Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  I rapped the code for Violet to open the door. She did and I entered, worried she hadn’t kept to her word. I was pleased to find her sober as the proverbial judge.

  Holmes went to the connecting door and entered his room. The lights went on and he shouted. “Wiggins, come here immediately!”

  He pointed at the hallway door. “You recall I left a slip of paper in the door before we left and where I placed it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Take a look.”

  The scrap of paper was no longer visible. Holmes opened his hall door and a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and saw the skull and crossbones.

  “Someone has been in my room. Whoever it was got the paper back in the door, but he couldn’t put it in the right place.”

  “Will you be able to tell if anything’s missing?”

  “Of course. I only have some treatises and testing supplies such as litmus paper with me. The most important thing is my diary and notes. I shouldn’t like to have Herr Becker know what’s in it.”

  He went to the hautboy and opened the bottom drawer. “Thank heavens it’s still here, but I’m sure he must have found it. If so, he knows Boston is our next destination and may pick up our trail once more. At this moment, we’re one move ahead of them. Now get hopping and help Violet pack. We have to get to the station to catch our train.”

  Stowing our belongings took less than fifteen minutes because we hadn’t unpacked from our trek from Detroit.

  “Is Rose coming with us to Boston?” Violet asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “We all decided it was too dangerous for her to stay in New York, so Holmes hired her to join us.”

  We carried our own luggage to the lobby. The driver took them from there.

  As we started away, Violet took Rose’s hand. It was unexpected, and Rose recoiled. Then she relaxed and returned the squeeze. A sturdy Rose with all its petals in place and a non-shrinking Violet made for a pretty nosegay.

  None of us said a word as we rode. At Penn Station we lugged our suitcases to Track 18 to board the 4:00 New York Central train to Boston’s South Station.

  The porter took our luggage.

  “I’ve booked two sleepers for us,” Holmes said, “the only ones available. Rose and Violet, you’ll be in D. Wiggins, and I will be next door in E. When we arrive in Boston, the signal to know it’s me at your door is two raps, a pause, then three. Otherwise, don’t open the door for any reason. Do I make myself clear?”

  Rose, looking implacable, nodded. Violet, on the other hand, looked terrified, and I was worried she would need some more nips of the Four Roses to survive the night. We didn’t need someone arse-over-tit drunk or suffering divine punishment with us when we arrived in Boston.

  “Remember you’re an upstanding member of the WCTU, dear.”

  Violet caught my meaning and flashed a sheepish smile. “Yes, dear.”

  We followed the porter to our cabin. He opened the door and handed us the key. Holmes was about to dispense another gold piece when I intervened.

  Handing the man a silver dollar, I said, “I’ll take care of tips from now on. You can repay me at the end of the trip.”

  The light switch was by the door. After stowing our baggage, I took off my shoes and hung my clothes in the closet. Climbing to the top bunk, I crawled under the bedclothes and fell asleep before Holmes could say another word.

  Chapter 17

  Holmes woke first, and didn’t hesitate to wake me.

  Giving me a shake, he said, “Rise and shine,Wiggins. We’re only two hours from Boston. I trust you had a good sleep.”

  “Topping.” My first normal breath of the day brought me the aroma of Latakia tobacco. “Why did you wake me so damned early? I could have used those two hours. I was dreaming I was at my desk at the Free Press and writing my article. I was almost done, and now I’ve forgotten everything I wrote.”

  “Lamentable, but we need to conference. It’s rapidly becoming abundantly clear that Becker is somehow involved in Houdini’s death. He is extremely dangerous, and whereabouts unknown. I sense a conspiracy, and not just one of angry mediums.”

  “I agree. The fact that both Becker and Schmidt called you a Jew certainly screams anti-Semitism. And the fact that Becker has at least two men working for him worries me. There could be any number more.”

  Holmes took another pull on his pipe before answering. “I’m also curious about why Becker’s hunting Rose. She was one of Houdini’s investigators, but only one of five. Is Becker pursuing them, too?”

