by Raymond John
We bent forward to take a closer look. “I see what you mean,” said Holmes.
“Now look at the newest one. It was taken the night of the performance.”
Holmes and I looked at each other again. “It’s gone,” I said. “Maybe the camera angle is different.”
“It’s exactly the same,” Holmes said. “The picture is clear enough to show that Mr. Houdini appears to have lost some hair. Excellent observation, Mrs. Wiggins. Timothy, find your card with Dr. Cohn’s phone number.”
I drummed my fingers impatiently against my pant leg until Dr. Cohn answered.
After identifying myself, I said, “I apologize for bothering you so late, but there’s one question I’d like to ask you about Mr. Houdini’s visits.”
“Ask away,” he said, sounding entirely genial.
“Did you notice any hair loss?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, some fell out while we were eating and he had to brush it off his shoulder so it wouldn’t fall into his food. I remember he had curly hair and kept it well-trimmed.”
“Did he mention his hair loss to you?” I asked.
“No, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if it hadn’t fallen out while we were eating. I completely forgot about it. Did I miss something?”
“No. Absolutely not. Thank you for your assistance.”
Mr. Holmes’s face was aglow. “Our first major clue.” He turned to Violet, who looked equally pleased. “Well done, my lady.”
I was the one to kiss her, though I suspect she had hoped to get one from him, too.
Chapter 9
Though it was against my better judgment, I had Violet drive when we picked up Holmes in front of the Palms the next morning. He was in a foul mood, cursing the entire way to the library because he had forgotten to bring his notebook on poisons with him.
“Inexcusable, Wiggins. I knew we would need it. I can clearly see my age has caught up with me.”
“Nonsense. You can find what you need in the library.”
“A needless trip.”
“Not at all. I wanted to research some poisons myself. I assume arsenic isn’t the culprit,but it’s the only poison I can think of associated with hair loss.”
“The logical choice, but that would be too easily detected. What I remember about the poison I’m referring to is that it’s a fairly rare element in the boron family and is sometimes used as a rat poison.”
“A metal?”
“Yes, indeed. Very good. Your memory is undoubtedly better than mine. All I need is a book with the periodic table in it. I know I’ll recognize what I’m looking for as soon as I see it.”
Mr. Holmes dashed through the door and found his way to the Reference Room. Hands shaking, he opened a folio-sized chemistry book and laid it flat on the table. “Aha. Come here, Wiggins.”
His index finger flew over the symbols and stopped on the right side of the chart. “Here it is.”
I looked down. “What’s TL?”
“Thallium. It comes from the Greek word for ‘green twig,’ because Sir William Crookes discovered a green line in his spectroscope while analyzing ore samples for the presence of gold. He was expecting a yellow line from tellurium, which is a common alloy produced in mining. It turned out to be a new element.” Holmes slapped his forehead with both hands. “I’m amazed I couldn’t remember it. What else have I forgotten?”
I sympathized, knowing from personal experience what he meant. “Your mind is a vast library, Mr. Holmes. You may not remember everything you’ve read at one time or another, but the most important thing is you still know where to find what you need to know.”
He looked unconvinced.
“Okay. You forgot thallium. Tell me about tellurium.”
“Tellurium isn’t a poison, so I haven’t paid much attention to it,” he said with a dismissive wave. “It was discovered by a Rumanian scientist who was the chief inspector of mines in that country. Tellurium is produced in the mining of gold. Von Reichenstein thought it was antimony but realized it was something else. I don’t remember how it occurs naturally.”
Finished, he made a face and shook his head. “Mere elementary chemistry, Wiggins. Hardly of any importance whatsoever.”
“On the contrary, sir, it is of extreme importance. Perhaps not to our investigation, but still highly important. Despite what you may think, your mind is as sharp as it ever was. Time has just put a nick or two in the blade.”
He still looked unhappy. “I appreciate your words of comfort, Wiggins. Be that as it may, I have a few more references to look up, then we can be on our way.”
My colleague’s mood had improved markedly by the time we were at the bus stop, waiting to go home. Better still, he showed signs of genuine excitement I hadn’t noticed from the time of his arrival.
“We’re on the right track, dear friend. Hair loss and peripheral pain are two of the main symptoms of Thallium poisoning. I can easily understand why the doctors who treated him were unaware of what was causing his agony. Thallium sulfate is a particularly insidious type of poison. It’s exactly the same size molecule as potassium and metabolized as such. It interferes with processing sulfur. It’s unfortunate Mr. Houdini didn’t realize what was happening to him. He could have been cured with Paris Blue if he’d been treated early enough.”
“He was buried on the fourth of November” I said. “We could contact Mrs. Houdini to see if she would agree to have him exhumed for an autopsy. The information we’ve uncovered should be sufficient to warrant one.”
Mr. Holmes nodded with enthusiasm. “Excellent suggestion. I’ll wire her immediately. However, she may be unwilling. The results, if positive for thallium, would prove he didn’t die an accidental death, and that could cause some problems for his estate.”
