Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  His ill humor had left him. Now I had it.

  Breakfast of bacon, toast, scrambled eggs, and orange juice arrived at seven o’clock. Mr. Holmes wolfed it down without offering any to me. An hour later, the nurse arrived and told us we were free to leave. All that was left to do was to stop at the teller’s window to pay for the ambulance and hospital stay.

  I grimaced when I saw the bill. Fifteen dollars was an outrageous tariff, at least ten times what a hotel room would cost.

  Mr. Holmes must have noticed my expression when I wrote out the check.

  “Why such a long face? You can be sure I’ll reimburse you from my cache of gold sovereigns as soon as I can get to a bank.”

  “If you’re going to a bank, you better change your clothes first. You look like you’ve slept under a bridge. You’ll be arrested for theft for certain.”

  “Good point indeed. I hadn’t considered that.”

  “I’ll loan you the money. I haven’t shared with the needy for quite some time.”

  A quick walk brought us to Bond’s Department Store where I outfitted him with a flannel shirt, trousers, suspenders and an earflap cap for two dollars. A heavy fleece-lined jacket set me back an additional ten.

  Arms bulging with my purchases, I led him to the dressing room and waited for him to come out.

  I was more than happy to see him without his tweeds and told him so. Mr. Holmes had nothing to say about that but was less than enthusiastic about the cap. I told him it helped him fit in with the local population.

  Jaw set, he nodded and put it on his head. Earflaps dangled.

  I kept a straight face, but I pictured Mycroft falling over laughing.

  Our next stop was 321 West Lafayette Avenue and the top-floor office of Edward W. Scripps. Though Mr. Scripps was busy in conference, his secretary handed me a letter confirming that, as Mr. Holmes had told me, I was indeed on special assignment for the paper and promised a thousand-dollar bonus if the results were as newsworthy as expected.

  I began planning a trip for two to the Bahamas as I read it.

  My boss, Harold Mitchell, came to wish me luck, ignoring Holmes. He had been the managing editor for only a short time, replacing my one-time drinking mate Phil J. Reed, but we got along well. He had an affinity for me as a devotee of true crime stories and envied me my position.

  “Mr. Scripps told me to do whatever you need to get your story. He wants to keep everything under wraps.”

  “I understand,” I said. “It would be a great help if I could use you personally as a clearing house for messages. We can have messages sent here and pick them up by telephone for response.”

  “Great idea. No one else would need to know.”

  Mr. Holmes was anxious to get to the bank and left me at my desk. I used the time to fill in Charlie Hoffman on my routine. When he asked why I would be gone, I answered, “Violet and I are taking a vacation. I haven’t been away from my desk for two years. I’ve always heard Nassau is smashing at this time of year.”

  “Then I take it you’re still together.”

  “Yes. I’ve got a sore leg though.”

  “You got off light. I would have thought you’d be wearing a truss for your whirlygigs for the rest of your life.”

  “You’re the cat’s pyjamas, Charlie.”

  Holmes returned and I handed Charlie the key to my desk. “Feel free to help yourself to anything except the cigars. They’re Cuban, and I counted them so I’ll know if any are missing.”

  When he answered “Yes, m’lord,” Holmes threw me a puzzled expression.

  In the street I stopped to take a long look at the many windows of the Free Press Building glistening in the sunlight. Albert Kahn had created a marvelous work of art when he designed the structure, and I could almost see myself sitting at my desk, third window, fourth floor from the corner on the west side. Why did it seem as though I never would be coming back?

  Holmes patiently waited until I turned away. “Shall we go to Dr. Cohn’s office now?”

  “No. The Downtown Grill. You seem to forget I haven’t eaten yet.”

  Daniel Cohn, MD, had a small office above a Kosher delicatessen on Woodward Avenue just north of downtown. I passed the building every day on my way to work. The doctor was a new face in the neighborhood, just finishing his residency. The aromas from the business below followed us up the wooden stairway to his office. Did the fumes make his clientele hungry—or merely nauseate them? Either, I supposed, depending on their condition.

  Unlike Dr. Kennedy, Dr. Cohn was more than happy to speak to us, especially when he heard I worked for the Free Press. Gesturing for us to sit on his examination table, he started in.

  “I just hung my shingle out here a month ago, and every day I’m getting requests for interviews from all over the world. Everyone in the neighborhood has been in to see me and a journalism student from Ann Arbor came in to interview me. The article in the New York Times mentioning my name has made me famous.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure you deserve all the attention you get. I understand Mr. Houdini came to see you on the twenty-sixth complaining of stomach pains.”

  “I gave him some bicarbonate of soda. It seemed to make him feel better. He also said his feet burned. I said that wouldn’t be too surprising since he had a broken ankle. He said they both burned. I gave him a bottle of aloe balm. Later that night, he came back and thanked me for my help. Then he asked me if I wanted to join him for ‘Farmer’s Chop Suey.’ It’s a Jewish dish the delicatessen makes of vegetables and sour cream. I had them send some up to us. I’m sure he liked that I’m Jewish.”

  “Did you see him again on the thirtieth?”

