Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  “It’s in Port Huron, I believe. I’ll take you there.”

  I dropped him off at Grand River Avenue. He was so lost in thought I knew I’d only be intruding on his concentration, so I told him to meet me at the coffee shop around the corner when he was finished.

  The doughnuts were frosted and a very good buy for seven cents. Unfortunately the coffee was way overpriced at a nickel. I considered ordering a tea bag; their version of coffee was mere hot water.

  I was nearly finished with my second doughnut when Mr. Holmes sat next to me in my booth.

  I offered him what was left of the pastry, but he ignored me. “Finish up quickly, Wiggins. We have to get back to your library.”

  Chapter 11

  Holmes didn’t speak for much of the return trip. Finally unable to control myself, I said, “Your silence is rude and intolerable. I demand to know what you’ve discovered or I’ll deposit you at the nearest train station and let you find your own way back to your hotel.”

  “My apologies, Wiggins. I see I’ve operated alone far too long. To be truthful, I have only but a glimmer of an incomplete picture. One thing I can definitely say, Mr. Baker is a fraud.”

  “I gathered that much. How do you know?”

  “For one thing, he doesn’t walk through a wall into the séance room. He comes from somewhere in the house, undoubtedly the basement. I expect your photos will give us a clue as to where to look.”

  “I’ll get them developed immediately. What about Sidney?”

  To answer, Mr. Holmes’s head dropped back over the seat and a strange voice came from his stomach. “Don’t run off the road, Wiggins.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “Ventriloquism, dear fellow. It’s a trick many so-called mediums employ. You can purchase a pamphlet about how to throw your voice for twenty-five cents from an advertisement in Popular Mechanics. I got my book from an ad in the Daily Mirror.”

  “So Baker is a charlatan like all the others. What difference does it make? Did he poison Houdini?”

  Mr. Holmes sighed. “He did not. In fact that’s the only thing we know for sure. Thallium-induced hair loss doesn’t begin until at least two to three weeks after ingestion, so the poisoning had to have happened while he was en route to Detroit. This is fortunate for our investigation in narrowing down the time frame, but it does eliminate Mr. Baker as a suspect.”

  “So why did you want to look at the tax records for the house?”

  “To trace ownership, of course. Good Mr. Baker’s original surname isn’t Baker, it’s Becker, another spelling for the German word for baker. Albert anglicized it. I want to see if there’s some reason why he did so.”

  “I’m sure I already know why. Many German-Americans were openly pro-German when the war started. When the U.S. entered the war on the Allied side, these supporters became worried they’d be considered traitors.”

  “For good reason,” Holmes said.” Anything sounding anti-American could get them beaten, jailed or even murdered.”

  “Yes. Before we joined the war, we ate ‘sauerkraut.’ After, we ate ‘victory cabbage.’”

  “Very well put, Wiggins. Most German-Americans decided they were Americans, but some decided they were still Germans. I have reason to suspect our Mr. Baker may have been one such a person, and may still be.”

  “Even if that were true, it wouldn’t be a crime now. The Germans no longer are our enemies.”

  “No. But they certainly aren’t our friends, either. Many Germans think the generals and the Kaiser’s government betrayed their country by signing the Versailles Treaty. Not only are they angry, they want revenge. Mycroft’s certain they intend to get it. He says all they need is a leader and a cause, and they’ll create the greatest menace the world’s ever faced.”

  “So why are we returning to the library?”

  “I need to confirm some things about our spiritualist. I also need to get a copy of Frankfurter Zeitung and some other German newspapers. If what I suspect is correct, we will be making a return trip to Baker Manor tonight.”

  I waited for further elaboration, but he didn’t say anything more. I stopped in front of the library. “If you’re looking for a German newspaper, there’s a newsstand just around the corner from the Free Press building.

  “I may be a bit late. I have to find a carpenter before I come to meet you.”

  I blinked. “A carpenter? What on earth for?”

  “Security, dear friend. Security.”

  We agreed to meet in the paper’s morgue when he finished. The paper’s receptionist would tell him how to find it.

  When I got to the third floor, Andy Norris, our photography expert, immediately took the camera with him into the darkroom. Andy had been instructed by Mr. Scripps to give top priority to any photos I gave to him for processing.

  That left me with time to begin my first notes for my article or articles about our investigation into Houdini’s death.

  Charlie Hoffman had moved into my desk so I garnered an unused reporter’s notebook from the storeroom and found a place to sit in the morgue. No dead people, just old newspapers.

  An hour and a half later, Mr. Holmes rapped on the door. If possible, his face was even darker than it had been when I left him. “As I feared, we have work to do, Wiggins,” he said with a sigh.

  Violet was more than happy to play her part in our “work-to-do” by calling the social editors of the Free Press and the News.

  I listened in bemused silence to an entirely new voice as she spoke. “Yes, Miss Warren, this is Myrtle Van Dyke, Mr. Baker’s secretary. We’re holding a very special séance tonight, and we’d like you to send someone to cover it. We guarantee it’ll be very newsworthy.”

  Short silence.

  “You will? Thank you so much. We’ll be expecting you.”

