by Raymond John
I breezed through most of the clues, but twenty minutes later I still couldn’t come up with the name of the President of France to finish the puzzle. Much as I hated to, I asked Holmes.
“You don’t know that?” he said in a tone that fairly shouted howmuch of an idiot I was for having to ask. “Monsieur Gaston Domergue. He just took office this year. For shame, Wiggins.”
“It was on the tip of my tongue. What are you two talking about, anyway?”
“Mr. Holmes was telling me all about what happened last night,” Violet said in a reproving tone. “I so wished I could have been there.”
“Next time, my dear,” I said, sitting down in the seat facing them. “I’m far more interested in learning more about Rose Mackenberg. You say she was one of Houdini’s employees.”
“Indeed. She is a very talented private investigator who worked for Mr. Houdini by attending séances by the various mediums he wanted to expose before he arrived in town. Because she is a master at disguise, she never was detected. Who’d ever suspect an innocent librarian with large round glasses, wearing a plain black dress? Or a simple-minded maid, or a grieving widow, for that matter. She attended armed with the knowledge of all the tricks the mediums used. Then, the first night Houdini was on stage, he would invite the medium to join him. He or she of course would refuse, and Rose would move front stage to explain the tricks. Needless to say, mediums hate her as much as they hated Houdini.”
“Are we meeting her in Brooklyn?”
“No, she’ll be meeting us at Grand Central station. When she found out we were investigating Mr. Houdini’s death, she wanted to meet us as soon as she could. She also is of the opinion he was murdered.”
I nodded. “I look forward to meeting her.”
“As do I,” Houdini said. “Shall we go back to cards or would you rather play chess? I’m sure Violet would enjoy watching us.”
“I would,” she chirped.
That was the last thing I wanted to do to pass the time. I looked at my watch and realized we were still several hours away from our destination. “Sorry, I still haven’t recoverd from my night in the sleeper. If you will excuse me, I’ll take another nap.”
To my astonishment, I did doze off. For longer than I realized because I wasn’t awakened by the voice of the contuctor.
“Next stop, Pennsylvania Station. Be sure to pick up your baggage before you leave.”
I moved next to Violet. After Holmes informed us how we would get to Penn Station, she moved next to me and gripped my arm tightly as we headed downward to enter the tunnel beneath the Hudson River.
Though she didn’t say so, I knew she was frightened. Even I had my qualms about being buried under tons of water if a sudden earthquake made the concrete give way over our heads. Holmes remained unperturbed, puffing contentedly on his Calabash pipe. After what seemed a very long and dark ride, we slowly pulled to a stop inside an enormous indoor bay. It felt as though we were entering an entirely different world.
Reading my mind, Holmes said, “It is rather overwhelming, right, Wiggins. This is the busiest train terminal in the world. More people pass through here in five hours than a whole day in Victoria Station.”
The porter laid our luggage on the platform outside the door and waved off Holmes’s offer of a tip.
We were in a tide of moving people. “How shall we find Miss Mackenberg?”
“We don’t have to. She’s already found us.
Chapter 13
After greeting Holmes, a tall, slight, middle-aged woman wearing enormous glasses held out her hand to me. “You must be Wiggins. Welcome to New York.”
She squeezed my hand briefly in a firm grip, then reached for Violet’s. “And the same to you, Mrs. Wiggins. Mr. Holmes told me about your help. I suspected Mr. H’s death was no accident, but I had no idea he was poisoned. Excellent insight.”
I smiled at her referring to her employer as Mr. H. The tone suggested it was a term of endearment.
“Yet unproved,” Holmes said. I was surprised he used his real name, and even more surprised that Rose used it so freely.
“I had no idea I had uncovered such an important clue,” Violet said. “Had you noticed any hair loss?”
“Yes, but I didn’t think anything of it. Men lose hair when they age. If you’d seen pictures of him when he was young you’d know he had a full head of curly hair and was very handsome. He still was handsome to the end. I always thought Bess a lucky woman.”
