Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  “It looks like they’re running,” I said. “That must be them.”

  As I said it, the red dot disappeared.

  “They turned,” the officer said. “Did you see which way?”

  “No.”

  “If they turned left they’ll be heading toward the harbor. They’d have more road ahead of them by turning right.”

  He turned off his siren. The blocks were long, so we had a fairly accurate idea where the Essex had turned.

  Nothing moved on the street in either direction when the patrol car stopped in the middle of the street. The snow had turned heavier. Reaching into the glove compartment, he took out a flashlight.

  I watched as he scanned the surface of the street looking for fresh tracks. Nothing had disturbed the snow. “Let’s backtrack and look in the other direction.”

  We passed through the intersection and the officer once again got out, leaving the engine running. Shining the flashlight on the street surface, we could see fresh tire tracks quickly filling with snow.

  “The snow’s coming down harder. I don’t know how much longer we’ll be able to see the tracks.”

  We started forward at a crawl, headlights centered on the driver’s side track. What seemed like bare seconds later, the tracks began to disappear from view.

  “Is there anything down this way?” I asked.

  “Warehouses and office buildings. I don’t see any lights.”

  At the news, I realized how hard my heart was pounding. The two most important people in my life were captive, and I had no idea how to find them. Almost no idea, anyway. “We know they’re not on this street. What do you say we drive up to the nearest intersection and look there. We may get lucky.”

  With that, he floored the accelerator. Slewing to a stop, we arrived at the next intersection mere seconds later.

  He carefully got out. Bending low, he searched the rapidly accumulating snow for tire tracks. Then he straightened up and shook his head at me.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can’t find them.”

  “Let me use your flashlight.”

  “Sure.”

  Walking to the middle of the intersection, I dropped to my back. Holding the flashlight next to the surface, I slowly rotated myself with my feet. I stopped and got to my knees before standing. I knew that raised ridges left on the edges of the tire tracks cause noticeable irregularities in the surface of the snow. It showed the direction the auto had taken.

  “They turned left.”

  To my dismay, the wind picked up. Snow flew at the windshield as I slid back into my seat. The street had become a snow-lit, silent corridor offering hardly any visibility. I caught a glimse at the officer’s name plate. Grover O’Neal. Undoubtedly named after President Cleveland. Officer O’Neal turned and sped forward, still hoping to catch sight of the taillight. My heart fell when he finally slowed.

  “It’s no use. They’ve gotten away. Can you tell me anything about the car they’re driving?”

  “It’s a 1926 Hudson Super-Six Essex. It’s a very expensive car.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s part of my job to know everything about automobiles that’s worth knowing. I’ve actually been able to assist the Detroit police identify them on occasion. I helped them put Manny Epstein of the Purple Gang in jail. They caught him in a car I identified. It was full of rye whiskey from Canada.”

  “I’m impressed. I’ll put out an all-points for the men to be on the lookout for an Hudson Essex with a damaged fender, but that’s about all we can do. Do you want us to put you under protective custody?”

  “No. Earlier, my friend made a call to the police to report that Alfred Becker was staying at the Milner Hotel. He’s an escaped suspected felon wanted in New York. Did you send anyone there?”

  “Yes. The room was empty, though Becker hadn’t checked out. I’ll make a call to get someone to go back.”

  “He won’t be there,” I mumbled.

  “Any other ideas?” O’Neal asked.

  “Yes. Let’s go to the Park Hotel. The kidnappers may have tried to contact me.”

  Chapter 26

  At nearly eleven o’clock, the Park Hotel lobby teemed with young women in short skirts sitting at the tables smoking or giggling with their friends. Their dates sat near, reading newspapers or leering at them lasciviously.

  Officer O’Neal watched their antics as I approached the desk.

  “Good evening, sir,” a smiling young man said. “How may I help you?”

  “My name’s Timothy Wiggins. I was a guest here earlier today. Have there been any messages for me?”

  “One minute, please. I’ll find out.”

  Boom! Boom! Boom! My pulse pounded in my ears as I watched him shuffle through a pile of yellow papers.

  “Sorry, sir. No messages.”

  I turned to O’Neal and shook my head. He stepped to the desk, flashed his badge and picked up the phone on the desk. “Please connect me with Sir Conan Doyle’s room. This is official police business.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  The young man no longer was smiling as he pushed a metal connector into one of the holes in the beehive of openings behind the desk. Then he nodded.

  He introduced himself and asked to speak with Sir Arthur.

  “Can’t this wait?” came Lady Jean’s worried voice. “He’s sleeping.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is extremely important.”

  O’Neal handed the receiver to me as Sir Arthur answered with a yawn.

  “Sir Arthur, this is Timothy Wiggins.”

  “Good heavens, Wiggins. It’s past eleven o’clock. What happened?”

  “Mr. Holmes and Violet were abducted on the way back from the lecture. I nearly was, too.” Dead silence. “Are you there, Sir Arthur?”

  “Sorry. Yes, I’m here. I merely didn’t know what to say. Do you have any idea of who committed this atrocious deed?”

