Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  Holmes and Rose waved off the offer of wine, but found two heavy chairs. Violet and I, on the other hand, were happy to accept the sherry. Violet especially, it seemed.

  “When you wrote to me, you said the police suspected you of being complicit in murder,” Holmes said. “Neither Wiggins nor I have ever heard the slightest hint the death was anything but natural. It has been officially ruled as peritonitis. Who is suggesting otherwise?”

  “I received a letter from a Lieutenant Dan McGuire with the Detroit police,” Sir Arthur said. “He was aware of our feud and said, with all the threats against Houdini’s life, he was treating it as a possible murder. I apologize if my letter may have been misleading, Holmes, but I knew with your interest in Spiritualism and magic you’d want to investigate. Lady Jean and Pheneas refuse to tell me if the death was by natural causes or murder. All they say is his death was inevitable.”

  Holmes rested his face on tented hands, elbows firmly dug into the arms of his chair. “There’s something more than luck at work here. Spirits might have been able to cause Mr. Houdini’s peritonitis, if that was how he died, but as far as I know, no human could have been able to do that.”

  “My exact thoughts. It seemed miraculous, if you can call causing such a malady a miracle.” Sir Arthur replied. “It just further impressed me with how powerful Lady Jane and Pheneas were. Those involved in the whole Spiritualist movement, in fact.”

  Holmes smiled wryly. “Wallace Whitehead striking him in the stomach and rupturing his appendix to seal his doom would seem to be just as miraculous, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Indeed, but I didn’t want the power of our religion to be proven that way. I feel very sad about Houdini’s death.”

  “I believe you do, but what if I told you we have strong evidence that it was not a miracle but mere foul play?”

  Sir Arthur’s eyes opened wide. “What do you mean?”

  Mr. Holmes reached into his breast pocket. “This is a photo of Houdini’s appendix taken after it was removed. Would you say it has the characteristics of appendicitis?”

  Sir Arthur studied the picture, then shook his head. “Not conclusively, at least not in my estimation. Where did you get this?”

  “Let’s just say it came as a result of an investigation Wiggins and I have been conducting. As a matter of fact, we are finding considerable evidence to suggest Houdini was poisoned. Most likely sometime in October.”

  Sir Arthur caught his breath and appeared to deflate in front of our eyes. “As much as I want to believe in miracles, I have greatly feared he may have died by human hands. If so, I want his murderer brought to justice. What evidence do you have to support your theory?”

  Holmes told him the history of our investigation. Sir Arthur sat up straighter at the mention of thallium poisoning. His once ruddy complexion blanched, and drops of perspiration appeared on his head. “Are you quite sure it is thallium?”

  “As sure as we can be without an exhumation and laboratory examination. Why does that surprise you?”

  “The man who discovered thallium, Sir William Crookes, had a séance with Margery several years ago.”

  The words came as a lightning bolt. Crookes’s appearance in the narrative certainly could be a coincidence, but somehow it seemed more ominously fateful. My head began to spin. It’d spin even faster.

  “Have you ever heard of Albert Baker?”

  Sir Arthur turned as white as wallpaper paste and collapsed into a chair, seeming unable to answer.

  Holmes and I got to our feet. “Do you need assistance?”

  “No,” Sir Arthur gasped. “I’m quite fine, thank you. I just wasn’t expecting to hear his name in this connection. To answer your question, I know the name well. Margery’s husband, Dr. Croydon, has mentioned it many times. How do you know about him?”

  “Dr. Croydon?” Violet said.

  Rose nodded. “He’s a Spiritualist, too, and no fan of Houdini.”

  “He absolutely hated him,” Sir Arthur said. “So did Walter.”

  Once again his words were greeted with silence. Sir Arthur managed a wan smile. Sitting up in his chair, he said, “I’m sorry. Walter’s Margery’s familiar. He’s her dead brother and despised Houdini even more than my wife and Pheneas did. He called Houdini a son of a bitch after Houdini called Margery a fraud.”