Violet smiled. I had hunch I knew why. Romance was in the air.
“Is there anywhere close where we can talk?” Holmes asked. “I’ll be more than happy to buy you supper if you haven’t eaten yet.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry. You’re staying at the Roosevelt Hotel. It’s not very far. We can catch a cab over and talk there.”
It wasn’t until Holmes and I had gathered up our luggage and started to follow Rose that I noticed she had a valise in her hand.
Penn Station was an architectural masterpiece whose tall arches of glass let in maximum light. A queue of taxis awaited us on Seventh Avenue, standing on the banks of a river of automobiles. Never had I seen so many vehicles, not even on the Parkway on a Saturday night.
A man in a derby opened the rear door of a yellow cab with a checkered pattern running around its side. Our luggage disappeared into the trunk. Rose sat in the front seat and I got in the back with Violet and Holmes.
With a honk and an authoritative shake of his fist out of the window, the driver swung sharply into the street.
Somehow, like the meshing parts of an enormous machine, the taxi fit into spaces between the pedestrians, and the pedestrians into the spaces between the taxis, and we moved forward. Time and distance were measured by honks of horns, and we stopped within mere inches of the door of our hotel.
Like an automaton, the cabbie opened the trunk and laid the luggage on the ground. Then the next moving part, a man wearing a large coat and top hat, set them on a cart and moved them inside the door of the hotel.
Facing Holmes, the cabbie said, “That’ll be fifty cents.”
I gave the man three quarters, not wanting Holmes to part with another gold piece. As soon as our feet were on the pavement, the driver opened the back door for three new passengers and left. I imagined an endless succession of cabs and people stretching on forever and without end.
Holmes checked in at the desk and had our luggage sent to our rooms. Then he turned to Rose. “We’ll follow you.”
“The hotel restaurant’s quiet. I used to meet Mr. H. here.”
As we walked away I turned briefly and noticed a man in a cap at the check-in pointing in our direction. I assumed it was the cab driver who had driven us to the hotel and wondered if we had left something in his taxi. Before I could react, he turned and left the hotel.
Inside the restaurant, a white-jacketed young man led us to a booth.
“I’ll have a Horse’s Neck,” Rose said. “It’s about the only drink on the menu anymore.”
Violet ordered tea. I followed suit, but soon wished I hadn’t.
The waiter looked at Holmes.
“Tomato juice with a stick of celery, please,” he said.
After the waiter left, Rose opened her valise and laid an elongated tablet in front of her. “I understand you wanted Mr. H’s itinerary for the month before his death. I have it right here.”
Holmes and I traded smiles. This lady was all business.
“He was in Boston from the 24th of September to the 27th. I had investigated two mediums. One in Framingham and one in Lowell. Just a noise-maker and a levitator, and very amateurish at that. Mr. Houdini took the overnight train on the 23rd from Philadelphia after he attended the Tunney-Dempsey fight.”
Holmes eyebrows raised. I knew he was a master pugilist, and would
have enjoyed seeing the match. I would have, too.
“On the first of October he did his hanging straightjacket escape at the just-completed Hooker Building on Main Street in Hartford—”
“Excuse the interruption,” I said, “but I’ve read that he would put on a free show whenever he arrived in a city where he was going to perform because it was better advertising than putting a notice in the local papers.”
“Yes. He’d have the neighborhood police or fire department strap him into a straightjacket and hoist him up by the feet by cable near some building on the main street. Usually it was where the newspaper was located. He’d draw a big crowd, including reporters from the local newspapers, and free himself. When he got back on his feet he’d tell the spectators to attend his show.”
“Do you know if he did that in Detroit?”
She looked thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think he did. He wasn’t feeling up to it.”
“That must have been quite an important change for him.”
“Yes, it was.”
“Were you supposed to expose any tricksters in Detroit?”
“Just one. Albert Baker. We were appalled by what he was charging. I was onto his shenanigans in less than five minutes.”
