The Ectoplasmic Man

by Daniel Stashower

  I have seldom heard Holmes laugh as loudly as he did upon hearing this. While he soon recovered himself, I was left gasping and dabbing at my eyes with a handkerchief. Mrs Houdini, obviously delighted with the effect of her tale, smiled demurely and took another sip of tea.

  “Really, Mrs Houdini,” Holmes said after a moment, “though your story is a charming one, I fail to see how it concerns either Dr Watson or myself.”

  “That is what I am just coming to now,” she said, setting down her cup and saucer. “You must understand that all of this took place five years ago, and we have heard little of Kleppini since. Occasionally we have had reports that he still claims to have bested the Great Houdini, but in general he is regarded as a buffoon, and he obtains only the very worst bookings. So we did not think much about him until this morning when we received a very mysterious note in the first post.”

  “A note?” Holmes sat up and leaned forward. “What did it say?”

  “Only this, Mr Holmes, ’Tonight who the fraud is we shall see.’”

  Holmes walked to the mantel and began refilling his black clay. “Was that the exact wording?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have the note with you?”

  “I’m afraid Harry would not let me have it. He insisted that there was no cause for worry, and did not wish me to concern myself with it.”

  “A pity. We might have learned a great deal from the note itself. You suspect this cryptic message came from Kleppini?”

  “The word ‘fraud’ led me to believe so.”

  “Quite. And the peculiar construction of the sentence suggests that the author is not a native speaker of English. You believe this message is a threat of some sort, not merely another escape challenge?”

  “What would be the point of another challenge? Houdini has been challenged dozens of times, and he always wins. The man has no equal. Surely Kleppini, of all people, knows that by now.”

  “But why threaten him? And why now?”

  “For the humiliation. For the damage done to Kleppini’s reputation and career. Have you never run across a grudge before, Mr Holmes?”

  Sherlock Holmes stood at the mantel staring down at the black and white ivory box which had been a gift from the murderous Culverton Smith. Had he ever opened its lid, Holmes himself would have fallen victim to a grudge of some twenty years’ duration, for the box contained a sharp coiled spring dipped in bacterial poison.*

  “It sounds to me more like a gesture of frustration than a legitimate threat,” said Holmes. “At any rate, I don’t see what steps we can reasonably take. We can’t very well confront Kleppini on the strength of your conjectures.”

  “That is not what I am asking. I want you and Dr Watson to come to the theatre tonight and be alert for any trouble. It would be only too easy for some sort of accident to befall my husband during one of his performances. By their very nature, his feats involve danger. If anything went wrong, for any reason, my husband could be seriously injured.” She drew in her breath. “Or worse.”

  “Really, Mrs Houdini. I am a detective, not a praetorian.”

  “A what?”

  “A bodyguard. You have brought me nothing but suppositions and yet you expect me to dash off to meet this perceived, very likely imagined danger. It is like something in one of Watson’s tales, all bluster and no substance.”

  Mrs Houdini’s face grew ashen. “Is this the legendary Sherlock Holmes? I can’t believe it! You are refusing to act because of your personal dislike for Harry, or some... some deeper prejudice. I had hoped that you would be above such behaviour.” She walked briskly across the room and snatched up her hat and cloak. “I can see that I have wasted my time here. If anything happens to my husband it will be upon your head, Mr Holmes. Good day to you both, gentlemen.” With these words, Beatrice Rahner Houdini turned her back on us and left the room.

  Holmes and I sat for some time without speaking. The longer I considered Mrs Houdini’s tale, the more I became convinced that her fears were valid. “Holmes,” I said at last, “why are you so unwilling to act? How can you be so certain that there is no danger to the man?”

  Holmes said nothing.

  “I cannot share your complaisance,” I continued. “I trust that you will not mind if I attend the theatre tonight?”

  Holmes reached across for his violin. Placing it carelessly upon his knee, he began scratching out a peculiar and haunting melody.

  “Holmes, you are insufferable!” I cried. “Houdini’s life is in danger!”

  Still he said nothing.

  As I left for the theatre two hours later, he was still playing the same haunting tune.

  *When Holmes finally did retire he moved to the south of England to spend his declining years as an apiarist. proceedings, for he rarely spoke of abandoning his practice. In earlier days he woul have extinguished his frustration with cocaine, the fiendish addiction which had once threatened to check his remarkable career, so it was with some relief that I saw him turn instead to the chemical deal table, where a malodorous experiment awaited him.