  “Mr. Houdini was deeply offended by that,” Rose said. “He saw it as slander against his mother.”

  “Houdini’s accusations angered me, too,” Sir Arthur said. “He besmirched the reputation of one of the finest Spiritualists ever.”

  With the full cast of characters finally clear, Holmes and I took turns telling Sir Arthur about our encounters with Albert Becker. Our friend listened, often shaking his head. Finally he interrupted in a sad voice, “There’s no end to this, is there?”

  “So it would seem,” Holmes said. “Surely you must know there is a big difference between the true Spiritualist and the charlatan who only believes in the money. Mr. Becker is worst than most, using his income to help rebuild the German war machine. When it moves again, there’ll be many thousands more fathers like you who’ll lose their sons.”

  Sir Arthur got to his feet, Holmes’s words seeming to put starch back into his spine. “I know, and it worried me at first. But don’t you see that even the charlatans further the cause? Because of them, more and more people now believe in the Spiritualist movement. We’re far more loving and welcoming than any other religion. Some day, even those who use our cause for their own ends will have to become believers. I don’t need Pheneas or Lady Jane to tell me that. Nor did I need Mr. Houdini to try to prove me wrong.”

  I had never heard “the end justifies the means” put so bluntly. Naïve, but still persuasive, somehow. I knew no one could ever convince Sir Arthur otherwise. The split with Houdini was inevitable.

  Mr. Holmes got to his feet and held out his hand to Sir Arthur. “I think we’ve learned as much as we can. It’s probably good we leave before Lady Jane returns. Please don’t tell her of our presence.”

  “You can be assured I won’t.”

  “Very good. Oh yes. Be sure to rinse the glasses and put them away before she gets back.”

  Chapter 19

  I fear the poor fellow has slipped terribly,” Holmes said, as he put the key into the lock of our room. “I’m amazed at the hold Lady Jean has on him. She was always the meekest of lambs all the time I knew her. That obviously has all changed. Pheneas has him terrified.”

  “I know. And I don’t like what I’m hearing about Margery’s husband, Dr. Croydon, either. His connection with Becker sounds very suspicious to me.”

  “Indeed.”

  As we stepped into our room, we were overwhelmed by the cloying odor of roses. The sight of the turned covers on the four-poster made me want to go after the bed with an axe. I definitely was not in the mood for satin and lace. Tchaikovsky and Oscar Wilde probably would have been perfectly at home here, but I had never been sprinkled with pixie dust. I had to get away, and fast.

  I felt a chilling thought. Maybe I wasn’t as different from Becker as I thought or wanted to be. Worse, I didn’t even know what I was angry about. I wasn’t a close associate of Houdini’s, and I hardly knew a thing about the Spiritualists other than what I heard and read about them. Why should I care so much? Was it worth putting Violet’s and my life in danger?

  I chuckled. Of course it was. It was every reporter’s dream.

  “What do we do now?” I asked Holmes.

  “We look for another hotel. This one isn’t safe.”

  After warning the women not to leave their rooms and giving them the new knock code, Holmes and I took the elevator to the lobby. The string quartet was gone, and I felt vaguely disappointed. I would have liked to hear a few more strains before we left.

  A taxi wa
ited outside the door.

  “Good afternoon, my good man,” Holmes said. “We’re about to check out of our hotel and were wondering if you could recommend another.”

  “I know just duh place. It’s just as nice as dis is and you can get Parker House rolls and Boston Cream Pie while you’re there. It ain’t too far from here, needer.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  “Youse guys talk diffrunt. You from England or some’in’?”

  I wanted to say he talked different too, but didn’t. I mentally translated everything else he said. “I was born in London, but I’m an American now. My friend lived there most of his life. Are you from around here?”

  “Nah. Brooklyn. Near Ebbets Field. I used to go see the Robins play two, tree times a week. I miss ’em. Ever seen a baseball game?”

  “I follow the Detroit Tigers. My son and I go to a game every once in a while.”