  “The man who calls himself Albert Baker and two of the men who work for him. I’m in the hotel lobby with the Boston police, and we need to speak to Margery tonight. Do you have her phone number?”

  “Somewhere,” Sir Arthur replied, voice trailing off. “Find Margery’s number for me, love.”

  I handed the phone to O’Neal. who was standing next to me with an open notebook on the desk, pencil in hand.

  “Andrew 4228? Yes I know it’s an unlisted number. Thank you.”

  The desk clerk had arranged for me to be able to listen in on a lobby phone, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from speaking out as O’Neal and Margery conversed. She indeed had heard what had happened. Another officer had contacted her about the kidnapping and the damage to the limousine soon after the attack. “I don’t want to leave the house, but you are welcome to come here if you think I may know something that will help you find them. I won’t be able to sleep, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” O’Neal said. “I have Mr. Wiggins with me. He was the third person in the limousine. Luckily, he escaped and can give you a better account of what happened. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Snow was falling more heavily as we arrived at Ten Lime Street. At home, Violet and I often sat for hours watching it fall, and I knew she would like the fluffy flakes drifting down in the now windless night. Nearly all the other houses on either side were dark, but the lights in Margery’s house shone brightly.

  O’Neal lifted the hammer of the knocker on the heavy oaken door and let it fall once.

  Margery answered immediately. “Officer O’Neal? Mr. Wiggins? Please come in, but take off your shoes in the hallway. I promise they won’t walk away while you’re here.”

  Considering the circumstances, I wasn’t in the mood for humor. But, given her occupation and reputation, I had to smile in spite of mysel
f.

  A wood fire at the far end of a large room crackled behind an iron screen. Antique furniture rested on an enormous Persian rug. Oil paintings, mostly of stern-faced men scowled at each other from the wood-paneled walls. I knew very little about antiquities, but had seen pictures of some similar pieces in the Free Press. The exorbitant prices Federal Period furniture brought in auction astonished me. If I weren’t so worried about Violet and Mr. Holmes, I’d be afraid to take a step.

  Margery pointed us toward a spindly davenport. “Please sit. I’m very glad you’re safe, Mr. Wiggins. I’m terribly worried about your wife and friend.”

  “I can’t even tell you how worried I am.”

  “I’d ask Walter to find out for you, but we don’t have enough energy to call him. We need at least six people.”

  “I appreciate the thought,” I said, half-believing he could tell us.

  “I’ve made some tea. I’ll have Lucille serve it.”

  “Thanks, but we won’t have the time,” O’Neal said. “Mr. Wiggins tells us that someone well-known to your family, Albert Baker, is the person behind the kidnapping. Mr. Wiggins also says he saw the same Mr. Baker on the sidewalk in front of your house earlier today.”

  “Yes. He told us he had just arrived in town and wanted to stop by to talk to my husband. At the end of the lecture, I was shocked when Sir Arthur’s friend accused Mr. Baker of trying to murder the Wigginses in a theatre in New York. I still can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because LeRoi would never knowingly associate with a criminal. My husband is the most honest man I have ever known.”

  I had to break into the conversation. “He’s a wonderful parent, too, isn’t he? There were Tom and Mitchell and lots of other boys, too.”

  That brought the first frown to her face. “He is. Unfortunately some of the boys he adopted didn’t work out. LeRoi was as sad when he had to give them up as the boys were themselves.”

  “What was wrong with them?”

  “They were lazy, or disobedient, or didn’t try very hard in school. LeRoi has strict rules, and they didn’t follow them.”

  My eyes flashed. Before I could say more, O’Neal headed me off.

  “Let’s get back to your husband’s relationship with Albert Baker. How often did they meet?”

  Margery closed her eyes, then answered. “At least once or twice a month. They were involved in developing some kind of a educational program.”

  “About Spiritualism or eugenics?” I asked.

  “Neither. Aryanism. H.G. Wells wrote about how great the Aryans were. Groups in England and Germany are devoted to learning about them. Both Mr. Baker and my husband have already spent a great deal of money on the project.”

  “And your husband thinks Jewish people are inferior or evil, doesn’t he?” I said. “I know Albert Baker does.”

  Margery shook her head. “Oh, no. LeRoi doesn’t think that at all. That’s Walter. He says most of the people he meets in hell are Jewish, and that he’s sure there’ll be many more coming.”

  My skin crawled. Could she actually be as naïve as she was acting? “Has Walter ever met Albert Baker?”

  “Many times. He always looks forward to their get-togethers.”

  That didn’t surprise me at all.

  “Has Mr. Baker ever stayed here with you and your husband?” O’Neal asked.

  “On occasion. Although he’s always welcome to stay here, he doesn’t like to intrude, so he usually stays in a hotel downtown.”

  O’Neal’s voice became sharper. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Baker might be now?”

  “No. Of course not. If I did, I would tell you.”

  “Would your husband have any idea?”

  “I don’t know,” Margery said, voice faltering.