I felt a mild jolt of joy. In American slang we had hit the jackpot. Even more appropriate, in British slang it meant putting someone under arrest. “So were we,” I said.
“Were you supposed to do the exposure?” Holmes asked.
“No. Mr. H. was very adamant he wanted to do it himself.”
“Did he say why?”
“He didn’t. But it seemed to be personal. He appeared to be agitated and didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Were you in the audience on the 30th?”
“Yes. I watched the show and tried to talk to him afterward in his hotel room. Mrs. H. wouldn’t let me. I also followed the ambulance to the hospital and asked to see him in his room when he awoke, but, again, she refused.”
“That seems a bit strange,” Holmes mumbled. “After all, you were a close business associate. Enough of that for now. Please continue with Mr. Houdini’s itinerary from the first of October.”
“On the second, he performed his escape on the main street in Hartford, at two o’clock in the afternoon.”
“The poisoning couldn’t have occurred at Hartford,” Holmes mused. “That was too far ahead of the onset of the hair loss. Where did Mr. Houdini send you next?”
“To Albany. But Mr. H. went to Providence to meet with Howard Phillips Lovecraft about making a movie of Under the Pyramid. They had supper together when he was there.”
I felt another jolt, and Holmes and I looked at each other.
“What day was that?”
“The sixth of October. Mr. Lovecraft had ghost-written a supposedly true account of Mr. H’s visit to Egypt. Mr. H got trapped inside a pyramid and witnessed ancient rites. Mr. Lovecraft wrote it, even though he didn’t believe it was true. Some film producer bought the rights and was going to make a movie out of it, but he went bankrupt. Mr. H and Lovecraft were meeting to see if they could make the movie themselves.”
At least the sixth of October fit into the time frame, I mused.
The waiter arrived with refreshments. I had never before seen a longer lemon peel than the one in Rose’s glass. Holmes’s celery stick took up half his glass, and Violet and I got our tea from bags. Ugh.
“Tell me, Rose,” Holmes said, “have you met Lovecraft in person?”
“Only once. Mr. H. brought me along when he met with him at his house in Providence a year ago. Apparently he is a recluse and seldom leaves it. I thought the man very nervous. I didn’t know much about him but learned he writes horror stories for some off-beat magazine, and people have compared him to Edgar Allan Poe. Mr. H. apparently thought very highly of him.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed. “More importantly, did Mr. Lovecraft think as highly of Mr. Houdini?”
I frowned at what seemed to be a strange question. Rose seemed perplexed, too. “I assume so. Why do you ask?”
“Because it would seem possible someone who had to ghostwrite a popular and successful story under Houdini’s name might be resentful.”
Rose took a sip of her ginger ale before answering. “I suppose it’s possible. Mr. H. told me Mr. Lovecraft had led a very stressful life. Both his mother and father died in insane asylums, and Lovecraft himself suffered a nervous breakdown, though he never was hospitalized. I do very much doubt he would have wanted to poison Mr. H., though. Everything indicated they were friends when I saw them together.”
Holmes nodded, but I could see the wheels turning. I foresaw a day at the New York Public Library in the near future. To me, the idea of Lovecraft’s involvement seemed a long shot at best.
“Where did Mr. Houdini travel to next?”
“Albany. He did his main street escape on Friday morning, and his show on Friday night. He did his usual matinee on Saturday afternoon, and I did my exposé on Saturday night after his act. Sunday the tenth was a very bad day. Mrs. H. had taken ill, and he hadn’t been able to sleep from worry. The Chinese water torture chamber slipped on stage. It landed on his foot. It hurt so much Mr. H. called for a doctor to come on stage. As suspected, the ankle was broken. Amazingly, Mr. H. finished the show. It never even slowed him down, and he kept all his dates until the day he died.”
“So he was in Albany on the eighth, ninth and tenth,” I said. “I understand he was in Montreal on the 22nd and gave a lecture at McGill University. Did he go directly there from Albany?”