  “I go to Braves Stadium when the Robins come to town. The Robins’re gonna win the World Series next year. Just wait ’n’ see. What brings yuh to Boston? Is the king stoppin’ by or some’in’?”

  I smiled at that. “No. We came to have a séance with a woman here. She lives on Lime Street.”

  “Yeah? Up on Beacon Hill? Lotsa nice houses there.”

  “You can take us to the hotel a little later,” Holmes said. “We’d like to see the house first.”

  “You got it. ’Tain’t far.” The driver made a left turn. I didn’t try to remember our route, but a short time later he said. “It’s in the next block.”

  He took another left and slowed. We were greeted by a formidable continuous brick wall broken only by doors and windows. The bricks jammed against the narrow sidewalk, seeming pushing unlucky pedestrians into the street. As we moved forward, I saw two men standing and talking on the sidewalk. I didn’t recognize one of them, but I certainly did the other. Albert Becker.

  We both ducked behind the front seat. “Don’t slow up,” I said. “You can take us to the hotel now.”

  Seconds later, I sat up straight and looked back over my shoulder. Becker was still in intense conversation and showed no sign he had seen us.

  The doorman at the Parker House Hotel opened our taxi doors. Two more gold pieces disappeared from Holmes’s pocket to pay the driver, and one for the doorman.

  Inside we found twin marble columns and a fountain, much like the ones at the Boston Park. But there was one big difference. No musicians. Somehow I thought it should. Every hotel needed them.

  Holmes made the reservations, quite sensibly asking to see the room before registering. The bellboy took us to the twelfth floor.

  This time we found double beds with oak head and foot boards, plain oak writing desks with Gideon Bibles, a state-of-the-art radio without a coin slot, and numbered prints showing riders, foxes, and hounds. It even had a Kelvinator electric refrigerator stocked with Coca Cola, Dr. Pepper, and Ale-8-One. No Vernor’s Ginger Ale, unfortunately, as much as I hoped to find it. Since Prohibition, it had become Michigan’s unofficial drink.

  “Looks fine to me,” I said.

  The adjoining room was just as sensible.

  “Very good,” Holmes said. “We’ll take the rooms, and I’ll have our baggage sent here.”

  As he reached into his pocket, I quickly took out a half-dollar and gave it to the bellboy. His eyes lit up. “Thank you very much, sir.”

  Chapter 20

  It took two hours to arrange and complete the move. Violet particularly was unhappy. “That was such a nice room. We ­hadn’t even had time to unpack.”

  I cringed, knowing what was coming next.

  Holmes glared at her. “I’m sorry this room isn’t as much to your taste, my dear, but Albert Becker is in Boston, and he knows we were planning to stay at the Park Hotel. We nearly crossed paths with him less than an hour ago. I don’t want to chance that happening again. I didn’t leave word with the desk where we were going. The less anyone knows of our whereabouts, the safer we’ll be. That includes keeping Sir Arthur in the dark as well, unfortunately.”

  Violet said, “I’m sorry. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I feel so sorry for Sir Arthur. I just know his wife’s taking advantage of him. I’m sure she’s after his money.”

  “Most unlikely,” Holmes said. “She comes from a wealthy family and was an uncomplaining mistress for years while Sir Arthur’s wife still was alive. Even if she were a golddigger, no one would be able to convince him of it. I’m sure he’d happily give her everything he had if he felt she was advancing the cause of Spiritualism.”

  “I think we have an even bigger problem,” Rose said. “How can you meet with Margery if Albert Becker might show up?”

  “Yes,” I said in agreement. “I wondered the same thing. Are you sure meeting her’s really necessary in finding out what happened to Mr. Houdini?”

  “Absolutely, Wiggins. She and/or Dr. Croydon is at the crux of the whole matter. One or the other of them may even know who poisoned Mr. Houdini. I’m certain we’ll never learn anything from Dr. Croydon, and his association with Becker makes contacting him too dangerous to even try. Margery is our only hope.”

