by Raymond John
Our laughter was cut short when Holmes suddenly sprang to his feet. “Good morning, Herr Becker. I’m pleased to see you. Did you have a pleasant night?”
Startled, we all turned to look. Becker stood five feet away with open mouth and eyes smouldering in hatred.
“I’d ask you to join us, but the table’s too small,” Holmes continued.
“Even if you were alone, I would not willingly come within ten yards of a Jew,” Becker said in a voice dripping with venom. “You have been lucky so far, but we’ll meet again. You have dealt me a blow, but my cause is just, and you cannot escape me. I have a particularly interesting treat waiting for you, Miss Mackenberg.”
Rose flashed a wide grin. “That sounds delightful. I can hardly wait.”
“You missed a great show when you left the Hudson in such a hurry last night,” I said. “You can claim the property you left behind from the Manhattan police. They’re very anxious to talk to you.”
I cringed as Becker’s right hand moved to his jacket pocket. Had we pushed him so far he would shoot at us in front of witnesses?
I mentally sighed in relief to see his hand was empty when he took it out of his pocket. Turning on his heels, he stomped away. Before exiting the dining car, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. I had never seen a look of such abject hatred before, and it frightened me.
Every eye in the dining car was watching him.
Holmes broke into laughter, and soon nearly everyone joined him.
Becker turned an apoplectic red and left, roaring in indignation.
The porter in white coat came to our table. “Who was that, sir? Did he bother you?”
“Yes,” Holmes said. “He’s a very dangerous fugitive from the law who tried to murder my friends. You will need to alert security to look for him and tell the rest of the passengers about him, especially the ones in the Pullmans. Tell them not to open their doors until the train reaches the station. He will undoubtedly be one of the first ones to get off and will be gone by the time the authorities have been notified.”
“Then I’ll alert security now and see you have an escort when you leave the train,” the porter said. “Where are you staying?”
Not wanting to be heard, Holmes wrote out “The Boston Park Hotel” at the top of the menu and handed it to the man.
The food arrived. None of us was as hungry as before our run-in with Becker, but I enjoyed the fruit medley, especially the cherries.
Instead of eating, Violet and Rose started a spirited conversation about Houdini’s illusions and escapes.
“His shows were always in three parts,” Rose said. “He’d start with some of the usual magician’s tricks, then he’d do the Chinese Water Torture. After that he’d have me come on stage, and I’d reveal the newest fakers we’d discovered in the area where we were playing.”
“I heard he swallowed sewing needles.”
Rose laughed. “He certainly did. He’d down a dozen of them, and then swallow a spool of thread. Women actually fainted when he pulled the thread from his mouth with the needles dangling from it.”
“How on earth did he do that?”
“He could hide things in his cheeks and knew how to swallow the needles and regurgitate them so they didn’t cause any harm. He told me once that he felt a sneeze coming on and was afraid he’d wind up in the hospital or worse. The needles could have killed him.”
“How exciting,” Violet said.
“One time,” Rose said with a big smile, “a man challenged Mr. Houdini to escape from a lock he had worked on for a year. Mr. H. always took a dare. On stage, he performed his act in formal wear with the curtain open to make the escape more exciting. He disappeared from sight into his stand for a moment, then suddenly reappeared on front stage in his shirtsleeves. He walked to the judge and asked if it was all right to open the lock with his jacket off.
“People started to giggle. When the judge said ‘Absolutely not,’ the audience broke into loud laughter. ‘Very well,’ Mr. H. said and went back to lock himself in again. Seconds later he returned to the judge with his jacket on. Everyone got to their feet. I’d never heard such cheering, laughing and clapping before.”
Even Holmes laughed. “He knew it was easier to fool someone when you first get them to laugh. No magician wants an audience staring at his every move.”
“You understand magic very well,” Rose said with a trace of admiration in her voice.
“Is it true he made an elephant and its rider disappear?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. And there even was a huge swimming pool directly beneath the stage. Everyone in the audience gasped. When asked by a reporter how he had done it, Mr. H. said, ‘Not even the elephant knows the answer to that.’”