“No. He made a stop at Schenectady first.”
“So, Wiggins, we seem to have at least four different cities where the poisoning could have taken place. What can you tell me about Mr. Houdini’s eating habits, Rose?”
“He often ordered room service, but he and Mrs. H. regularly ate in restaurants, too. He liked to frequent Kosher delicatessens and order the foods his mother prepared for him. He never had a big appetite.”
“Did you eat with him?”
“We would generally get together on his arrival at his venue, and again before he left. He liked to tease me and say I was mere skin and bones. He said he wanted to fatten me up.”
“Did he ever complain about the food tasting unusual or it giving him gastric distress?”
Rose squinted. “On the way to Montreal he complained about a loose stomach, but he wasn’t terribly concerned about it.”
“This would have been after he left Schenectady.”
“Yes. And he started to have severe stomach pains when he was in Montreal. I know that because I was with him there, giving lectures about spiritualism. The pains got worse, and he really was in agony at the time he got to Detroit. You undoubtedly know about the student, McGill, hitting him in the stomach while he was resting. He said his stomach hurt more after that.”
The newspaper accounts of Houdini’s death told of his boast that he could withstand any blow to the stomach. The theory was that this boast led J. Gordon Whitehead, a McGill student, to prove Houdini wrong by punching him before he could tighten his stomach muscles. According to theory, the blow ruptured his appendix and caused the peritonitis that claimed his life. Assuming it was actually thallium poisoning, the blow could have sped up the toxic process. We would have to ask Sir Arthur about that.
“Do you know where Mr. Houdini stayed while he was in Schenectady?” Holmes asked.
“The Stockade Inn. The three of us stayed there three days and two nights.”
“Did you eat with him while you were there?”
“The second night I joined them in the hotel restaurant. Mrs. H. and I had sauerbraten, and he had German riffle soup. He said he hadn’t had it for many years.”
Holmes made a note in a notebook he carried in his vest pocke
t.
“Did he say it had an unusual taste?”
“No. In fact he was delighted he ordered it because it brought back such pleasant memories.”
Holmes drained the last of his drink. “You’ve been most helpful, Miss Mackenberg. I have no more questions. How about you, Wiggins?”
“None, but I did wonder how you became a private investigator, Rose. You certainly are a natural for it.”
“I was born in Poland and moved to this country with my husband when I was nineteen. We needed money. I learned to be a private investigator after my second child was born. When I was growing up, my teachers always hated having me in their classes because I always was asking ‘Why?’ or ‘How do you know that?’ The headmaster even called my parents in for a conference to try to get me to stop my so-called misbehaviour. No girl—and few boys—ever acted the way I did, and I was in danger of being expelled. I really couldn’t help myself. And I’ve always really hated people who stole from the vulnerable. Mr. H. said mediums are nothing more than circus performers, and no one should ever have to pay more than fifty cents to see their acts. Anything else?”
“I have a question,” said Violet. “How did you and Mrs. Houdini get along?”
“I hardly ever saw her. I did think it strange she seemed so overprotective when Mr. H. was taken to the hospital, but she was distraught. I know how much she loved him.”
Rose took a final bite of the lemon peel and laid her glass on the table. “Now if you will excuse me, I have some other matters to attend to. I wish you the best of luck in finding out what happened to Mr. H. The years I worked with him were the happiest of my life.”
Holmes and I got to our feet. “I will happily pay your cab fare back to your office.”
“That’s not necessary. I’ll take the subway. It’s much quicker.”
Chapter 14
Rose left us at the lobby. As we headed toward the elevator, Violet yanked on my arm and excitedly pointed at a sign above the concierge’s desk, a short distance away.
“‘The Noose,’” she said, barely able to get the words out. “It’s a new play I read about on the train. The article said a wonderful young actress named Barbara Stanwyck is the star. She plays a dancer named Jo, who is the girlfriend of a crook who kills his own father.”