  “You won’t be able to talk to Margery without Dr. Croydon present,” Rose said. “Scientific American offered a ten-thousand-dollar prize to anyone able to prove themselves a genuine spiritualist. Margery insisted on performing her séance at her home, and for some reason, the investigating committee went along with it. Everyone but Mr. H., who wasn’t even present, thought she passed. He insisted she be tested under identical conditions but in a different location. She refused. Dr. Croydon wouldn’t allow it. He keeps her under lock and key.”

  “Too bad we don’t have Houdini here to free her,” Holmes muttered.

  “We may have someone as valuable,” I said. “We have Sir Arthur.”

  Holmes’s face lit up. “Quite true, Wiggins.”

  “What about Lady Jean?” Violet asked with a sour look. I could tell she genuinely disliked the woman even though she had never met her.

  “Wiggins has found the answer,” Holmes said brightly. “We have only to find a way to liberate our caged birds.”

  Not wishing to risk being seen in the restaurant, Holmes ordered room service for all of us. Rose and Violet ordered cod, Holmes and I had Atlantic red crab. Each came with Duchess Potatoes and peas, the famed Parker House rolls, and Boston cream pie for dessert. Our order also included a copy for each of us of the two Boston newspapers.

  “Our biggest problem seems to be how to free Margery,” Holmes said. “What do you know about her, Rose?”

  “For one thing, she’s very pretty and vivacious. She’s also flirtatious, and has given several séances in the nude to prove that ectoplasm actually came from her,” she hesitated, “private parts.”

  I smiled for a moment, knowing she was deliberately being delicate for Violet’s sake. I was quite sure if she were talking to Holmes and me alone, she wouldn’t hesitate to use the anatomical term.

  The look on Violet’s face was priceless. “What’s ectoplasm?” She asked in a tiny voice. I knew she was fascinated and didn’t want to let on.

  “It’s a fluid that supposed to be inside everyone’s body that can be transformed and become visible when a psychic performs a séance. It’s reportedly very fragile and would disappear in the presence of light. Mr. H. made it on stage with a mixture of soap, gelatin, and egg white—”

  Violet blushed when Rose added, “—and I think you can imagine how it came from inside her.”

  “I’ve never heard that part of the story,” Holmes said, his voice dry. “Has she ever used her sexuality in other ways?”

  “She certainly isn’t adverse to kissing her male clients on the lips. Mr. H. was almost certain she was sleeping with Hereward Harrington, one of the members of the e
valuating committee for the Scientific American’s Prize. Harrington was one of her most ardent supporters. As you can imagine, he and Mr. H. were constantly at odds.”

  “Wasn’t her husband aware of what was happening?”

  “I don’t see how he could not have been,” Rose continued with a cattish smile. “Mr. H. always thought Croydon had some deeper design or purpose for her. Margery never charged for her séances. So it wasn’t about money.”

  “It might have been if she had won the prize,” I said.

  “A few thousand dollars meant nothing to them. She wanted the prestige of being acknowledged as a true spiritual medium. And she came very close. Houdini was always the one who stood in her way. His reputation suffered because of their fight, too.”

  “Is there any chance she’ll still get the award?” Holmes asked.

  “No. The Scientific American closed the challenge without a winner.”

  A knock on the door announced the arrival of the food. The aroma of fish filled the room before the bellhop wheeled in a cart. I had always loved the smell, and the variety of colors on the plate made it an even bigger treat.

  This time I didn’t watch when Holmes tipped the young man. I was done nursemaiding his finances. The crab was far more interesting.

  My unfortunate creature stood stolidly on my plate, waiting to be eaten; I certainly didn’t want to make it wait long. We all took time to savour our first bites before resuming our conversation.

  “Houdini said Margery was the most talented illusionist he ever met,” Holmes said. “What is she like, personally?”

  “I don’t think she’s nearly as mean-spirited as Dr. Croydon or ‘Walter.’ I’ve never even been convinced she was the real source of Walter’s voice. It could well be Dr. Croydon’s work, if he knows ventriloquism. She claims to be a spirit of the Indian tribes who lived in this area, and she never charges anything for her séances.”