Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  Holmes squinted. “That is the most obvious difference between her and the rest, isn’t it?” he mused. “It may even be her greatest claim to legitimacy. Do you think she’d be willing to meet with Sir Arthur alone?”

  “I’m sure she’d be delighted. He’s probably her most famous supporter.”

  “Good. From what you’ve said, getting her out from Dr. Croydon’s thumb would seem to be the most difficult task. Sir Arthur, on the other hand, is a world-famous scientist. We should be able to devise a way to send him on a scientific expedition, somewhere where Lady Jean wouldn’t be welcome.”

  “I have just the answer,” I said, pointing at an article on the front page of the Boston News. “J.P. Morgan is opening a power station in Winchester that’s using equipment to regulate the flow of electricity. It’s brand new. I’m sure Sir Arthur would be more than interested in seeing it, and Lady Jean wouldn’t be invited, so she couldn’t complain if he had to go without her.”

  “Brilliant, Wiggins. Now all we have to do is to find a way to get Margery out of her cage without losing her tail feathers.”

  We took another break to eat. Doused in butter, my little red beast’s claws were delicious. I also knew I could eat what was inside its legs, but wasn’t sure what I’d find underneath the mantle when I took it off. Why hadn’t it come with instructions?

  “Is Dr. Croydon still practicing medicine?” Violet asked.

  “As far as I know,” Rose said.

  “Then why can’t we have her meet us sometime when he’s gone?”

  Rose shook her head. “That isn’t as easy as it might seem. She has someone with her at all times. Margery seldom is even allowed out to shop for food.”

  Holmes, who was tentatively poking at some white mass under the crab’s shell, set his plate aside. “If that’s the case, we still would have a chance to whisk her away alone. It’ll require delicate timing, my friends, but we’re more than capable of accomplishing it.”

  Chapter 21

  We spent the rest of the day devising and evaluating our strategies. Violet’s scheme, involving kidnapping, won my vote in two categories: the most creative, and most impractical. There indeed were windows in Croydon’s house, but no obvious back doors. Furthermore, though I was still quite athletic for my age, I had never acquired the skills necessary to perform as a human fly.

  Rose’s idea was to call Margery out on an errand. Far less creative, but more practical. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to distract the bodyguard.

  I wasn’t surprised when Holmes remained close-mouthed about his stratagem. He began by making a phone call to Boston General to find out if Dr. Croydon would be at the hospital the next day.

  His lips pulled into a tight smile as he listened to a somewhat lengthy reply. Then he hung up. “Some very interesting news. Not only will Dr. Croydon be away from Ten Lime Street tomorrow, he’s leaving in the morning to attend a conference in New York regarding pathogenic blood diseases. It seems Doctor Croydon was the attending physician when Calvin Coolidge, Jr., son of your president, died in June of 1924. There weren’t any medicines strong enough to save him.”

  “I remember that,” I said. “Calvin, Jr., had played tennis without socks and got a blister on his toe. It became infected. He died days later from erysipelas. I’ve read the president remains heartbroken to this day.”

  “Is there any chance Margery will be going to New York with the doctor?” Holmes asked.

  “I have the answer to that,” Violet said. “She’s giving a speech to a local Spiritualist society tonight at the Bell in Hand on Union Street. They’re holding their meeting there to celebrate Prohibition.”

  “What time is that?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “Then I’m sure Sir Arthur and Lady Jean are already planning to attend,” Holmes muttered. “This may be an opportunity in disguise.”

  “Is there any chance Becker will be staying with Margery while Dr. Croydon’s gone?” I asked.

  “I doubt it,” Rose said, making a sour face. “For one thing, he isn’t a very appealing specimen of manhood. For another, there really isn’t anything he can do to further her career.”

  “Even if he’s not sleeping with her, I’m sure he’s lurking somewhere near,” Holmes said with a wry smile. “He knows we’ll contact her sooner or later. Put simply, she’s bait. All he has to do is bide his time.”

  “That could work to our advantage,” I said. “If he’s fishing for us, he won’t want anyone else around when we decide to nibble. All we have to do is steal the worm out from under his nose.”

  “Indeed, Wiggins,” Holmes said cheerfully. “Though I doubt Mrs. Croydon would very much like being termed a worm. This is delightful, my friend. Becker knows we know what he’s up to. It’s playing chess against Moriarty once again. We’ll just have to see who is the better chess player. I’m placing my wager on us. Now to work.”

  For the opening move, Holmes had me draw a sketch of Albert Becker. I had not drawn a caricature for several weeks, but, with Holmes’s and Rose’s assistance, we came up with a good likeness.

  “Now we need to turn this drawing into fifty copies,” Holmes said. “I understand a miraculous new printing process will do just that.”

  “It’s called mimeography,” I said. “It’s not that new, nor is it all that miraculous. The hotel will know where to find printers that use it.”

  “Then I’ll call room service and have them take care of it. How would you like to be in charge of recruiting the Lime Street Irregulars?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I’m far too old for such matters. You’ll need a costume, of course. I should have kept the cap with earflaps you bought for me. That and a scarf around your face would make a good disguise.”

