Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  “I’ve heard of the game, of course, but I’m afraid I’ve never played. I’m sure I can learn it if you explain it to me.”

  I laid the checkerboard in front of me and turned it over to reveal a backgammon board. I put the red pieces in their proper places. “Set your checkers as a mirror-image of mine. I’ll get out the dice.”

  Learning the movements of the men by the roll of the dice and the building of safe points took but a few rolls. Within fifteen minutes he was playing with the skill of a veteran player.

  On our first play with one die each, he rolled a six and I a one.

  “Aha! Six-one. I see I can build my seven point. Just try to leap now.”

  I didn’t like his tone of voice. Some rolls later he had a lock-out, all six contiguous points in front of him built, and I had one of my pieces sitting helplessly on the edge of the board waiting for a chance to come back in. It was every backgammon player’s nightmare.

  I glared at him. “You haven’t been truthful with me, Mr. Holmes. I can tell you’ve played the game before. Undoubtedly many times.”

  “I have not, but there’s hardly anything to it. All one needs is a rudimentary knowledge of mathematical probability and an eye for the strategic deployment of pieces, but—mostly—a large dose of luck. The element of luck alone makes the game no match for the skills required to play chess.”

  Blood rising, I asked, “What about the occasions when you have alternatively good options? Or alternatively disastrous?”

  He shrugged. “Those are out of my hands. Do you wish to concede?”

  “Absolutely not! Play on, MacDuff.”

  He did, and I got gammoned. All my pieces were still on the board when he removed the last of his. I’d been playing the game for years and didn’t like being beaten so easily by a rank beginner. In my anger I didn’t tell him I had just lost a double game.

  “Beginner’s luck,” I growled. “Place your pieces. I want a rematch.”

  “This all seems rather pointless,” Holmes protested. “I can see no reason for a player to resign, no matter how hopeless his game may be. All he need do is play on and hope for a miracle.”

  I decided it was impolitic to tell him about gammons and backgammons, or the use of the doubling cube that raised the price of losing exponentially every time it was turned, or that contestants usually played for money. Though he was obviously bored, we played on. I won the occasional game. His evening meal arrived at 6:30.

  He took one look at the salad greens without dressing, chicken broth, gelatin dessert, and tea and ordered me to fetch him something substantial to eat. The best I could do was a ham sandwich on rye from the automat in the hospital restaurant. I delivered it in a napkin when I returned to his room.

  He grumbled with every bite, then finished his tray after he was done with the sandwich. “Hardly enough to feed a partridge.”

  “I don’t remember you being such a hearty eater,” I said.

  “I get bored when I’m away from my laboratory. When is that damnable physician supposed to be here?”

  His mood didn’t improve when I suggested we go back to our backgammon games.

  “An utter waste of time, Wiggins.”

  “Checkers, then?”

  His nostrils flared. “An even bigger waste. I learned all the move combinations years ago so every game will end in a draw or a victory for me. I’m surprised you haven’t done so, too. Why didn’t you bring your chess set?”

  I didn’t want to tell him it was because I never could beat him, so I turned on the radio next to the bed. I had been told every single-patient room in the hospital had a radio. With a derisive snort, Mr. Holmes rolled onto his side to catch a nap.

  It lasted but a few minutes, ending with a knock on the door.

  Not wanting to be seen by someone who might recognize me, I made a dash for the loo. I was glad I did when I heard the voice.

  “Good evening to you. How are we feeling this evening?”

  “Our dear queen and I am quite well, thank you. Are you Dr. Kennedy?”

  Dr. Kennedy sounded as though he was taken aback. “I am. And I take it you are Ralph Howard.”

  “The same. I understand you were Harry Houdini’s surgeon.”

  I hadn’t expected Mr. Holmes to move in for the kill so quickly. Obviously, neither had Dr. Kennedy. Caught off guard, the doctor stammered. “Uh, that’s what it says in the papers. And that is all I will say about it.”

  “You may be required to be a bit more forthcoming in the future, Doctor. Continental Life Insurance has a sizable policy on Mr. Houdini that must pay a double benefit for accidental death. You can understand that we want to be very sure his death was indeed accidental.”

  “Is that so?” Dr. Kennedy said icily. “Then I’ll certainly lodge a complaint with your company. You gained entry to our hospital by feigning illness and now accuse me of malpractice. Your gall astonishes me.”

  Mr. Holmes’s tone softened. “I’m making no such accusation, Doctor. I’ve heard rumors from the police that Mr. Houdini’s death was not caused by a ruptured appendix, but may be the result of a homicide. Poisoning, most likely.”

  I could imagine the doctor’s eyes widening in astonishment. Finally the pot boiled over. “I’m not supposed to talk about this, but that rumor is patently false. There’s no doubt in my mind that he had peritonitis caused by the bursting of a septic appendix. His whole stomach was inflamed. We flushed it several times with saline solution to clear it.”

  I waited for the next exchange. Finally Mr. Holmes said, “Is such inflammation common with peritonitis?”

  “It can be.”

  “What happened to the appendix after it was removed?”