That brought another laugh. Houdini had come up with the perfect answer to the reporter’s question, and I felt a greater sense of loss with every new revelation. How could a man who lied with every movement he made on stage be so intent on telling the truth about the Spiritualists?
I took a second look at Rose. Her wan smile, the warmth of her speech and the look in her eyes made me suspect my original thoughts about their relationship was correct. Rose may well have wished Houdini wasn’t just her employer.
“He never implied that any of his magic was anything more than an illusion, did he?” Holmes asked.
“No. Only to himself. He forced himself to believe he had supernatural powers so he could perform effectively. On stage he always took great pains to make sure everyone understood that everything he did was an illusion and explainable by natural means. He thought it inconceivable that some people, including Conan Doyle, could be convinced he was actually able to dematerialize himself.”
“All very interesting,” Holmes said in a stern voice. “Now you two stop your gabbing and eat. We’ll be at the station in just a few minutes.”
As if to verify Holmes’s statement, the train slowed, then stopped.
“Are we in Boston already?” I asked.
“Westchester Station,” the porter called. “All ashore who are going ashore.”
Holmes and I jumped to our feet and ran across the car to peer out of the window. As suspected, we were just in time to catch sight of Becker running across the platform and ducking into the station.
“Good riddance. Now we can enjoy the rest of our breakfast in peace,” Holmes said.
Chapter 18
Though I knew Becker had beat a retreat at Westchester, the morning’s events had unnerved me so much I was actually hesitant to step off the train at Boston’s South Station. If not Becker himself, one of his minions could be hiding in the crowds, just waiting to waylay us.
This time Violet was the brave one in the family; we got out hand in hand with me half a step behind.
I nudged Holmes. “You may want to buy some pipe tobacco while you’re here. It’s the second largest distribution point in America.”
“I never touch American tobacco,” he said with a snort. “Mine comes from Turkey.”
I’d never used pipe tobacco so I couldn’t imagine the difference. The closest I ever came to it occurred when I overheard my ten-year-old son, Cameron, on the telephone asking “Do you have Prince Albert in a can?” After a short pause he said, “Well, let him out,” and screeched with laughter before hanging up. I swore I’d tan him until he looked like an Indian if he ever pulled such a prank again.
“What do we do now?” I asked.
“I can see no alternative to catching a cab to downtown Boston and finding Sir Arthur. We’re staying in the same hotel with him.”
“Becker knows that, too. Do you think it advisable to find another venue?”
“I had forgotten about that. You’re quite correct, Wiggins. He knows we’ll be visiting Margery also, but we can’t merely skulk around like alley cats at St. Paul�
��s Square. I’m very sure the man is a coward. When he strikes, he does so from a distance.”
Violet grinned as a muscular young porter appeared with our luggage on a large flatbed cart. “I was told to stay with you while you’re in the station. Is anyone meeting you?”
“No,” Holmes said. “We would be very grateful if you would lead us to the nearest taxicab.”
Our taxi meandered along streets that veered off in one direction or another, came to dead ends, and even changed names.
“Forgive me for sounding rude, but isn’t there a more direct way to the hotel?”
The driver chuckled. “Nope. It’s the way the city was laid out in the beginning to avoid swamps and trees. People ask me about it all the time, thinking I’m trying to squeeze a few more pennies out of the fare.”
“Your streets make as much sense as dumping tea into the bay when you were still part of England,” Holmes said. “What a shameful waste.”
The driver laughed. “Actually, there are people around here who would agree with you. Their ancestors were making a lot of money when we were part of Britain. Not everyone was happy when the War for Independence started.”
“It’s comforting to know at least some reasonable people lived in this insane country,” Holmes muttered. “I understand they wanted to impeach your president when the skirmish of 1812 started. Mr. Madison’s War, I believe it was called.”