  “Ha ha,” I said in a mirthless voice.

  “I recommend you find an older boy to be your sergeant to gather and pass on intelligence to you. He’ll help you do the recruiting, too. I’ll be the paymaster, of course. Will fifty cents apiece per day to our agents be enough, do you think?”

  “You can buy almost any boy in Boston for a week for fifty cents.” I said. Years melted away and all the pleasures of my London boyhood returned in strength. “The Croydons live in a pretty exclusive neighborhood. It may not be easy for our Irregulars to get information.”

  “Boys are still as cunning as they were when I needed them in your day, Wiggins. You never let me down.”

  “This’ll take time. What if Dr. Croydon returns before we’re done?”

  “The hospital said he won’t be back until the end of the week. That gives us four days.”

  A bell tinkled a merry warning as I opened the door to the nameless basement level grocery on River Street. A large display case filled with a king’s ransom of sweets at the front of the store was the first thing that caught my eye. It meant there were children in the neighborhood. I eyed the liquorice pipes with especial interest. I fancied them myself.

  The man behind the front counter noticed. “Afternoon. Anything I can get you?”

  “Give me a dime’s worth of the pipes. My grandson really likes them.”

  He dropped ten into a paper bag. “Anything else?”

  “Not now, thanks. Actually, I’m looking for a young man to help me move some boards onto my trailer. You know anyone who might want to earn a dollar for a few minute’s work?”

  “Heck, even I’d work for that.”

  “I’m afraid you’re too old for the job, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Sam Albright’s twelve, so he should be big enough to be able to help you. He lives just down the block.”

  “Would you mind calling his mother to see if he’d be interested.”

  “Got a nickel?”

  I handed him one, grinning.

  A larg
e rectangular wooden box with sizable pieces of metal bursting out of it hung on the wall next to counter. The grocer cranked the handle. “Hi, Bernice. Andrew eight two three four.”

  I bit off the handle of one of my liquorice pipes. I never chewed them. They were just the right size to suck.

  “Hi. Is that you, Sam? Your mother around?”

  I stood on one foot and then the other. I always hated to have to listen in on a conversation.

  “She’s not? Well, that’s okay. I wanted to talk to you anyway. There’s a man here who needs help loading some lumber. He says he’ll pay you a buck. You interested?”

  The grocer nodded at me. “He’ll be right over.”

  We met near the schoolyard two blocks away from Lime Street. The day was still warm, and just a thin wisp of smoke seeped out from the building’s smokestack. Seagulls hovered like oddly angled marshmallows against the cold gray sky.

  Sam seemed surprised I had neither a car nor lumber but didn’t really care. All he wanted to know was what he had to do to get his dollar.

  I took a copy of the sketch from my bag and showed it to him. “Have you ever seen this man?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “His name’s Alfred Becker. I think he’s staying with Dr. Croydon. Do you know Dr. Croydon?”

  “Of course . Everyone does.”

  “Good. Do you know those fellows playing football?”

  Seven boys—nine or ten year olds, I guessed—were tossing a football around. One even wore a leather helmet and a blue jersey, the others, grass-stained denim and sweatshirts.

  “Yeah. I know ’em.”

  “Have them come over. We’ll want to ask them, too.”

  Sam trotted over to them, and they eagerly followed him back. They all looked interested to find out what I wanted. I passed out copies of the drawing.

  None had seen Becker.

  I reached into my pocket and passed a nickel to each of them. “Bring the picture home with you and ask your Mom and Dad if they’ve seen him. Your friends and brothers and sisters, too. Do any of you know Dr. Croydon?”

  Four of them nodded.

  “I think he knows the man in the picture.”

  “I don’t like Dr. Croydon,” the boy in the helmet said in a quiet voice.

  “Why?”

  “His son Mitchell was my friend. He came from England and talked like you. The doctor had adopted him and had him sent here. Mitchell played baseball and football with us, and came over to my house after school just about every day. Mom really liked him. One day he told me he was afraid of the doctor and wanted to run away. After that, he just disappeared and no one knew what happened to him. My mom asked the doctor, and the doctor said he had sent Mitchell back to England, but he wouldn’t give her his new address. She says she’s going to tell the police.”

  “I think she should. Does anybody else know anything about Mitchell or Dr. Croydon?”

  A red-haired boy in a large gray woolen shirt raised his hand. “Mitchell told me he thought there were other boys who had lived in the doctor’s house. He found clothes that weren’t his, and a boy’s ring with a ‘T’ on it. The doctor got real mad when he saw Mitchell wearing the ring, and almost tore Mitchell’s finger off to get it.”

  “Dr. Croydon sounds as if he may not be a very nice person, but the man in the picture is even worse. If you see him, or find out anything about him, tell Sam. Don’t go anywhere near him. I’ll see you get a quarter.”

  They all ooed at the mention of the king’s ransom.

  A third boy, teeth wrapped in braces asked, “You gonna to tell my ma if you give me a quarter?”

  I strongly suspected he would make a quick, illicit visit to the candy store when paid, but I decided to play along. “I bet you’re saving your money to get her a present, aren’t you? I won’t tell her. It’ll be our secret.”