  “I sent it to the hospital laboratory.”

  “And they confirmed your diagnosis?”

  The doctor sighed angrily. “Absolutely. Now I have nothing more to say.”

  Holmes didn’t quit, “Why did you perform a second operation?”

  “No comment.”

  I heard Mr. Holmes swing out of his bed. I was also sure I heard the doctor take a step backward.

  “You knew Mr. Houdini was struck in the stomach between performances in Montreal. Would the blow have been sufficient to rupture the appendix?”

  After a moment’s silence, Kennedy, still angry, said, “Possibly. I’ve never heard of such a thing though. All I know is Mr. Houdini should have been hospitalized long ago. By his own admission he had been sick for more than two weeks when he arrived in Detroit.”

  “I’ll make my report,” Mr. Holmes said. “You can be sure your name will not come up as the source of my information. As things stand, I can’t see how we can come to any other conclusion than that Mr. Houdini’s death was accidental.”

  In a voice so icy it nearly froze me, Kennedy said, “And I will write in my report that you appear to have recovered and should be released tomorrow morning if nothing occurs during the night. To be honest, I’m very tempted to throw you out on your ear right now. I also want it clear I never want you to come within a mile of this hospital again, and will call for your arrest if you do.”

  “Quite understandable. I shall not.”

  I heard the door to the room slam closed, and stepped out.

  “Looks as if you can go back to your nap.”

  Still in ill humor, Mr. Holmes turned on his side and soon began to snore. I listened to the radio for a while and slouched in my chair. I must have dozed off myself for I awoke some time later with Mr. Holmes, dressed in robe and slippers, shaking me.

  “Wake up, Wiggins. We have work to do.”

  I came to with a start. “What time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty. I have heard no one in the hall for nearly an hour.”

  I stretched and got to my feet.
r />   “I expect you know where the records are kept?” Holmes said.

  “I do. I’ve gone there to get information for my articles on numerous occasions. We do have a trek ahead of us, though.”

  “Then let us begin,” he said.

  The hallway outside the door was dark. A ways ahead, a light indicated the nurse’s station. I took the lead in case she suddenly appeared.

  Fortunately she wasn’t at her desk, and we took the stairway down to the first floor. Opening the door to the hallway, I suddenly didn’t remember which way to go.

  “Is there a problem?” Holmes asked in a near whisper.

  “A small one.”

  I caught sight of a linen-covered window. Pulling back the curtain, I saw the lights along the Detroit River. “This way,” I said heading to the right.

  We followed a dimly lit hallway between doors with gilded letters on their windows.

  “These are obviously the business offices,” Holmes muttered. “Do we need to worry about security?”

  “Somewhat. The hospital has a guard who makes regular rounds. One of his stops is here.” I pointed to a keyhole in the wall next to a door marked “Bursar.”

  “I take it you brought your tools, Wiggins. I hope you haven’t forgotten your skill with locks.”

  Before I could answer, I heard whistling beyond the door to the lobby. It seemed to be coming towards us. I dashed for one of the unmarked doors and turned the knob. Locked. Grabbing my astonished friend by the arm, I pulled him toward the second unmarked door. This one opened. I pushed him inside, with me a step behind. The door to the janitor’s closet closed just as the door to the hallway opened.

  The whistling stopped.

  Had I left something behind?

  In a panic, I grabbed the door knob just as whoever was in the hallway tried to turn it. Luckily the knob was at its locked position and it didn’t move with me holding it in place. The guard, or so I assumed, tried two more times before giving up. Then, once again, the person returned to whistling “I’ll See You in My Dreams.”

  Rather badly off-key, I have to say.

  I kept my ear pressed closely against the door and took tiny breaths for several minutes, listening for movement in the hallway. Finally I heard the door to the lobby open and close.

  Even though the coast was clear, I waited in silence another two minutes before turning the knob and stepping out.

  Mr. Holmes’s disposition remained testy. “That was uncomfortably close. I shouldn’t like another such fright again tonight.”

  “It was no stroll in the park for me, either, my dear sir. I hope we can finish our task without further incident.”

  Pressing my ear against the lobby door, I heard a radio playing. It had to be the one next to the reception desk. The guards, all members of the Detroit Police, kept it tuned to KOP in case emergencies were referred during the time they were working at the hospital. It undoubtedly had announced Houdini’s arrival on the fateful night. Most likely, the officer was just a few feet away.

  “This won’t do,” I mumbled.

  “Shall we return to the room?” Mr. Holmes asked.

  “No. I have a better idea.”

  He watched as I took out my pick from my pocket. I chose the door marked Public Relations and unlocked it.

  The room had a large square desk, several filing cabinets, and walls full of photographs. The phone was all that interested me, and I dialed the hospital number.

  To my relief, the guard answered. “Grace Hospital Security Desk.”

  “Hello. This is Doctor Wheeler. I’m on third floor and I thought I heard a strange noise in the hallway. Would you mind coming up to investigate?”

  “Not at all. I’ll be right up.”

  Mr. Holmes stood leaning against the door. I joined him.