Tall buildings beckoned from afar. The closer we came to them, the greater the number of bicyclists and pedestrians we saw. Detroit’s automobile makers had much work to do in this city.
Mostly we saw boats of all kinds, moored and sailing. With a river on one side and an ocean on three others, boats in Boston were as inevitable as poison in bathtub gin. New York Harbor harvested passengers and merchandise; Boston Harbor harvested cod, crabs, and lobsters. All were needed.
Turning onto Atlantic Avenue, we soon arrived at a towering building with miles of windows. A tall-hatted doorman awaited us.
“Here we are,” the driver said. “Enjoy your stay.”
Leaving the doorman and the driver to tend to the luggage, we passed through gilded doors to be greeted by the violin strains of Mozart’s cheerful drinking song from Don Giovanni. I know very little about classical music, but Violet had dragged me to see the opera and I’d liked the piece so much, I left the theatre whistling it. Now I had all I could do to keep from joining in with the trio.
I applauded when they finished, drawing stares and strange looks.
“Stop that!” Violet said, cheeks a lovely shade of pink. She led me to a very over-stuffed mauve chair. “Now sit and behave yourself until Mr. Holmes is done.”
Sitting and behaving wasn’t difficult with the strings starting again. Beethoven with a brisk beat, though I couldn’t remember its name. I followed along with a soft whistle until Mr. Holmes showed up.
“Sir Arthur’s in his room. He wants us to come up in half an hour.”
On the elevator ride up to our floor, Rose said she would wait in her room until our meeting with Sir Arthur was over.
“Conan Doyle knows about my connection to Mr. H,” she said. “He probably won’t want me to be there. I took the photographs exposing Margery’s tricks. When they were published, C.D. broke off all relations with us.”
Holmes threw her a sharp look. “Don’t worry about that. I’m quite sure Sir Arthur isn’t going to be pleased with any of us.”
“I didn’t tell you this,” she went on, “but in 1898 Mr. H. himself actually worked as a Spiritualist for several months. This was long before he became a celebrity, and he and Mrs. H. took in more money at seances than he ever made with his magic or his escapes at that time. Then he remembered his promise to his father that he’d never do anything dishonorable, and he quit. Mr. H. always feared Conan Doyle would find out and call him a hypocrite.”
“Once again, I’m sure you have nothing to be concerned about,” Holmes said. “The way the Spiritualists have been investigating Houdini’s past, I’m almost certain Sir Arthur already knows about it.”
Holmes unlocked the door to our adjoining room, and we stepped inside. Imagine our amazement when we beheld two canopied beds with covers turned down, three dozen roses and a bathtub for four. Holmes took one look and grabbed his forehead. I merely groaned.
“Maybe we can trade rooms with the women,” I said. Rapping on the adjoining door, Violet quickly answered.
“May I see your room?” I asked.
“If I can see yours,” she said, stepping aside.
I groaned even louder. Their room was a Siamese twin to ours except for the colors of the canopies on the beds. Theirs were maroon and pink while ours were green and baby-blue. Only a whole chorus line of deranged Ziegfield dancers could have designed such monstrosities. At least both rooms had a shower, and I wasn’t going to waste another minute before I used it. Sir Arthur called whilst I toweled myself.
Elevators had always astounded me. Elisha Otis’s invention made possible Louis Sullivan’s masterpieces of soaring architecture. Few people had the wind or inclination to climb up and down twelve flights of stairs to get to and from their office. Space in the cities grew almost infinite when buildings became vertical rather than horizontal.
I felt we were being swept to the Maker’s Throne as we rocketed upward. I had to hold my breath until we stopped on the eighteenth floor. The door to Room 1808 stood open. A familiar man stepped into the hallway. Always rotund, the years had made him roly-poly. His enormous white mustache hadn’t changed, nor had he regrown any hair on his nearly bald pate. His right eyelid, drooping since he was kicked by a horse in Egypt, left him with a permanent, almost rakish wink-to-be. Except for the added weight, he had hardly changed in eight years.