  *As told in “The Adventure of the Dying Detective”.

  Four

  HOUDINI PERFORMS

  The Savoy Theatre, alive for the evening’s performance, had regained some of its remembered grandeur; but my mind was too clouded with apprehension to take any note of the more congenial atmosphere. Surely this Kleppini fellow intended some harm to Houdini, but how would I detect it, much less prevent it? These and other concerns worried me until a familiar voice broke into my befuddlement.

  “Watson! You seem in a daze, old boy! Or are you simply avoiding an old friend?”

  It was Thurston, with whom I often shot billiards at my club. Recently he had led me into some poor investments, and we had been seeing less of each other. But as he was accompanied by his wife, whom I had never met, I was obliged to exchange pleasantries with them.

  “Come to see the talk of all London, eh Watson?”

  “Well, yes I—”

  “He’s quite a showman, this Houdini. Two days ago I saw him nailed up in a packing crate and dropped into the Thames. He was out in no time. Should have heard the crowd cheer; you’d think he’d walked on water!”

  “Indeed, I’ve been—”

  “And he’s quite attractive, for an American,” said Thurston’s wife, who was far from the most prepossessing woman in the room.

  “In fact I’ve—”

  “Yes indeed, we’re in for quite an evening. Quite an evening.”

  The conversation ran in this vein for several minutes until the first bell signalled us to take our seats. Mine commanded an excellent view of the stage, but as I peered about, alert for anything that seemed amiss, I feared that if disaster lurked onstage I should be too late to avert it.

  The orchestra struck up a bright tune, and Houdini strode briskly into the footlights. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, spreading his arms to the audience, “often we magicians are accused of having tricks up our sleeves. Let me put a stop to that right now, like this!” He tore the sleeves right off his evening jacket and threw them into the front row. From that moment his spell over the audience was unbroken.

  What was it that was so enchanting about this man? These many years later, I still cannot be certain. He had about him a kind of valour which issued from attributes well beyond being able to release himself from ropes and chains. I fear Holmes was right to accuse me of tinging these chronicles with romanticism; but there was something in Harry Houdini’s eyes, something in the knowing wink he would give to the audience as he faced a new challenge, trammelled in steel and leather. He seemed to be saying, “We’ll do this together, right?” And when, after many tense moments, he would at last emerge, wrung with perspiration, clothes torn and hands bleeding, there was indeed a sense of having shared in an immeasurable triumph.

  The first part of the evening passed quickly as he moved through a series of escapes and challenges, each more baffling than the last, until h
e came to what I took to be the climax of the first act.

  “My friends,” said Houdini, as the heavy maroon curtain lowered behind him, “at this point in my programme I usually exhibit my legendary Walking-Through-a-Brick-Wall illusion. Tonight, however, I will present you with an even more remarkable feat. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time on any stage, Harry Houdini’s Water Torture Cell!”

  An ominous tune rose from the orchestra pit as the curtain lifted to reveal a tall glass cabinet filled to the top with water. It was very stark in its construction. While some attempt had been made to suggest oriental scrollwork about its base, the cabinet was in effect four planes of glass joined at the corners by solid wood struts, a design so simple as to preclude any possible gimmickery.

  “Before I can proceed with this escape,” Houdini announced, “I require the assistance of a volunteer from the audience.” He stepped to the edge of the stage and peered out over the audience. “I see that we have a distinguished visitor with us this evening, the author of the amusing Sherlock Holmes mystery tales. Would you be so kind, Dr Watson?”

  I never would have guessed that my readers would respond so enthusiastically to my presence, but as I rose from my seat there came a rousing cheer and a tumultuous round of applause. I blush to recall that I behaved rather foolishly in the face of this demonstration. I stood at my place for some time with tears in my eyes, nodding my head and trying to communicate my gratitude.

  “Come along, Doctor,” Houdini prodded. “I believe you know the way.” Once again I climbed the steps to the stage. “Dr Watson,” said Houdini, leading me to the glass cabinet, “please examine the Water Torture Cell. Do you detect any false bottom or sliding panel through which I might escape?”

  I shook my head.

  “The panels are solid glass? The wood solid oak?”

  I nodded.

