into our house the other night. I heard someone outside. I woke Harry and when he turned on the light the fellow ran off.”
“Surely someone with your husband’s notoriety would be watched all the time,” I said. “He’s a recognizable figure. I imagine that gentlemen of the press would follow him, hoping for a sensational story. And if you really think someone tried to break into your house, then maybe that was also an unscrupulous newspaper reporter, trying to find out how his tricks are done. Or maybe a rival illusionist. That’s what Scarpelli claimed, you know.”
“Did he? Maybe he’s right, but I don’t know who that would be.”
I looked at her sitting there, staring at me with big timid eyes. If the person who wrecked Scarpelli’s act and killed Lily was also out to ruin Houdini, he had already proved that he’d stop at nothing and Mrs. Houdini was right to believe her husband in danger. “But being watched and even a break-in don’t amount to death threats, do they?”
“But there have been other things,” she said. “While Harry was out, a man came to the front door—two days ago, I think it was. I don’t know what there was about him, but he made me afraid. Just the way he asked the questions, they came across as threats. And he said to tell Harry that he’d be back.” She paused and plucked at her muslin skirt nervously. “And when I asked his name, he said that Harry would know who he was.”
“I see,” I said. “Then maybe we are looking in quite another direction. Houdini is an Italian name, isn’t it? Could this be somehow tied to a Sicilian gang to whom your husband might owe money?”
She looked at me and laughed. “Oh, that’s real funny,” she said. “Harry isn’t Italian in any way. He’s Jewish, and he was born in Hungary. His real name is Ehrich Weiss. And I’m German Catholic from Brooklyn. So it’s not likely we’d have dealings with any of these new Italian gangsters.”
“Not all gangsters are Italian,” I pointed out. “I’ve had to deal with a brutal gang on the Lower East Side and they were not at all Italian. Are you sure your husband doesn’t owe money, or hasn’t run foul of the criminal classes?”
She thought about this, then shook her head. “No, Harry’s not like that. The only times he’s borrowed money have been from friends and family. And he’s always good about repaying it. We don’t live beyond our means, Miss Murphy. We still stay at cheap boarding houses and travel third class, even though Harry’s making good money now. Of course he sends a big chunk home to support his mother, like he promised his father he would. He plans to buy her a house pretty soon.”
I didn’t know whether gang members demanded protection money from stage performers. Since these performers were not confined to one area but were constantly on the move, I thought this was unlikely.
“So not a gang member then. What did this man look like?”
“Nothing special. The type of guy you’d pass in the street and not look at twice.”
“Well dressed?”
She frowned as if trying to remember. “Respectable. Like a clerk maybe. Wore a derby. Nothing flashy.”
“So probably not a gang member nor an entertainer,” I said.
She thought about this. “Probably not.”
“Did he actually say anything that you could possibly think was a death threat?”
She thought again, then shook her head. “I can’t say that he did.”
“Then maybe you’re reading more into this than you need to. Maybe your nerves are still upset from what happened the other night after all the travel you’ve been doing recently and the voyage home from Germany.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Oh, sure, seeing that poor girl all sliced open like that did upset my nerves. I mean who wouldn’t be upset when they saw something like that? It’s enough to turn the strongest stomach. But the voyage home was as smooth as anything and Harry was in good spirits, and all.”
“And what about when you were on the Continent? Did you get any feeling of danger over there?”
She thought about it, then shook her head. “Not in the same way. Of course I’m always nervous when we’re away from home—especially on the Continent, you know. The people don’t speak our language and I don’t like the food, and those types over there give Harry the most impossible challenges he should never accept. But he won’t turn them down. He won’t be defeated, no matter what.” And she continued to toy with her skirt, plucking at it, smoothing it. I thought of her hysterics the other night and the way Houdini had babied her. So it was possible that these death threats were all in her overactive imagination. And it was also possible that if that proved to be the case, Houdini, who controlled the purse strings, wouldn’t want to pay me.
“Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “I have heard nothing yet that convinces me that anybody wants to kill your husband. Are you sure you’re not imagining things?”
“Harry’s jumpy too,” she said. “Oh, he’d deny it if you asked him, but something’s not right. He was looking forward to coming home so much, but then I’ve woken at night to see him pacing the room, or sitting at the table scribbling away. And when I ask him what he’s doing, he says working on a new illusion.”
“Well, there you are then. He’s concentrating hard on working it out in his own mind and he won’t be satisfied until he’s got it down on paper.”