He wasn’t smiling.
“Come in, Holmes. I see you’ve brought your entourage with you. You’re all welcome.”
The voice seemed breathy and raspy. After a brief handshake with Mr. Holmes, he held out his hand to me. It trembled slightly when I shook it. “Wiggins, isn’t it? It’s been ages. At least ten years, is it not?”
“Not quite. It was in May of 1919. Just a few months after the war ended. I was visiting Holmes in Sussex. We came to London to see you to try to console you about the death of your son.”
He gave my hand a squeeze. “Ah, yes. I remember that quite well. That was very kind of you.”
Sir Arthur turned away from me and stared at Rose. “I’ve never met you, but I recognize you,” he said in a cool voice. “You worked for Mr. Houdini, didn’t you?”
Not at all intimidated, Rose introduced herself. “Yes, I was one of his investigators. Even though I have been on the opposite side from you on some issues, it’s an honor to meet you. I read all your Sherlock Holmes stories that were translated into Polish when I was a young girl. I was as astonished as everyone to find out he’s a real person.”
Without any indication he’d even heard her, Sir Arthur moved on to Violet. “I’m sure I have never met this lovely young woman. I can’t believe you’d be associated with a crusty bachelor like Holmes, so I assume you are Mrs. Wiggins.”
Violet curtsied. “I’m Violet. I couldn’t travel with him in 1919 and always wished I had. I, too, am honored to meet you.”
“The honor is mine. You remind me of Touie, my first wife.”
Violet blushed deep pink and curtsied again. I could almost hear my beloved’s heart pound. I always felt she was born out of her time and should have lived in England when Victoria was but a girl. Would she have been so pleased if she knew poor Louise had spent most of her last years of her life as an invalid, and that Sir Arthur had taken on Jean Leckie as his mistress long before his wife had died?
“Is Lady Jean present?” Holmes asked with a look around.
The skin on the bulbous head wrinkled. Turning red,
Doyle looked at the floor. “I sent my wife away on a shopping trip to the apothecary for some of my medicines after you called. I didn’t want her here when I talked to you. Or rather, I didn’t want any of what we say to get back to Pheneas.”
The words were greeted with complete silence.
Finally, I said. “Pheneas?”
“My wife’s familiar,” Sir Arthur said without looking up. “Her contact with the departed. I love Lady Jean very much and trust her with my life, but I must admit Pheneas frightens me. I feel helpless when he’s around, even though he always assures me Jean and I will always be safe in his hands.”
“Safe?” Holmes asked.
“Pheneas has been predicting the impending end of the world in the most terrible Biblical terms,” Rose said. “All the unbelievers will perish and there’ll be a new world order. Houdini’s death couldn’t wait that long, of course. The sooner that happened the better.”
Sir Arthur turned sad eyes in Rose’s direction. “I know that’s what Pheneas was advocating, but I never wished for Houdini’s demise. The press exaggerated the differences between us. He remained respectful to me until the strain became too great for either of us to bear. That’s when we both said things we regretted.”
“Mr. Houdini never told me what caused the end of your friendship,” Rose said.
“It all started after our meeting in Atlantic City. I’m sure he never realized how much he hurt and upset me when he denied my wife’s abilities as a medium. Just weeks after our séance with Lady Jean he published a statement that he had never met a true Spiritualist.” He stopped. “Please excuse me.”
Sir Arthur opened the hall door, looked out, then returned.
Could he have been expecting someone?
“I see I haven’t been a very good host. Since we’re talking about spirits, I have some I’d like to share with you.”
We watched as he disappeared into the bedroom to return carrying a wine bottle showing from the top of a brown sack. “I brought this with me from England. It was wrapped in my pajamas when I went through American customs Fortunately, my celebrity preceded me and no one paid any attention to my luggage. It’s a very good Manzanilla sherry. I don’t drink it myself, but I don’t mind others partaking. I asked the maid to bring us some extra glasses. Please find a place to sit.”
