by Raymond John
“Fair enough. I know I can trust you to ask the right questions.”
There was only one door in view. And it was straight ahead.
I rapped.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Police. We have a few more questions to ask you.”
“Come in. The door’s open.”
“Not open, silly goose!” Holmes whispered with a roll of his eyes. “Unlocked.”
I ignored his linguistic jingoism and turned the door handle.
Lucille Dougherty, who was sitting on a sofa reading, swung her bare feet to the floor and stood. Though she was wrapped in a flannel robe, the top of a pink negligee peeked out as she laid her book on the coffee table before her. “Who are you? You aren’t the ones who were here before.”
“We just arrived from headquarters with some disturbing new information. You said you haven’t even seen Albert Baker. We know otherwise. He’s a desperate man and we need to find him before he hurts someone.”
She blanched at the words. “I can’t help you.”
It was time for a bluff, one that even would impress Holmes. “You obviously didn’t know it, but we’ve had the house under surveillance.” I took out a scrap of paper—a receipt from buying razorblades at the hotel sundries shop—and pretended to read.
“At approximately seventeen thirty-eight hours, suspect Albert Becker, wanted on charges of kidnapping and attempted murder, approached the house at 10 Lime Street and rang the doorbell. A young female answered and let him in. Suspect has not yet come out at this time. Report signed Officer Liam Reilly, and called in at seventeen fifty-one. Received by the dispatch sergeant, Felix Barnes.”
Dead silence. After all my years working with the Detroit police as a reporter, I had the script down to a fare-thee-well. If it worked with hardened criminals in the Purple Gang, I was sure a naïve young flapper had no chance whatsoever.
Holmes added an exclamation point to my statement by opening the bathroom door and peering inside. Lucille’s eyes flitted nervously towards him and widened.
After letting her stew in her own juices for a few seconds, I said in a kindlier voice, “We know Mr. Baker has visited here many times, and he is a good friend of the Croydons. I’m sure he’s been nice to you, but he isn’t at all what he seems to be. For one thing, his real name is Becker. You know about the kidnapping and what happened to Simon. He could easily have been killed when Becker’s accomplices threw him out of a speeding auto. Don’t make it necessary to arrest you for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”
A look of panic came to her face. “I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I . . . I didn’t know, believe me.” Breaking into actual tears, she said. “I was only doing what Dr. Croydon told me to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said there’s been a terrible mistake, and that the police think Mr. Baker has done something illegal. He told me Mr. Baker might appear at the door during the séance. He did, and I let him in. He said he wouldn’t be staying very long, just long enough to borrow one of the doctor’s coats and get some money for a train ticket. He told me to say I hadn’t seen him if anyone asked, and said I wouldn’t get in any trouble. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have lied.”
“Where is he now?”
“I swear I don’t know. I showed him to Dr. Croydon’s room and he took a black leather jacket, a scarf, and a derby hat from the closet. When he started to go through drawers, I made him leave. I told him I couldn’t give him the money he needed because I only had a few dollars and the Croydons keep their money in a wall safe. I even told him I had a friend who might have enough money to buy the ticket, if he wanted to come with me, but he refused to leave. He said he would wait until the séance was over.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“On the stairway down to the first floor. I didn’t like the idea of him wandering around in the house, so I told him he could wait in my room, but he was worried someone might find him there. I watched him until he disappeared around the bend.”
Holmes glanced at me, and I shrugged. “There’s nowhere to hide on first floor,” he said. “Did you have any idea where he was going?”
“No.”
“Where are the stairs to the basement?”
“Behind the kitchen. Simon has his room in the basement. The Croydons never let me go there.” She paused, then continued with a thin smile. “I think they’re afraid we might get involved in scandalous behavior, and it would affect their social standing.”
“I’m glad you told the truth. We’ll do what we can to see you don’t get into serious trouble. When we leave, lock your door, and don’t let anyone else come in. Not even if they say they’re police.”
“Okay,” she said with a final sniffle. Tears had made her mascara run down in twin streaks through her rouge. Her appearance reminded me of the time Violet dragged me to see Pagliacci.
Holmes wasn’t ready to leave. “Do you have to go through the front door to enter the house?”
“No. There’s a fire escape outside of my window. I never use it, though. Why do you ask?”
“The element of surprise is more valuable than the purest gold. Where does the fire exit go?”
“To the back yard. There’s a fence with a gate that has to be opened with a key when coming or going. Simon uses it.”
“Do you have a key to the back door of the house?”
“No,” Lucille replied with a trace of suspicion in her voice. “I told you, the Croydons don’t want me back there.”
“No matter. I think we’ll use the fire escape, if you don’t mind.”
Lucille moved forward to take a closer look at Mr. Holmes. Then, eyes flashing, she said, “You’re not with the police. I remember you. You were with the Conan Doyles at the lecture last night.”
“You’re mistaken, young lady. And even if that were true, you would still be in serious trouble for lying about not seeing Albert Baker. We’re only trying to spare you the consequences of your actions. Now if you will kindly open your window for us, we will take our leave.”