“I suppose so,” she said, “but we were out walking once and he looked across the street and grabbed my arm and changed direction. Then he hailed a cab and off we went. And when I asked him what it was about he said he’d seen someone he’d rather not have to talk to.”
This enforced my suspicion about a gang connection. And something of this nature was out of my league.
But at that moment she leaned forward and grasped my hands. “He means everything in the world to me, Miss Murphy. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Please say you’ll help us.”
My sensible side wanted to say no, but a voice in my head was shouting, “This is Houdini, you dolt. Crack this case and you’ll be famous.” Who knows, maybe in solving this, I’d be able to solve the Scarpelli incident as well. I could legitimately be at the theater, snooping around, without having to tell Daniel. All in all an exciting challenge for a detective. Better than divorce cases, anyway. And certainly better than no cases at all.
“All right, Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “I’ll take the assignment. I should tell you that I charge a hundred dollars for a successfully concluded case.”
“The mon
ey is no problem,” she said. “Harry did well for himself in Europe and he’s getting four hundred dollars a week now.”
“Four hundred dollars!” I blurted out thus wrecking the impression I might have given of the sophisticated urbanite detective. But I had no idea entertainers could earn that kind of money when twenty dollars was a good wage for the average employee. Then my mind turned back to more practical matters. Those who make good money often are unwilling to part with it. I had seen this demonstrated before when I had been hired by another famous stage personality, the actress Oona Sheehan. She had done everything in her power to wriggle out of paying me.
“But do you think he’ll be willing to pay me if he has such an aversion to my kind of service?” I asked.
She smiled prettily now. “He’d do anything to make his babykins happy,” she said. “He worships the ground I tread on.”
“Exactly how long are you in New York?” I asked.
“Only three weeks, then we’re booked on the Deutschland to sail back to Europe at the end of the month.”
I still wasn’t sure whether to talk myself out of a job or not. “If it’s only three weeks, then surely it’s hardly worth hiring me, is it? You’ll be safely far away again before you know it.”
“And Harry could be dead,” she said bluntly. “If someone wants him dead, then three weeks is plenty of time to kill him.”
This, of course was true. “All right, Mrs. Houdini. Let’s get started and you can tell me what you want me to do,” I said. I went to the desk and took out a sheet of paper.
“Well,” she said. “After what happened to that poor girl the other night, I’m especially worried that someone is going to try and get at him during his act. It wouldn’t be that hard, you know. One little thing that doesn’t work and you’re a goner. And it looks like an accident. So I want you to be there with him all the time onstage.”
“What?” This came as a bombshell. “You want me onstage?”
She nodded. “Yes, I thought that maybe you could take over my part in the act. Oh, I know you won’t be able to do everything. You’d never be able to learn the famous Metamorphosis that we do—you’re not small enough to fit into the trunk, for one thing. But I can teach you the other things. We open with the mind reading, you know. That always goes down well with the crowd. We’ve done spiritualism in the past too, but Harry’s so against it now that we don’t do it anymore.”
“You really communicated with spirits?”
She laughed. “No, it’s all bunkum. All illusions. My Harry loves to go to these spiritualists’ meetings, then show everyone what frauds they are. They’re really just illusionists like us, Miss Murphy. We’ve never come across a genuine one yet.”
I nodded agreement. “I can believe that. I once had to investigate the Sorensen Sisters. Have you come across them?”
“They’re good,” she said. “Even Harry had to admit they’re convincing. But he’s had great fun exposing some of the others.”
“I don’t suppose they took that well.”
She chuckled. “No, he’s made them mad all right.”
“I was going to ask you if you had any idea as to who might want to wish your husband harm. Certain spiritualists he has exposed should go on my list then. Who else?”
“Everyone worships him,” she said.
“You just said he has his rival illusionists.”
“No one can rival Harry,” she said. “He’s in a class by himself. Oh, he has his imitators right enough—men who call themselves ‘Boudini,’ or ‘Houdani,’ or ‘the Real Handcuff King.’ Harry’s taken on quite a few of them. He loves a good scrap.”
“Fought them, you mean?”
“No, set up a public challenge to do what he does. And on every single occasion they’ve been humiliated. Totally humiliated. He’s made a laughingstock of them.”
“I see. So one of them might well want to get even, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” she said.
“But none of them has actually threatened your husband that you know of?”
“Not that I know of. Of course Harry doesn’t tell me everything. He doesn’t like to worry me.”
This was not going to be easy. If she was delicate and he babied her, there might be quite a lot he didn’t tell her, and was not likely to tell me either. And my first and biggest challenge would be persuading him to take a tall, healthy-looking Irish woman who had never been either dancer or contortionist as his assistant.