  “The only way to be sure is to contact them. Do you think Rose might know who the others are?”

  “We’ll have to ask her. Speaking of Rose, I have no idea how long it takes a woman to get ready in the morning, but there are two of them, and I want to breakfast before the train arrives in Boston. Should I wake them now?”

  “I expect they’re going to hate you for such a short night, but, judging from my years with Violet, it’s going to take them a while to get presentable. Just keep me out of it, and don’t tell them what I said. If you do, I’ll deny everything.”

  “I’m a bachelor, and an old one at that. I can be excused for not knowing any better.”

  “That at least has the ring of plausibility,” I said with a yawn. “Don’t be surprised if I’m kipping when you get back.”

  “Indeed? Then don’t be surprised when I douse you with cold water to wake you up. We have no time for such luxuries, Wiggins.”

  I knew he meant it, so I reluctantly climbed out of my berth. I desperately wanted to shower, but felt more than a frisson about leaving the room. If Becker could be anywhere, there was no reason he couldn’t be on the same train with us. Maybe even in the shower. I sensed a strange symmetry at work, with Becker balanced against Holmes and me, each mirroring the other’s actions. Somehow we were locked together with Becker the way Holmes and Moriarty were at Reichenbach Falls, and I certainly didn’t want to be the one to take the plunge.

  I looked into the mirror and didn’t like what I saw. My grooming bag was in Violet’s room. Scowling at myself, I settled on washing my face with cold water and brushing my teeth with my forefinger. The day’s growth of beard dappled my cheeks with specks of gray. At least I didn’t have to turn my underwear inside out, or wear the same shirt.

  I heard the door unlock, and Holmes stepped in. “They told me to come back in an hour. What could possibly take them that long?”

  “You can be sure they’re both mortified they can’t take a shower—and to be honest, I’m with them on that—so they’ll take a bath in the sink. After that, they have to disguise their faces with make-up, fix their hair, find the right dress, then press and tug to make sure it looks just right. That all takes time.”

  “Time that could be put to better use,” Holmes grumbled. “What do you make of the fact that Herr Schmidt is from Schenectady?”

  “I don’t know what to make of it. It could be mere coincidence, but it surely puts him in the geographical area where Houdini may have been poisoned.”

  Holmes sighed. “Becker’s reach seems to grow longer by the hour, doesn’t it? I feel I’m playing chess against myself.”

  “That may be closer to the truth than you realize. It’s amazing how we keep crossing paths. I can understand how Moriarty felt with you dogging his heels.”

  “True, and he was understandably unhappy with my interference. So is Becker, but there’s one big difference between Becker and Moriarty. As evil a person Becker is, and how low his motives when bilking his clients, he gave them what they paid for. They left believing there was a life after death, and the belief was comforting. Other than the opium addicts, no one ever left Moriarty happy.”

  “But why are there so many spiritualists and so many people so easily duped?”

 
“War, dear fellow. Eight years is not nearly long enough to erase the misery of the nations involved in the Great War. Imagine a whole village of men going off to battle together so they could serve as comrades, and nary a one returning. Now multiply that by the hundreds of villages in Britain. Add in the millions of Frenchmen and Germans who died, as well as the thousands of Americans. The grief must have been transcendent for their survivors. Many literally had to believe a loved one was in a better place after they died to continue on themselves, so they went to the only people who could tell them they were right.”

  I nodded. “That makes perfect sense.”

  “There’s another aspect, too, that’s a sign of our times. Women have been especially susceptible. Many didn’t like it that only their husbands could vote, so they changed the law. The same went for their view of religion. They didn’t want to be told what and how to believe by a male cleric. They wanted to get to the source on their own terms.”

  I couldn’t help breaking into a grin. “Then along came Houdini proving the bearers of good tidings were liars. I’m sure the mediums weren’t the only ones who wanted him dead.”