That brought a laugh. “You’re going outside without shoes?”
Holmes’s singularity of purpose had run away with him, but he remained unflappable. “Unless you have American size twelve extra narrow shoes I could borrow, that’s quite true. No matter though, it’s just a minor inconvenience.”
Minor inconvenience? Speak for yourself, Mr. Holmes.
She opened a window. Hell-bent on carrying through with his scheme, Holmes climbed through it. “Are you simply going to stand rooted in place, Wiggins, or are you going to join me?”
“Let me think about it.”
“Very well. I’ll not wait any longer. My feet are already starting to get cold.”
Lucille loosed another laugh, this one more of a giggle. She opened a door and squatted. “You may be able to get your toes and half of your foot into these. I don’t like to admit it, but I do have big feet for a woman. I have another pair your friend can use.”
Happily, both pairs were flats. I set them on the floor and wiggled inside them as far as halfway up the insteps.
I felt like an idiot walking on tip toes, but the shoes stayed on. When I got to the fire escape railing, I dropped the other pair down to Holmes. “See how these fit.”
I could hardly wait to see him wearing them. Of all the disguises he used in his investigations, women’s shoes too small for his feet certainly would be among the most humiliating. It was a scene not to be missed.
Luckily, the metal steps weren’t icy. I clung to the railing for dear life as I lowered one foot followed by the other on each step. Having to go down stairs leaning forward scared me silly.
Holmes was waiting; in stockinged feet. “It took you long enough, Wiggins. Can you unlo
ck the door?
“I certainly hope so,” I mumbled.
Without much hope of success, I pushed the lever and gave the door a nudge. The door didn’t move. The ancient hunk of oak was a true piece of art, a remnant of the days when the back of the house was expected to be as decorative as the front. More than half was taken up by a decorative leaded-glass window. Its enormous keyhole would require an equally sizable key to unlock the door. I could only pray that the picks in Houdini’s extra finger could find the mechanisms in the dim light because I couldn’t feel them as I should have. Right off, I seemed to have trouble aligning them.
I fumbled stiffly until my fingers were numb, then gave up. Houdini himself might have done the same thing. “It looks as though we may have to go back to Lucille’s room.”
“Absolutely not. We’re not going to give up that easily, my friend. There must be another way in.”
There was: a window eight feet above my head. Even if standing on Mr. Holmes’s shoulders, I could never reach it. And even if I could, I would end up in the Croydon’s kitchen.
“Maybe this will work better,” Holmes said, gesturing toward a wide metal flange imbedded in the stone wall of the house.
“A coal chute?”
Holmes seized me by my shoulders. “Precisely. Mrs. Croydon said they don’t use coal anymore. The opening is more than large enough for us to crawl through.”
I didn’t share his optimism. “There may not be anything on the other side but a ten-foot drop. It would have taken a lot of coal to heat a house this size.”
“Without doubt. Unfortunately, the chute door seems to be locked.”
I fondled the lock in my hand. It was small, old, and relatively fragile. Not a Yale, by any means. Probably even unnecessary if they kept the gate locked. “That’s not a problem.”
My heart tripped happily as I readied the picks. A child could handle this one.
My excitement lasted mere seconds. “Blast! The keyhole’s plugged.”
Holmes sighed. “Then I guess we’ll have to admit defeat and go back the way we came.”
It was my turn to be enthusiastic. “Not at all, sir. We have another, even better, string for our bow.”
Prying the false finger open with a fingernail, I shook the gigli saw into my hand.
Even at rest, the blades seemed as fearsomely sharp as they had when embracing Schultz’s neck. I could imagine Houdini smiling as he used it. Cutting through metal would be slightly more difficult than cutting through flesh, but it could handle either job equally well.
Mr. Holmes held the lock for me as I wrapped the flexible saw around its hasp and pulled. I didn’t expect a miracle, but the blade merely slipped on the metal. On the second try, the teeth dug in. Soon it was spewing filings with every stroke.
Even so, my face was damp with perspiration and fingers cramping from the effort when the lock finally swung meekly into my hand.
“Well done, Wiggins,” Holmes said as he pulled on the now unlocked coal chute cover.
Though rusty and groaning, the flange swung upward to reveal a darkness even deeper than that which surrounded us. And, instead of a metal chute, there was only an impenetrable, inky abyss. We had only one way to get inside—feet first and on our bellies, and the hope we wouldn’t break our necks when he hit the floor.
Holmes insisted on going first. “When you come down, land with your knees flexed, hands clasped together, and arms extended in front of your chest. If you fall, you’ll fall forward, so you’ll have the wall to support you. I should be able to judge the distance to the floor as I go, so you’ll know how far it is.”
I helped him lift his legs through the aperture, then supported his torso as he inched his way inside. Finally he was dangling with only his chin hanging on the bottom of the flange, one hand holding on to the metal and the other tightly gripping mine. Only then did I noticed how slight my friend had become. Slight, perhaps, but certainly not fragile.
“Oh,” he grunted, “don’t forget to take those idiotic shoes off. You don’t want to break your ankles when you land.”