  He nodded. “It was a Saturday and he called me at my home. I met him in the office. He had a 101-degree temperature, and bicarbonate didn’t give him any relief. He had a grayish pallor. I told him he should check into a hospital.”

  “Did he give you any reason why he wasn’t going to do that?”

  “He said he was used to pain and that he had some important things to do on stage that night.”

  I took a deep breath. “Do you have any reason to suspect anything other than peritonitis caused his death?”

  “Absolutely not. I saw the appendix after Dr. Kennedy removed it. He had all the symptoms.”

  Holmes and I traded glances. Why did Sir Arthur think the police suspected him of being involved in a homicide? I’d heard no rumors of it from any of my friends on the force, though they all were discussing his death.

  “Have you had any contact with Mrs. Houdini or his brother?”

  Dr. Cohn’s face lit up. “They both wrote to thank me for my help, and his brother singled me out in his interview with the New York Times. They were both pleased I was at Mr. Houdini’s bedside when he died.”

  “Do you recall his last words?”

  “Yes. He said, ‘I am weaker. I guess I’ve lost the fight.’”

  “It sounds as if he was resigned to his fate.”

  “Very much so. He was a most cooperative patient the entire time he was in the hospital.”

  “Was his wife with him throughout?”

  “She was in another room with what was diagnosed as food poisoning. Houdini’s brother, Theo, was there throughout.”

  The room suddenly was filled with the aroma of corned beef.

  Dr. Cohn inhaled deeply. “Ah, they’re making Reuben sandwiches. One or another of the Weinstein family comes in to see me nearly every day with some complaint or another. This morning I gave the daughter some aspirin for a headache. My payment is always a sandwich and chicken soup. I haven’t had to lay out a thin dime for lunch since I started here.”

  “A very pleasant arrangement,” said Mr. Holmes. “Do you have any idea why Mr. Houdini was so anxious to perform that night?”

&n
bsp; “No. When I asked him, he asked me if I ever saw his movies. I told him I hadn’t.” He said, ‘You’d understand why if you had.’”

  Holmes looked at me quizzically.

  “My wife and I have seen them all,” I said. “They’re mostly about him being a spy and working for the secret service. The stunts were exciting, but some of the audience booed when he had to kiss his co-star.”

  “He was a master showman,” Dr. Cohn said, “but he did seem shy in that respect. I’ve never seen anyone of any age in better physical condition, and he said he had trained every inch of his body to help him perform his tricks. To prove it, he took off a shoe and sock and wrote out and signed his check to me with his good foot. He said he would have been happy to sew a button on my smock, too, but he couldn’t do it with a broken ankle. We both got a laugh out of that.”

  “I’m sure I would have liked him.” said Mr. Holmes. “Do you have a card? I may have some more questions for you later.”

  “Right here. I just got my new ones back from the printer.”

  He handed one to each of us. At the bottom of the card were the words, “Attending physician to Harry Houdini in his last days.”

  I wondered if the good doctor realized the words could be taken in more than one way.

  Chapter 8

  We caught the northbound trolley on Woodward Avenue just outside the doctor’s office. There were few riders, and we settled into a cane-back seat by ourselves. I always enjoyed riding the trolley, though I hadn’t used it much lately because I was so excited about my new auto. I still enjoyed watching the people and listening to the clanging of the bell when it started and stopped. The main library was on Fifty-Fourth and Woodward, just a few steps away from Wayne State College and not far from our home on Adelaide Street. Violet said she was roasting a beef rump for supper.

  Conversation turned to Dr. Daniel Cohn. We both found him likable and felt he had a fine future. Whether we had learned much of value about Harry Houdini from our visit was debatable, though I thought it might be important Houdini considered himself to be a spy.

  Mr. Holmes had no doubts. “He was acting as one nearly every day of his adult life. Just as someone else I know did for some years.”

  I snorted.

  “If he were investigating someone, obviously it must be a local. I expect I might find the name in the social columns of the papers.”

  “Excellent thinking, Wiggins. I also suggest you should contact the theatre. He may have arranged for free tickets for his newest ‘victimizer victim.’ I have a considerable amount of research to do on my own. I’m sure there must be scores of eyewitness accounts of what happened at the performance.” He paused. “Though none as accurate or as well-written as yours, of course.”

  “That goes without saying,” I replied. From anyone else, his compliment could have been taken as a satirical dig.

  The ride ended near the front of a large Italianate building. Holmes stopped in his tracks, amazed. “This is a library?”

  I had to explain it was less than four years old and the pride of Detroit. Much of the funding came from Andrew Carnegie, but local business and civic leaders contributed additional funds far beyond the original grant to make it as impressive as any of the buildings in our nation’s capitol. The lengthy façade resembled a portico, and its seven tall, arched windows ensured an abundance of natural lighting. Violet and I proudly contributed two hundred dollars of our own money to the building fund.

  “This is a great city,” I said. “Detroit is London two hundred years ago. Some day, everyone in America will own an automobile and Detroit will be bigger and richer than Chicago—or New York, for that matter.”

  “We do live in exciting times,” Holmes mumbled. “I just wonder how long prosperity will last.”