  The radio turned off. I waited until I was sure he had time to get on the elevator and cautiously opened the door.

  The lobby was empty, and the records office stood ten feet away.

  Mr. Holmes patted me on my back. “Well done, Wiggins. I see you haven’t lost any of your ingenuity over the years.”

  “Thanks, but we won’t have much time. I have no idea how to find the chart we want.”

  “Hopefully it will be located in alphabetical order.”

  As feared, the door to the records office was the least of our problems.

  The shades to the office were drawn and the room as black as a priest-hole at midnight. I fumbled for the light switch. Turning it on, I let out a groan. I had forgotten the battery of files standing six feet high around the entire office.

  Finding the right file drawer for the “Hs” by trial and error took longer than I hoped. The “HO” section ended with “Hopkins.”

  “Any suggestions?” I asked.

  “I see there are many records sitting on top of the cabinet. Perhaps the one we want hasn’t been put away yet.”

  I doubted it would be among them and, unfortunately, was proven correct. We had wasted more than ten minutes, and I wondered how long it would take for the guard to return.

  “Maybe the hospital doesn’t keep his file with the others,” I said.

  Mr. Holmes had moved to another cabinet. “These are files for the various physicians. You don’t suppose . . .”

  He stopped short at the sound of someone moving in the lobby. My worst fears were confirmed with the sound of the radio. Not only did we not have Houdini’s medical file but we were trapped in the office until the guard made another inspection round.

  After remaining frozen in place for what seemed an eternity, I tiptoed to stand next to Mr. Holmes.

  The first drawer creaked when we pushed it back in.

  With a shrug we opened the drawer beneath it. A large manila marker with the name Leonard Kennedy stood at the front.

  I squatted and began to finger through the files. One was turned backwards. Turning it around showed the word Confidential in block letters on the front. Instead of a name it had 10/30/26 written at the top.

  There was no disguising whose file it was.

  We both whirled at the sound of the door opening in back of us.

  Chapter 6

  A blue-shirted officer stood near the door, a revolver in his hand. “I thought I heard noises in here. Put your hands up.”

  We did.

  “Let’s go to the desk so I can call the station.”

  I took a step forward, then stopped in my tracks. At first I had been too frightened to recognize the voice. Then I did. “It wouldn’t be Officer Michael O’Reilly, now, would it?”

  The officer looked startled. “How do you know that?”

  “I’m the one who cleared you when your former partner was smuggling heroin in from Canada and tried to blame it on you—”

  O’Reilly stepped forward to take a closer look. “Wiggins? What are you doing here?”

  “My job. We’re trying to find out what really happened to Houdini before he died.”

  “The coroner says he died of an appendicitis attack.”

  “We think he may have been poisoned. There’s only one way to know for sure.”

  “Fine, but you know very well this isn’t the way to do it. You have to leave.”

  “We don’t have any choice. Someone put out a gag order.”

  O’Reilly motioned toward Mr. Holmes. “Who’s this?”

  “Dr. Trevor Claybrook, Timothy’s uncle,” Holmes said.

  “What do you intend to do with the file? I can’t let you walk away with it.”

  Without waiting for permission, Holmes opened the folder. “Give me five minutes. No one will ever realize it’s been disturbed.”

  O’Reilly looked hesitant, then holstered his weapon. “Five minutes. If any of this ever
gets out, I’ll be fired. If I do,” he gestured toward his holster, “I’ll come looking for you.”

  “I promise you, it won’t get out,” I said.

  I found a place to sit on a sturdy pile of unfiled medical records. A short time later, Mr. Holmes set the file back into the cabinet. “Very interesting,” he said. “There is much to consider here.”

  O’Reilly led us to the elevators. I thanked him and he left us. I expected to get a report whilst we waited, but Mr. Holmes refused to speak until we were back in the room.

  “Are you going to tell me now, or are you going to make me wait some more?”

  “No need to get feisty, Wiggins. I merely wanted time to digest all the new information. Would you pour me some water, please?”

  Grumbling under my breath, I filled the tumbler from his table and handed it to him.

  “Thank you. To begin with, most of what Dr. Kennedy told us and what appeared in your paper is correct. Mr. Houdini’s appendix was inflamed. Whether it had burst naturally or was affected by the blow to the abdomen are other matters entirely.”

  My ill temper disappeared immediately. “Why do you say that?”

  “There’s a photograph of the appendix in Dr. Kennedy’s file. It appears to be normal to me.”

  “Not to denigrate your innumerable skills, but you’re not a physician.”

  “Quite so. That’s why I took the picture out of the file. I’ll have Sir Arthur take a look at it for me.”

  “You’re going to mail the photo to him? We won’t hear from him for quite a while.”

  “He’s waiting for us in Boston. I wired him the first night I was aboard ship. He isn’t too happy about it, but he agrees it was in his best interests to make the trip. In the meantime, we can pay a visit to Dr. Cohn in the morning. He has an office not far from here.”

  Chapter 7

  With all the excitement of the day, I barely slept. The indefatigable Sherlock Holmes snored heavily the entire night. When he woke, he had the nerve to say I looked peaked.