“Mrs. Houdini,” I said. “Are you sure you really want me onstage as Houdini’s assistant? Couldn’t I just watch as well from the wings?”
“Of course you could, but people would get suspicious, wouldn’t they? Most theater folk think it’s bad luck to have someone watching backstage.”
“But I could never learn the sort of things you do in such a short time.”
“Let’s face it, the crowd really comes to see Harry. What the assistant does is to distract the audience at the crucial moment. You could do that. And I’m sure we could teach you some of the mind reading too.”
“But I thought the show only ran for the rest of this week. That’s hardly enough time to train me to do anything.”
“Next week we’re in Brooklyn,” she said. “Twelve shows in all. That’s a lot of opportunity for someone who’s up to no good.”
“And how are you going to persuade your husband to go along with this?”
“I tend to have—nervous turns—from time to time. I could easily claim that the sight of that poor girl all sliced up has made my nerves play up again and I simply can’t face going onstage with him. Then I’ll present you as my friend who’s a quick learner.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Your husband saw me the other night.”
“Yes, but he didn’t know who you were, did he? You were just someone on the stage. So that works in our favor. He’ll already associate you with the theater. I’ll tell him I invited you to see the show the other night and you were watching from backstage when the accident happened.”
I examined myself critically. “I don’t look much like a magician’s assistant,” I said. “I’m not petite and delicate enough and I’m certainly not glamorous. And as for a costume . . .” I held up my plain broadcloth skirt.
She frowned, thinking. “That might be a problem,” she said, giggling girlishly. “You certainly wouldn’t fit into mine. I only weigh ninety pounds. And you’re bigger than most. I’ll have to see what I can do. But you said you’d been onstage once. So you know about makeup and that kind of thing.”
“Yes, I do still have my theater makeup, and I know how to apply it,” I said. “And I do have friends in the theater who might be able to help me.”
“That would be swell. I tell you what. Why don’t you come and see the show tonight—as my guest. Come and watch from the wings.”
“I thought you said that was bad luck.”
“We’ll chance it for once. I’ll tell them I’m not feeling well and you’re holding my smelling salts.” She glanced up and smiled. “Then after the show I’ll introduce you to Harry and we’ll take it from there.”
“All right,” I said.
She got to her feet. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, Miss Murphy. It was a godsend meeting you the other night. I’ve been so worried about my poor Harry. This is such a relief.”
“I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Houdini,” I said as I escorted her to the door. But as I closed it behind her I stood in the cool stillness of the front hall, my head buzzing with thoughts and actually feeling sick.
“Molly, my girl, what have you done now?” I said out loud.
Six
The first thing I did was what most women would do in a similar situation: decide that I had nothing to wear. If I was to meet the famous Harry Houdini at the theater tonight and be presented as a future assistant I had to look the part of a theater artiste. And as to finding something I could wear onstage—something like Lily’s glittering white ensemb
le—well, I had no idea where I might rustle up one of those.
I went upstairs and examined the few items of clothing hanging in my wardrobe. My own clothing was plain and practical in the extreme. I had, after all, arrived in this country with literally the clothes on my back and my earnings since had just about kept body and soul together. But at the far back of the wardrobe I found something that encouraged me. It was the outfit Oona Sheehan had lent me when she had hired me to impersonate her. It was a smart black-and-white striped grosgrain two-piece. I took it out and examined it in the light. It was unfortunately rather the worse for wear, having been through a lot while I was in Ireland, but it would do at a pinch for tonight’s meeting with Houdini.
But as to what I could wear as a magician’s assistant . . . I did the next thing I always did in moments of crisis like this: I went across the street to Sid and Gus.
Gus opened the door, a riding crop in one hand and wearing an elegant riding habit. Her cheeks were flushed. “Molly!” she exclaimed. “We’ve just returned from Central Park. We’ve been out riding.”
“Pretending to be Mongolian warriors?” I asked cautiously.
“Not quite. We thought that we ought to brush up our riding skills before we undertook an expedition somewhere wild like the Jersey shore and tried a flat-out gallop along the sands. I’m afraid those poor, tired horses will never be the same, especially after Sid’s little episode.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“You know Sid. Always pushes everything to the limit. First she was most annoyed because they insisted on giving her a sidesaddle. Then she asked if she could ride bareback instead and of course they refused. So no sooner were we out of the stable than she urged the poor animal into a gallop, throwing up the dust along the drive and terrifying children. Then she decided she wanted to see if she could leap into the saddle while the beast was moving, the way they do it in Mongolia.”