  “Then please call him. This is very important.”

  “I already talked to him,” she said, averting her eyes. “He’s leaving the conference and coming home tomorrow morning.”

  “We can’t wait that long,” O’Neal said. “Your husband may be the only person who can help us find Baker before he does harm to his hostages.”

  Though obviously reluctant, Margery took a piece of paper down from the mantel of the fireplace. Handing it to O’Neal, she said, “Use our phone.”

  I tried to listen in, but gave up. I could tell from the officer’s facial expressions that he wasn’t getting any new information. He ended with, “Thank you. I’ll call you when you get back if I have any other questions.”

  He hung up. “I appreciate the use of your telephone, Mrs. Croydon. I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time.” He handed her his card. “I expect you’ll call me if you hear from Mr. Baker. His real name is Becker. See if you can find out where he is.”

  “Of course. But I’m sure he wouldn’t contact me.”

  “I have a last question,” I said. “Your lecture was by invitation only. How did Becker get invited?”

  “LeRoi told me to make sure he could attend. I left word with the church to expect him.”

  She showed us to the hallway, and as promised, our shoes were still there.

  Outside, the snow had stopped and a bright moon now lit up the landscape. Dead silence lay atop the newly fallen snow. Inside, a vise circled my chest, and my gut churned noisily.

  O’Neal opened the door for me. When he settled into the driver’s door, I couldn’t control myself any longer. “Well? What did the good doctor have to say?”

  “Essentially, nothing. The doctor has the same opinion as Mrs. Croydon. He refuses to believe Becker could be involved in a kidnapping or anything else illegal. Croydon claims the last he heard, Becker was staying at the Milner Hotel, otherwise he has no idea where else he might be. The estimable doctor was very concerned about his auto and chauffeur. He didn’t say a word about your wife or friend.”

  “About what I expected,” I said. “There were a lot of other questions I would’ve liked to ask him, but they wouldn’t’ve helped us find my wife. Do you want to talk to Sir Arthur tonight?”

  “Is there some reason not to?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping. I know he’d tell us if he had any idea where Becker might be. He told us some things in confidence, things he wouldn’t want his wife to know he told us.”

  “Then I’ll trust your judgment. We can talk to him tomorrow.”

  Chapter 27

  Rose was on the couch in our room, waiting for me when I got back. She had become worried when we didn’t return. I spent the next half hour relating everything that had happened. She caught her breath loudly several times before I was done.

  “How terrible,” she said. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through.”

  “Thank you. You’re absolutely right. Has anyone called?”

  “No, but I’ve been on the telephone almost the entire time. I learned a few things, but it isn’t the right time to discuss them.”

  “Not unless you have some idea where Violet and Mr. Holmes might be.”

  A knock. We both looked toward the door.

  I carefully moved closer. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Wiggins?” a voice said in a gasp.

  “Who are you?”

  “Simon Bertolini . . . the Croydons’ chauffeur.”

  I threw caution to the winds and opened the door. A battered young man stood in the hallway.

  “Come in,” I said, grabbing his arm and gently pulling him inside. “What happened to you?”

  “I . . .” he said, obviously in great pain.

  “Don’t talk,” Rose said, disappearing into the bathroom. Water ran. She came back with a wet towel. Without a word she gently laid it against his face.

 
; Seconds later he pulled it away. “Thank you. That felt good.” Bertolini’s voice came out in a whistle because one of his front teeth was broken off and the words emerged over the edge of a badly swollen upper lip. His coat was missing two buttons, and he had a livid-looking knot in the center of his forehead.

  With effort, he said, “I’m supposed to tell you your companions are well and safe, and that you will get instructions about what to do to get them back.”

  “Can you identify the kidnappers?”

  “I only saw one of them, and he told me to deliver the message or he’d kill me. Then he threw me out of the car. I’m sure they had to be going thirty miles an hour. I must have hit my head when I landed and passed out.”

  “You’re lucky to still be alive.”

  I took O’Neal’s card out of my pocket. “This officer is working with me. I’ll give him a call for you. He’ll want to talk to you, too.”

  Officer O’Neal arrived twenty minutes later and escorted the ill-treated chauffeur from the room in a wheelchair. “I’ll talk to you first thing in the morning,” the officer said as he left.

  Rose and I stood watching until the elevator arrived and the two men disappeared.

  “I have something to give to you,” Rose said. “Mr. H. gave it to me and I want you to have it. You may need it.”

  She left the room through the adjoining door and quickly came back carrying something her hand nearly covered. When she opened it, I recoiled at the sight of what appeared to be a human finger. “Wha-a-a-t?”

  “It’s not real. It’s one of Mr. H’s escape kits.”

  She pointed to a barely visible line in the middle of the right side. Using a finger nail, she separated the grim object into two pieces.

  A piece of coiled wire with teeth came out first. “This is what’s called a gigli saw,” she said. “It can cut through steel bars.”

  I took it from her to examine it. Even its appearance frightened me. If it could cut through steel, it could as easily cut through nearly anything else.