  “Very astute, Wiggins. But enough of that. I procured a newspaper whilst I was out. I’ll be more than happy to share it with you.”

  I hadn’t read the Boston Globe for years. Holmes generously gave me the sports section. Despite finding little to interest me, I was delighted to note that Michigan’s basketball team had won its opening game, with star forward Richard Doyle scoring an amazing eighteen points. I wished I had seen it. Everyone was excited about Big Blue’s prospects for the year. Otherwise there wasn’t very much else for me to read.

  After a brief scuffle, I wrested the front section from Holmes.

  Before I could read about Belgium’s Crown Prince Leopold’s wedding to Princess Astrid Bernadotte of Sweden, he got to his feet.

  Irritated, he proclaimed, “We’ve waited long enough. It’s time to send some electricity into those feminine circuits.”

  “It won’t do any—” was all I could get out. Holmes had already stomped into the hallway and was rapping on the door to compartment D. This time he rapped three times after four. Ever cautious, he had changed the code again.

  A frightened Violet opened the door. “Thank goodness you’re here. After you left, someone knocked on the door using the old code.”

  Holmes turned to me, eyes wide. “This is very serious, Wiggins. Someone, Becker most likely, must have overheard me when I knocked on the door the previous time and tried to gain entry the same way. Worse, he’s much closer to us than I could ever have imagined.”

  “He read your notes when he broke into your room and knew we’d be traveling to Boston tonight. It isn’t too surprising to discover we’re on the same train.”

  Holmes put his finger to his mouth and whispered. “Our opponent must be in another compartment within earshot. This is more serious than I imagined.”

  “What do we do now?” I whispered back.

  Holmes’s silence spoke volumes. He had no idea, either. Finally he turned to the women and said, “If he knocked on your door, there’s no doubt he intended to do you harm. That also indicates he has the means. We have to keep together. Groomed or not, dear ladies, gather up your belongings. We’ll bring them to the dining car. I don’t know to what lengths Becker’s willing to go, but we should be safer there.”

  Violet sighed and unplugged her curling iron from the outlet. It sizzled as she wrapped it in a wet towel. In what I considered to be remarkable time, both women were packed and ready to leave in ten minutes.

  Holmes led the parade carrying Rose’s bag, followed by Rose and Violet, with me taking up the rear carrying Violet’s luggage. We left ours in the room for the porter to pick up and deliver to us. Violet reached behind her to grasp my right hand, and stretched forward to hold Rose’s with the other. The car’s constant shifting made it difficult to walk, but our little train within the train soon crossed into the dining car. I was very happy to see that several of the tables were already occupied. It was a form of protection. Or at least I thought it was.

  We met a porter in the hallway.

  “Good morning,” said Holmes, handing him our cabin key. “Would you kindly gather up our bags for us, please.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  After we entered the dining car, a white-coated porter led us to a table at the far end of the diner and set menus on the table before us.

  “I’m curious why Becker’s so intent to find you, Rose. Do you have any idea?”

  “I expect it’s because I was a threat to expose him, although I understand you’ve already finished that job for me.”

  “Then it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to protect his reputation. It could be revenge if Becker thought you had something to do with our raid.” Holmes paused. “Are you Jewish, perchance?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “We suspect anti-Semitism may be his motivation. I’m sure he must have been livid that Houdini should threaten his operation. He would be explosive if he knew you were Jewish, to boot.”

  “Or Rose may know something she isn’t supposed to know,” I said,” even if she isn’t even aware of what it is.”

  “Excellent point. It could very well be a combination of both.” Holmes turned back to Rose. “How long did you work for Mr. Houdini?”

  “Four years. I contacted him when I heard about his campaign against spurious mediums. I was as angry about what they were doing as he was. I still am and will do everything I can to carry on the work.”

  “Do you know how Mr. Houdini began his relationship with Mr. Conan Doyle?”