  The sun had set and a much colder wind began to blow. The seagulls had departed for a warmer clime. The boys waved at me. “Bye, mister. We gotta go home.”

  I gave Sam his dollar. I also gave him a card with our phone number at the Parker House. “Be sure to call me when you learn anything. I have a lot more dollars in my pocket and will be happy to spend them. Oh, and by the way, don’t tell anyone how much I’m paying you. If anyone comes to me and asks for more money, our agreement is off.”

  Chapter 22

  Mr. Holmes wasn’t in the room when I got back. Neither Rose nor Violet knew where he had gone, only that he had left a few minutes after I did and hadn’t returned.

  “Darn,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I have news for him.”

  Violet straightened a small pile she had torn out of the local newspapers. “I hate feeling useless,” she said. “I wish Mr. Holmes had given me something to do.”

  “You seem to be keeping busy on your own. What are all the paper bits about?”

  “Everything I can find about the Croydons and the Spiritualists. I didn’t realize the Spiritualists actually had churches.”

  “That’s just what they call their meeting places,” Rose said. “I held my gatherings in my living room. The Baptists and the Methodists really hate the Spiritualists because they think they’re stealing their members.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “Anyone want a liquorice pipe?”

  I got no takers. I fished one out of the bag and stuck the stem into my mouth. “Does this remind you of anyone you know?”

  I was a little disappointed when neither of them scarcely looked at me. I decided it was because Holmes hadn’t smoked his pipe very much on the trip.

  Rose was excited to hear my information about Dr. Croydon’s son.

  “One of Mr. H’s investigators got wind of Mitchell’s disappearance months ago,” she said. “Mr. H. followed up, and the Boston police promised to make an inquiry. Months went by, and nothing happened. The British police said they were baffled. Mr. H. said he was sure they were being paid off.”

  “Maybe I can talk Mr. Holmes into investigating when he gets back home.”

  “That may be the only way to get any results. I’m sure Mr. Houdini never heard about the ring Dr. Croydon’s son found. It could be important, but you can be sure the Boston police won’t want to cause trouble for a member of such an important family on a child’s say-so. Even if they found the ring, it wouldn’t prove anything illegal had happened.”

  I heard a scratching at the hall door, a rattle. Then the handle turned, and Mr. Holmes walked in. In fine fettle, I might add. “Good evening, everyone. I’m glad to see we’re all here. Did you have a successful recruiting trip, Wiggins?”

  “Yes. Where have you been?”

  “At the library. I needed to do some research I deemed important enough to be worth the risk of being discovered.”

  “From your jaunty mood, it looks like you were successful,” I said.

  “Quite. For one thing, Dr. Croydon wrote a book, Surgical After-Treatment, in 1905. It’s mostly concerned with techniques to prevent infections in hospitals after surgeries. Not being able to prevent President Coolidge’s son from developing erysipelas must have been a severe blow to the doctor’s ego and reputation, even if it wasn’t his fault. His wife’s fame as a Spiritualist could have been seen as a way to regain some of the family’s status. He’s the one who insisted she had extra-normal abilities and pushed her into performing séances.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I really don’t know, yet. Dr. Croydon is Margery’s second husband. Her first was a grocer here in Boston. She had a son, John, with him. She met the doctor when he performed surgery on her. When she divorced, John came with her.”

  “Did you also know they adopted a boy from England who mysteriously disappeared when they sent him back?” I asked. “That’s my big discovery of the day.”

&n
bsp; “I didn’t. Very good. I see you’ve already made some progress.”

  I told him the details I learned. Holmes seemed especially interested in Mitchell’s discovery of a boy’s ring.

  “I expect Sir Arthur may be able to give us a few more details,” Holmes said. “Another interesting tie-in to our investigation is that Dr. Croydon is very active in the American Eugenics Society.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s part of a world-wide organization that claims to promote the overall betterment of the human race by the elimination of inferior races and individuals. Many of the richest people in the world are ardent supporters. Even your Oliver Wendell Holmes backed a Tennessee law that would have allowed the sterilization of a family with a history of feeble-mindedness, though the majority of the Supreme Court disagreed. Dr. Croydon’s a very close friend of one of the society’s founders, Andrew Preston of the American Fruit Company.”

  “Preston!” I sputtered. “He’s got a worldwide reputation for mistreating everyone who works for him.”

  Holmes shrugged. “Working them to death is one of the ways to eliminate inferior races, you know. Getting back to Dr. Croydon—he seemed to be particularly unhappy that Houdini, the man attacking his wife, was Jewish. Margery’s dead brother especially enjoyed referring to Mr. Houdini as ‘the dirty kike,’ the vulgar term for ‘copulating Jew.’”

  I whistled. “It does sound as if he’s reading from the same script as Albert Becker.”

  The conversation ended with the ring of our telephone. Holmes answered, then held out the receiver toward me.

  “Wiggins.”

  “Sniggiw, it’s Mas.”

  I cringed. Why had I agreed to using backward names as codewords, as much as Sam had insisted on it? Then I remembered I had been a boy myself, very much like him, once upon a time.