“Should we contact the New York Police Department, then?”
“The official cause of death on the certificate is peritonitis. I doubt they’d execute an exhumation order without more evidence. Inquests are expensive, and Mrs. Houdini would most likely have to pay for it . . . along with possible insurance issues.”
“One thing I don’t understand. Why would Sir Arthur say the police suspect him as an accomplice to murder?”
“That is something we will have to find out from him.”
Our trolley ride ended in short order and we got out at Adelaide Street. Like many of the streets crossing Woodward, both sides were walled off at the intersection to resemble a gate. We lived in the third house on the south side.
The Chevrolet awaited us beside the house. I could hear the hum of a vacuum cleaner within our house. Violet was at war with her mortal enemy. Dust.
As I expected, Mr. Holmes got in on the driver’s side, and I offered him the key.
He got out with a harrumph. “Why do you silly Americans persist in driving on the wrong side of the road?”
I saw my opening to avenge my humiliation playing backgammon. “We drive on the right to honor the French, our allies when America gained independence. They drove their teams of horses with the driver sitting over the leftmost horse. You drive on the left because knights on horses carried their weapons in their right hand. I’m amazed you didn’t know that.”
Eyes glittering, Mr. Holmes’s mouth opened, then closed without a word. I heard him grumble as he slid next to me. “I trust you know how to get to this A.J. Baker’s séance parlor.”
“He’s in St. Clair Shores. It’s more than ten miles from here.”
“I’m surprised he lives so far from the city.”
“I think he wants the privacy. Anyone who comes to see him must have a strong incentive to do so. Mrs. Henry Ford reputedly visited him a while ago. As you know, the wealthy do not like to throw away their money.”
“Quite true. Would you mind stopping somewhere on
the way? I would like to purchase a newspaper.”
Chapter 10
I let him read until we arrived at our destination, interrupting him only once on the way to point out the superstructure of the giant rollercoaster at Jefferson Beach now under construction. The first dip was supposed to be more than two hundred feet.
Holmes seemed impressed. “Amazing. The one at Blackpool is much smaller.”
“Have you ridden on it?”
“Of course. I wanted to find out what all the screaming was about. I found the whole experience incredibly boring.”
“Boring? You didn’t feel an adrenalin rush when you started to hurtle downward? Cameron and I drive to Flint to ride the roller coaster at least two or three times a month. We both love it.”
“Chacun a son gout, mon ami. But I’m delighted you have a son, Wiggins. I regret it is one of the pleasures I’ll never experience.”
Regret. I didn’t know that word even was in Holmes’ vocabulary.
“How far are we from our destination?”
“We’re almost there.”
Less than a mile, it turned out. Just north on Eight-Mile Road and off a long driveway leading to a house not visible from the thoroughfare. The location was unmarked, and easily passed unless a driver had a map, furnished by Baker himself, to find it.
The house itself was immense, dark and gabled. Foreboding in daylight, it had to be terrifying at night. Unlike most mediums, Baker obviously wanted to scare his clients. The easier to deceive them, perhaps.
I gathered the press camera from the trunk and followed Mr. Holmes to the door.
The door knocker, a dragon head and wings, was welded tightly against the striker plate. I pushed the button next to the door and a bell sounded somewhere deep within the bowels of the establishment.
Moments later, the door opened. A young ebon-haired woman wearing a silk dress, shawl, and sandals greeted us.
“Good morning, gentlemen. You must be the reporters from the London Times. Please come in.”
I followed Holmes inside, still wondering how he had pulled off the ruse so easily.
“Mr. Baker isn’t here right now, but he asked me to show you the séance room and answer any questions you might have. Did you see the article about us in the Detroit Times?”
“I read it on the way here,” Holmes said. “Very impressive. I’m sure that’s why my editor was willing to pay the expenses to get a story. I heard a dog bark when we got out of our auto. Does it belong to Mr. Baker?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want trespassers on his property. We haven’t had much trouble, but students from the high school occasionally come here for thrills.”
“I can quite understand that. How long has Mr. Baker been in business?”
“More than ten years.”
My eyes flitted quickly about the room. This had to be the business area with a tiger-maple desk, flowering banana plant and a calendar with a picture of snow-covered mountains beside it.
“When did Mr. Baker discover he had a gift?”
“When he was twelve. His older brother, Sidney, had drowned and contacted him in a dream one night. Sidney knew Albert felt responsible for his death because Albert had challenged Sidney to swim under a diving platform on the lake. Sidney hit his head and drowned. Albert cried himself to sleep for months afterward.”
“How tragic,” said Mr. Holmes. “That must have been very difficult for him.”
“Yes. But Sidney came to visit his brother on the night before Albert’s next birthday and told him not to mourn because he knew it was just an accident, and he still loved him very much. Sidney also said he had a birthday gift for him and that he’d find out what it was very soon.”
I had to force myself not to smile. Surprise, surprise. What could that be?