  “When Mr. Houdini first began performing magic on a full-time basis, he knew of Mr. Doyle’s interest in spiritualism and the supernatural. That gave him a perfect reason to send him a copy of The Unmasking of Robert-Houdin. Mr. H. took on the name for himself and added an ‘I’ because Houdin was considered to be the greatest magician Europe ever produced. The book also deals with the Davenport brothers. You probably have never heard of them, but they were very well-known and high on Mr. Conan Doyle’s list of prominent spiritualists. The book showed their fraud. C.D., as Mr. H. called him, was impressed with the book and Mr. H’s interest in spiritualism. They became friends.”

  “Do you know what caused their break up?”

  “It started in 1922. Conan Doyle’s wife’s a medium, and C.D. wanted to show off her skills.”

  “I remember reading about that in the Free Press,” I said. “Doyle and his wife were in Atlantic City to view some new radio transmitting equipment and invited Houdini to meet them there.”

  “Yes. They had been corresponding for years and Mr. Conan Doyle hoped a séance would convert Mr. H. to Spiritualism. Mr. H. was more than happy to agree and they met on the 17th. That evening Lady Jean put on a séance purportedly to help Mr. H. contact his mother. Cecilia had just recently died, and he really was heartbroken. He never once smiled except when he was on stage for weeks. “

  She stopped and cleared her throat. “Lady Jean practiced automatic writing, which meant the spirit communicated by guiding her hand. In the course of the séance, Houdini’s mother supposedly wrote notes of condolence and encouragement. Instead of converting Mr. H. to belief, the séance left him doubting C.D.’s competence. The words in the notes were in English, and Cecilia couldn’t write anything but Hungarian.”

  Unable to control myself, I broke out laughing. Violet glared.

  “It isn’t funny. It eventually brought on a sad ending to their relationship. After that, Houdini’s suspicions seemed to grow stronger every time C.D. endorsed another fake. C.D. got angrier at every denunciation. By the end, they were attacking each other as sworn enemies.”

  “It does seem very sad, doesn’t it?” Holmes said. “They both wanted to believe in con
tact with the dead but came up with different conclusions.”

  “I discovered I was a lot like Mr. H.,” Rose said. “I have always wanted to believe, too. That’s why when I travel the country to expose the fakers, I always hope I’ll someday find someone who will prove me wrong.”

  The porter returned. “Are you ready for breakfast now?”

  “We’ve barely glanced at the menu yet,” Holmes said. “Please come back in a minute or two.”

  Holmes ordered the boiled partridge eggs, baked Lincolnshire sausage with quince sauce and white toast. I barely noticed Violet’s order of French toast, but did hear Rose order breakfast beef with her eggs. I had never heard of that before.

  I gave my order last. Instead of eggs and toast, I settled on the medley of raspberries, papaya, and dark cherries; rye toast with whiskey marmalade—undoubtedly illegal—and a cup of espresso. I also ordered freshly squeezed Florida orange juice, which was a rare treat.

  “Have you ever been in a situation where you or Houdini were attacked for being Jewish?” asked Holmes.

  “Every once in a while, but only once of any significance. Earlier this year we were shouted down on the floor of the United States House of Representatives. We were trying to get a law passed to outlaw the telling of fortunes for pay in Washington, D.C. While we were testifying, spiritualists arrived by the hundreds to heckle us. I testified that the wife of one of the representatives in the House was a Spiritualist, and I had evidence that President Coolidge had attended at least one séance in the White House. All involved denied the charges of course, and our bill never even reached the House floor. The hecklers furthered my education. I learned some derogatory terms for my religion I had never heard before. Did you know I’m a registered Spiritualist myself?”

  We all laughed.

  “It’s true. I paid my twenty-five dollars to the Christian Spiritual Union and I’m now a registered medium known as Frances Raud. My business cards read F. Raud. Apparently no one in the society ever noticed that until I started passing out the cards to them.”