Those were his last words before releasing his grip.
I held my breath, waiting for a fearful crash or scream of agony. Instead, a loud whisper wafted through the opening. “Have no fear. It’s less than twelve feet to the floor.”
Twelve feet sounded like Everest to me. I pushed my legs through the opening and wriggled backwards until my feet dangled over nothingness. Then, remembering Holmes’s instructions, I took a deep breath and pushed off.
I got a brief sensation of floating before I landed in a crouch. My feet felt as though they were shattering. Otherwise, as Holmes had said, I merely squatted more deeply as my forearms and elbows bumped against the wall. I bounced backward, landing on my derriere.
“Made it,” I whispered, stumbling to my feet and shaking my poor aching dogs.
“Excellent,” he whispered back. “Stay where you are for a moment while I get my bearings.”
I had no difficulty staying put. I had no idea where I was, or where I was going. And my feet hurt, besides.
“Excellent. I believe I’ve found the door.”
I headed in the direction of his voice. Wood scraped against concrete, and I felt a warm breeze against my face. Otherwise, we still were in total darkness, soundless as a tomb.
I took a step forward and bumped into something that turned out to be Holmes. In the silence, his testy whisper sounded like an angry shout. “Enough needless collisions. Grab the hem of my cape.”
“Fine with me. Do you have any idea where we are?”
“According to my calculations, we must be directly beneath the kitchen. I followed the cellar wall to the door. A right turn should bring us to the stairway. Before we continue, I have a slight chore to tend to.”
With that I felt him reach into his trouser pocket. A Lucifer flared to illuminate several large packing crates. Holmes headed for one before shaking out the match.
“I’ll need your assistance,” he whispered. “Watch your step.”
The warning proved vain. I bumped into the crate and landed on the floor.
“I can plainly see you’re too clumsy for this kind of work,” Holmes said. He lit another match. “Help me push this crate around to block the doorway. Since we can’t leave through the coal shute, I want to be sure no one can enter that way and escape back into the house.”
Once again we were plunged into darkness.
I heard the cellar door close. “Push, my good man.”
I did.
“Now, let’s find our way to the stairway.”
I have experienced his navigational skills on many occasions and would confidently follow him to Timbuktu, or anywhere else I needed to go. Eagerly seizing the bottom of his cape, I said. “Lead on.”
He moved confidently for several feet with me in tow, then stopped. I felt him turn, and heard the sound of cloth rubbing against wood. He had found the stairway with his foot.
“Voila.”
My mind finally kicked in. “There’s a huge window in the back door. Since we can’t see it from here, there must be another door at the top of the stairs that’s closed. I could open it. Even ambient light would be better than this mud.”
“Indeed,” he murmured. “Excellent suggestion, Wiggins. I’m weary of playing blind man’s bluff, and any natural light would be preferable to striking a match. The decision is entirely yours, my friend.”
I had already made up my mind. I found a handrail with my right hand, held out my left in front of me, and noiselessly climbed the risers.
After what seemed an eternity, my lead hand found the door. With a bit of fumbling, I located the knob. Taking a deep breath, I turned it and stepped back.
My heart skipped a beat in surprise. Bright moonlight poure
d in through the window. Startled, I leaped aside into the minimal darkness the partly open cellar door still provided.
Heart pounding, I took a deep breath, I turned to look down the stairway, certain I’d see Albert Becker leering at me in the distance. I sighed in relief. Though barely visible, another door stood some distance away from the bottom of the stairs. Closed.
I wanted to take the steps three at a time, but I still came down slowly and as far away from the surprising illumination as I could manage. The chauffeur’s door could open at any moment.
Holmes gave me a hearty slap to my back. “Well done, Wiggins. Are you ready to storm the dragon’s lair?”
“Not yet,” I replied, surprised he still was so strong.
With light, I now wanted to find a weapon. Everywhere I looked I saw outlines of packing crates and shrouded figures I took to be statuary, but nothing else. At last I spied a barely visible push broom leaning against a support beam. I couldn’t prevent an evil smile as I unscrewed the handle and took a practice swing. Babe Ruth had nothing on us.
“I am now. Lead on.”
Destiny seemed to be upon us as we reached the door. Taking another deep breath, I swung the rod behind my ear like a batter waiting for a pitch. “Open the door,” I whispered.
Chapter 40
The knob turned without a sound. I leaned forward, arms twitching with anticipation. With a vigorous push from Holmes, the door swung open. I swung wildly.
And connected with air. Other than an open wardrobe and an unmade bed strewn with clothes and magazines, the room was empty.
“Where in blazes is he? The so and so is Houdini incarnate.”
“By ‘so and so’ you must mean male offspring of a female canine,” Holmes said with a sour look. “Unfortunately, I have no idea.”
He strolled to the bed and hoisted a long red-and-white knit scarf with two fingers. “Scarlet, if my memory serves me. Harvard’s school color.”
“Lucille said Becker took a scarf from the doctor’s room. I wonder why he left without it.”
“A totally irrelevant point. All that matters is that he’s eluded us once again. He must have fled before the police arrived.”