  She hung up. “There you are, Mr. Wiggins,” she said in the same voice. “Both papers are sending representatives. Please may I go, too?”

  “Do you have a hundred and twenty dollars squirreled away you haven’t told me about?”

  She stuck out her lower lip and reverted to her own voice. “You know I don’t.”

  “Even if you did, I really don’t think you’ll want to be there tonight, my dear. Mr. Holmes and I will be very busy, and I regret to say you’d only be in the way. It’s too late to get you a seat, anyway.”

  “Why is he looking so unhappy? He hasn’t said a word since you got here. All he does is sit and read the newspapers he bought.”

  “He won’t say. It has something to do with Mr. Baker’s past and what he may be doing with the money he’s taking in from the séances. He promised me I’ll know everything by the time the night is through.”

  “Then you’ll absolutely have to tell me, too.”

  When the sun set at 4:47, we were parked along Eight-Mile Road just beyond the driveway to Baker Manor. Complete darkness was still half an hour away and none of the guests had arrived, though they would shortly.

  I felt both foolish and excited in my black sweater and trousers. The black mask sitting in my lap reminded me of the infamous hangman, Jack Ketch. Luckily, no one could see us. The closest houses were beyond sight of where we were waiting. Across the road, a heavy copse of trees covered the side and back of the manor.

  I opened the trunk for Holmes to remove his equipment. He said he had dealt with dogs many times before and knew how to handle them. Even though I trusted his word, I wasn’t thrilled at the thought of meeting an angry guard dog charging at me.

  After making sure the coast was clear, I slipped my mask on, then crossed the road to enter the woods. We met some cranky brambles and annoying low vines on our way, but we were able to get within sight of the manor before complete darkness.

  At the edge of the clearing surrounding the house, we he
ard the first barks.

  Holmes coolly began to extend the sections of his telescoped metal pole before stepping forward.

  Apparently, we already were unwelcome. A dark form charged toward us, barking.

  “It appears we’ve been noticed, Wiggins.”

  Under other circumstances, the understatement would have been laughable. I found nothing funny about the dog. It stopped some ten feet in front of us, pacing back and forth and warning us to leave with growls and increasingly menacing barks.

  I didn’t have to be an animal psychologist to know the German shepherd realized mere threats weren’t working. The growls got louder.

  I threw a nervous glance in Holmes’s direction. He calmly lowered the pole and removed a noose from one end. He was still puttering with his device when warning turned to action.

  The dog rushed at me, tensing to leap.

  “Hurry!” I shouted.

  The dog’s feet left the ground. I backed away, raising my arms and closing my eyes, waiting to be knocked to the ground and feel sharp teeth tearing into my flesh. Then I heard a strangled whine and the sound of something dropping heavily to the ground.

  “Got you,” Holmes said.

  I opened my eyes to see the dog on the ground at my feet thrashing its head from side to side.

  “Hurry, Wiggins. Put the muzzle on before it breaks free.”

  My heart pounded. In the near-darkness I could see the animal getting back on its feet, desperately trying to free its head from the noose around its neck. The pole in Holmes’s hands bent forward in a writhing arc.

  “For God’s sake, Wiggins, hurry.”

  I straddled the dog and gripped its neck tightly between my knees. The animal dropped to the ground, trying to free itself from my grip with hoarse gasps for breath. I waited until it stopped struggling and lay its foam-covered head on the ground.

  Now barely breathing, the luckless German shepherd put up no resistance when I pulled the leather muzzle over its snout.

  Holmes handed me the end of a rope. “Slip this through the collar. I’ll tie the other end around a tree.”

  My heart went out to the helpless creature doing nothing more than trying to protect its owner. I ran a consoling hand over its head.

  “That’s how the constabulary does it in Sussex,” Mr. Holmes said, barely breathing hard. He telescoped the rod back into its handle. “Now let’s find our way into the basement.”

  We heard sounds of autos pulling into the driveway and saw headlight flashes that somehow had sneaked around to the back of the house.

  We found only two windows on the rear side. Both were above my head and I couldn’t see how we could get in through either of them. The door was securely locked. On further inspection, I noticed a small door at ground level. I pushed on the latch, but it wouldn’t open.

  “Can you pick a lock in the dark?” Mr. Holmes asked gesturing at the slot in the round hole.

  I raised my head haughtily. “That is an insult, sir.”

  Though somewhat rusty, the lock gave up in short order. The door opened to show three steps leading down into total darkness.

  “After you, Wiggins.”

  We tottered forward, baby steps at a time. Every so often we heard the rustle of cardboard as we brushed against boxes. Otherwise our path was remarkably clear. As we continued on, we heard sounds coming from somewhere ahead and slightly to the left.

  My shin brushed against something hard, but it didn’t move and there was no sound. “Careful,” I whispered.

  Another few steps ahead, a bright yellow line on the floor stretched from the next room. Trembling with every step, I stopped when my outstretched hand encountered a door.

  We stood in silence for a very long time. Then we heard footsteps and muffled voices from guests arriving above us.

  How was that possible?