  “Some think forever.”

  “What do you think?” Holmes asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “I do also. Mycroft says the whole world is in great peril if it doesn’t. He thinks the Great War did nothing but create a cancer that is eating at Europe’s entrails, and that it’ll burst forth to consume the whole body someday. The only thing holding it in check is a booming economy.” He paused. “Enough of that. Let’s see if the library’s contents match its appearance.”

  At least in my estimation they did.

  We sat at opposite ends of the table in the periodical room. Stories about Houdini already filled three large scrapbooks and Mr. Holmes sat studying them, every so often looking away, only to nod his head and return to his reading.

  As a boy, I remember him sitting in his armchair at 221B Baker Street with the same expression, pausing occasionally to sip from his teacup. He always made sure Mrs. Hudson had milk for me, and at times took my glass to pour some into his Oolong. In all my visits I never once saw him with his violin, let alone playing it, and rarely found him smoking his pipe.

  In other words, I was a victim of a deprived childhood.

  My own endeavours bore little fruit. Mitzi Cornwall, the spiritualist who had gotten the most newsprint, regularly called upon a “familiar” named Oswald. Oswald was a rogue spirit who had been shot dead during a bank robbery and had a bad habit of running a ghostly hand up inside the dresses of the ladies present. Participants always knew of his presence by the screams, although, surprisingly, some women remained silent. Despite his British name, Oswald spoke Polish and frequently visited Hamtramck in his forays around the spirit world.

  Houdini would never have bothered with her.

  A more likely candidate was A.J. Baker. According to an article in the News, his customers had to wait a week before being allowed into the séance room after making an initial payment of seventy-five dollars. That was almost as much as I made in a month. I’m sure the extra time was used to make a full investigation of his victim’s background before the actual performance.

  According to Mitzi, customers paid another fifty dollars on the night of the seance . They were then led into an empty room, seated at a table and told to wait. According to the reporter who attended the séance, Baker made his appearance by “walking through a wall” to occupy his decorative chair. Though she doubted her own eyes, Mitzi could find no semblance of a hidden door or other entrance where he had emerged.

  In the course of the séance, Baker’s turbaned head fell back over the top of the chair and his mouth opened. Then a ghostly voice came from his stomach. The voice addressed each of those present, answering questions from his assistant that only the participant could know. After that, each was given a message from beyond, and all the attendees left the session happy. No one ever seemed to think they had been flummoxed.

  In other words, Baker fit Houdini’s bill for exposure perfectly.

  I pushed my stack of papers aside, then stood and stretched. “Will you be much longer? I’m finished now.”

  “I expect I’ve seen all I need to see, also.”

  “I’ll call Violet. There’s a payphone in the foyer.”

  Violet had decided to make Mr. Holmes feel at home with a beef roast with Yorkshire pudding, browned parsnips, and rocket salad. I got seeds for the spicy greens in Britain and she grew them in our garden. She had even whipped up a trifle for desert.

  I always wondered at American women’s thinking. Why would a visitor want to eat the same food he could get at home? Wouldn’t a true Yankee dinner be more interesting? After serving him his food, she scarcely gave him a chance to eat a spoonful, regaling him with non-stop questions.

  The first one was inevitable. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes?”

  “My alter ego. I barely remember my real name anymore.”

  Arms firmly planted on the tabletop, she coyly rested her chin on her knuckles.

  “Have you ever been married?” she asked sweetly.

  “No, by choice.”

 
“Have you ever been in love?”

  “If you call deep respect and fond feelings love, yes. I’ve never been sure what exactly it is.”

  Violet’s third degree continued. I let her continue for ten minutes before stepping in to remind her to let him eat.

  Now it was my turn to be grilled. I answered her questions about the adventures in the hospital as she asked them, but did not find myself duty-bound to answer with my mouth full.

  “Do you really think you would have gone to jail if Officer O’Reilly hadn’t been on duty?”

  “No. They know me well enough at the station. I’m sure they would have sent me home instead of arresting me. At least one or two of them would be interested in what really happened to Mr. Holmes.”

  “I can’t even tell you how exciting all of this is for me,” Violet twittered. “I started a scrapbook and saved all the news accounts.” She paused and continued in a conspiratorial tone. “I’ve even noticed something that may be important to you.”

  Holmes and I stared at her.

  Giggling, she got to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  “What a delightful woman, Wiggins.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  Violet returned with a large scrapbook. She had pasted a picture of Houdini on the cover. Fingering through the first pages, she stopped.

  “Here. This is a picture taken of him eight weeks before he died.”

  Mr. Holmes and I studied it for a few seconds.

  She paged ahead to where she had loosened an article with a similar portrait. Removing it, she returned to the first one and set them side by side.

  “Do you see any difference between the photographs?”

  Both showed full-face snapshots. I studied them, then shook my head. “I don’t. How about you, Mr. Holmes?”

  “They appear to be identical to me.”

  She giggled again, this time in triumph. “Look at the hairline in the first picture. He is nearly bald to the crown of his head, but you can see there is a fringe showing at the very top.”