“The next day Albert told his mother about his dream, but she said she didn’t believe him. When he repeated Sidney’s name, Albert immediately went into a trance. Sidney and his mother had a long, loving conversation, and, when they were done, Sidney promised to come back whenever she wanted to talk to him. After that, his mother gave all her money to Albert and told him she wanted him to make full use of his gift to contact the dead because everyone had experienced the death of a loved one and needed comfort. From that time on, Sidney would come at any time he was called and would answer questions the living had for the departed loved ones in the spirit world.”
Good speech. She must have repeated it hundreds of times.
“Mr. Baker charges a substantial fee for his services,” Mr. Holmes said. “What does he do with the proceeds?”
“He’s saving to start a school of spiritualism. The building and equipment will be very expensive. All of those who have used his services will become fiduciary partners and share in any financial profits the school might make.”
Fiduciary? Even Holmes’s brows raised at the word.
“Very generous,” Holmes said. “Does he have a date when this school might open?”
“Hopefully within a year or two. Would you like to see the séance room now?”
“Actually, I’d like a picture of you at the entrance of the house first,” I said. “Would you mind?”
“Of course not.”
She followed me out to the vestibule and stood in the open doorway. I made her take as many poses as I could without arousing her suspicion. I finally chose one with the ivy on the side of the house framing the picture nicely. Though I didn’t need the flash, I used it anyway.
“Now turn sideways as if you welcoming me to come in.”
She had a nice smile.
“One more,” I said with my most appealing expression.
I took two more snaps of the front of the house with her standing in the doorway. As we walked inside, I hoped Mr. Holmes had made good use of the precious seconds alone I had bought him.
“Back so soon?” he said. “Show me what happens on séance night.”
“I welcome them at the door and ask them to take off their footwear. After that they are requested to put their coats and purses in the closet.”
She pointed.
“Then I lead them into the visitation room.”
The word sounded like it referred to a reviewal area in a funeral parlor. Most appropriate, somehow.
Holmes was already in the séance room. Our hostess walked to a table just inside the door. An Edison phonograph with a wind-up handle came to life playing a scratchy version of Wagner’s overture to Parzival.
Unexpected, but certainly better than Chopin’s Funeral March. The mood changed from frightening to dramatic. Baker definitely wanted his victims to know who was in charge.
“We leave the lights off until Mr. Baker makes his appearance. Guests sit around the table facing his chair at the rear.”
Though dimly lit, there was enough light from the hallway that I could see the chairs. “May I take a picture, please?”
“Certainly.”
The room exploded in light, and it took several seconds before I could see again. I could hardly believe I would make such a stupid rookie mistake to not close my eyes.
“The article in the News says Mr. Baker makes his appearance by coming through the wall,” Holmes said. “Which one?”
She walked to the one at the right. “He enters dressed in a red silk Persian tunic and trousers and hands a rose to everyone in attendance.”
Holmes continued. “Where does he come from?”
“I don’t know. It really isn’t any of my business.”
“Perhaps he was in the garden picking the roses. There’s nothing on the other side of this wall but the outside of the building.”
She shrugged.
“I’d like a shot of the wall,” I said. “I know our readers will want to see where he appears.”
“Go right ahead. Mr. Baker won’t mind.”
This time I closed my eyes.
“Where are you whilst the séance is in progress?” Mr. Holmes asked.
“Sitting at the table next to Mr. Baker. I ask Sidney the guests’ questions.”
“Interesting. Why is that?”
“I have to read them to him. The only ones who speak during the session are Sidney and me.”
“Is it true Sidney’s voice comes from Mr. Baker’s stomach?”
“Yes. It’s quite frightening, though Sidney is always very polite and cares very much for the ones who have come to visit him.”
“How does he come onto the scene?”
“Mr. Baker calls him, then he goes into a trance.”
“I see this is an oak floor,” added Mr. Holmes. “Ten foot long sections, I’d say.”
“Yes. This is a very old house. One of the first in the township. Mr. Baker inherited it from his parents.”
“Does it have a basement?”
“If so, I’m not aware of it.”
Mr. Holmes threw her a sharp-eyed look. “Was Mr. Baker invited to Harry Houdini’s performance on Halloween eve?”
“I don’t know. I do know he didn’t have a séance that evening.”
“Are you having one tonight?”
“Yes. We always start just after dark.”
“You’ve been most helpful. I do wish I could have spoken to your employer in person, but you have answered all my questions admirably. Thank you, Miss . . . I don’t believe I heard your name.”
“Van Dyke. Myrtle Van Dyke. I live in the village.”
She stood on the porch and waved as I backed around to return to the highway. I was anxious to hear Mr. Holmes’s findings, but he told me to wait with my questions until we were well away from the mansion.
“Why so mysterious? Certainly she can’t hear us here.”
“My mind is still digesting the results of our findings. I can tell you for certain that Mr. Houdini would most definitely have been very anxious to expose Mr. Baker’s shenanigans. Do you know the location of the registrar of deeds for the city?”