  Unable to crouch any longer, I stood. At that moment, the narrow yellow line disappeared.

  “He turned off the light. He’s getting ready to go upstairs,” Holmes whispered.

  We heard a very slight whir of machinery that lasted for a few seconds, and then abruptly stopped.

  “Open the door, Wiggins. We don’t have much time.”

  A low-wattage light bulb burned from a socket in the wall in one corner of the room. A heavy metal column, the base of a lift, stood near the opposite wall. A panel with a single button protruded from the wall next to the pole.

  Mr. Holmes pushed the button. Seconds later, a platform began a slow descent from the ceiling.

  “I’ll go up first,” he said. “Push the button when the lift stops. It’ll come back down to you.”

  Pushing the button again, the platform slowly began to rise.

  It stopped and I heard Holmes’s voice. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Forgive the interruption, but I’m here tonight to finish the job Harry Houdini was unable to complete.”

  “Who are you?” an angry male voice demanded. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “I recognize the voice,” Myrtle said. “He was one of the men who said he worked for the London Times.”

  “I apologize for my ruse,” Mr. Holmes said. “And I want you to know I’m sure you know very little about your employer. However, my identity is of no consequence. All that matters is that Mr. Baker is nothing but a fraud.”

  Barely able to stand the wait, I pushed the button and the platform started down.

  “How dare you!”

  “For years, Mr. Becker, who now calls himself Baker, has been conducting séances. You all saw him appearing to walk through a wall when he came into this room. It’s an illusion, and easily explained. I used the same elevator to join you, and if someone would turn on all the lights, you’ll see my associate appear shortly.”

  The lift stopped and I got on.

  “If you listen carefully, you’ll hear the sound of machinery,” Holmes said.

  I heard a low cacophony of muttered voices.

  The lift stopped, and I was greeted with wide stares from the guests. Holmes stood next to the table with the attendees in front of him and facing Becker and Myrtle.

  “Now, let’s continue with our so-called séance.”

  Myrtle got up from her chair. “I’m calling the police.”

  As she tried to move around the table, one of the female guests took her by her arm and made her sit. “Don’t. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  “I do too,” said a second. “I paid a lot of money for this séance.”

  “Mr. Becker reputedly conducts his séances with the assistance of his dead brother, Sidney,” Holmes continued. “As I understand it, Mr. Becker calls Sidney’s name and goes into a trance.”

  He turned toward Myrtle. “If you’ll kindly give me your chair, my dear.”

  Myrtle’s captor jerked her to her feet.

  “Thank you. I will now introduce my own dead brother Nigel to our gathering.”

  He settled into the chair and closed his eyes. “Nigel, please make your appearance.”

  “I am here, dear brother.” The guests traded gasps at the ghostly voice seemingly coming from Holmes’s stomach.

  “That was not Nigel. There is no such entity, living or dead. That was me. Like Mr. Becker, I also practice ventriloquism. It’s a common magician’s trick. Very effective in this setting.”

  The murmur of voices got louder. Becker jumped from his chair and reached for Holmes. I caught his arm and twisted it behind his back before he could take two steps. His two-hundred pound bulk had no sinew, and he couldn’t elude my grasp, though the silk fabric of his costume did make him hard to hold.

  “How does Mr. Becker answer the questions from his guests?” asked a woman with wisps of gray hair escaping from under an enormous feathered hat.
r />   “First of all, he has a week to learn as much about you as he can. To answer the specific question you ask, he uses a well-known magician’s trick. His assistant will give ‘Sidney’ the question, then she will ask you to whisper the answer to her. The first words in the questions and answers she has for Sidney will spell out the information he needs.”

  “Is that true?” the woman demanded with a glare in Myrtle’s direction.

  “I—I have nothing to say.”

  I watched Myrna Warren and the reporter from the Times scribble madly into their pads. Myrna looked up and grinned at me. Tomorrow’s Free Press would have a very juicy story on its front page. So would the Times.

  “Now that we’ve shown how you deceive your clients, Mr. Becker, would you be so kind as to tell your guests where the money raised at the sessions is really being spent?”

  Becker again struggled to get free. Perspiration slid over his painted-on mustache, and his sharp brown eyes blazed. “Everyone knows the money is being spent to build a school of spiritualism,” he shouted. “I’ve answered that question numerous times. Now leave immediately. You have no right to invade my property and interrupt my business. I’ll certainly sue you for this intrusion and the harm you must have done to my dog to get in here. As to the rest of these ridiculous charges—”

  “They are not ridiculous, and you’re welcome to try to use any legal recourse available to you,” Mr. Holmes said mildly. “By then the truth will be out.”

  Becker snarled and tried to break my grasp.

  “Just to set the record straight,” Holmes said. “Birth records indicate you are an only child.”

  Becker growled in anger, and Mr. Holmes continued. “I was very surprised to see the Spartan condition of your business and the frugality of your lifestyle, considering the large sums of money you bring in. Your explanation that you’re intending to start a school of spiritualism could indeed be true, but I think there may be another reason. Your parents’ names were Alfred and Heidi Becker, were they not?”