  “Thank you. Now please have a look at these foot manacles. My feet will be locked into these wooden stocks and I will be lowered, head first, into the Water Torture Cell. The foot stocks will then be padlocked to the top of the cabinet and I will be helplessly suspended in the water. Have I explained this clearly? Have I made it” — he winked at the audience — “elementary?”

  The audience laughed and a fresh wave of applause began, though how that word became so intimately associated with Holmes I do not know.

  “Do you see any means by which I might free myself from the cabinet, Doctor?”

  I shook my head once more.

  “Would you care to try the escape yourself?”

  I shook my head more vigorously, producing yet another wave of laughter.

  “Thank you, Dr Watson. It is time now for the test to begin.” Two assistants came forward and fastened the heavy stocks to Houdini’s ankles. “For good measure,” said he, “I shall also wear these handcuffs. It is infinitely harder to escape from handcuffs when one is underwater. That, however, will be the least of my problems. Doctor, you and the audience may keep track of my progress by means of the large clock you see here. Gentlemen!”

  A rope was attached to the foot stocks. Houdini was then hoisted up by the feet and dangled like a fish over the open cabinet of water.

  “This ancient Hindu mystery,” Houdini proclaimed from his unusual vantage, “has not been performed on any stage for more than two centuries. I have brought the effect to England directly from Calcutta, where I was admitted to a holy council of elders that I might learn the treasured secret, or perish in the attempt! Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted, “I present the death-defying Water Torture Cell!”

  The rope was cut and Houdini plunged head first into the cabinet. Water spilled onto the stage as his assistants fastened the heavy stocks to the top of the cell, sealing Houdini within.

  For thirty seconds Houdini merely hung suspended upside-down without acknowledging his predicament in any way. Then, quite suddenly, he began to squirm and twist as if trying to draw his manacled hands up to his feet.

  A minute passed and I began to wonder how much longer Houdini could remain underwater, when, with a convulsive effort, he managed to free his hands from the manacles. The audience cheered as the open handcuffs drifted to the bottom of the tank, but it still remained for Houdini to free himself from the foot stocks and effect an escape from the cell.

  It seemed like hours, but the large clock showed only two minutes when Houdini renewed his struggle. I knew that even a man of his extraordinary physical stamina could exert himself for only so long without oxygen. How much longer could he survive? Could this be the danger Mrs Houdini feared? I clenched my fists and waited.

  Three minutes after entering the tank, Houdini’s actions began to grow feeble and desperate. “Free him, Watson!” shouted a voice from the audience. I looked to Houdini’s assistants. They were aware of the dilemma, but made no move to aid him. My heart pounded in my throat as I realised that Houdini’s life was in my hands.

  Four minutes had passed. Houdini began to pound on the glass. By now the audience was in a frenzy. Men shouted, women screamed, and onstage the assistants darted about, whispering to one another, preparing to act. I feared that they would be too late. Houdini expelled a large cloud of bubbles and hung limp in the tank. Looking about for a heavy object, I chanced to see, leaning forward from one of the upper boxes, the face of Bess Houdini. In that face I beheld such a convulsion of terror that I was propelled, quite unthinkingly, into sudden and precipitous action.

  Dashing to the wings I seized a fire axe. Franz, the impassive giant, attempted to restrain me, but I broke free, rushed back onstage, and smashed open the cabinet. Water and glass flooded across the stage and into the orchestra pit. Houdini was barely conscious as Franz cut through the heavy manacles and lifted him to the stage.

  “Get a doctor!” someone shouted.

  “I am a doctor,” I replied. “Stand back! Give him room!”

  Houdini raised his head and gestured weakly to the wings. “L-lower the curtain,” he gasped, his eyes closing.

  Though I did not have my medical bag with me, I began to minister to Houdini as best I could. How could I have allowed this to happen? It was plain that the cell had been altered in some way, and now Houdini was on the brink of death. If I lost him, I thought grimly, I would not rest until I had discovered the agent of this outrage, with or without the aid of Sherlock Holmes.

  Five

  AN ASTONISHING RECOVERY

  My bold resolves did not carry me very far, for no sooner was the curtain rung down than Houdini, miraculously recovered, leapt to his feet and seized me roughly by the lapels.

  “Damn you, Watson,” he hissed, “did Holmes put you up to this?”

  “Mr Houdini,” I stammered, “I thought you were in peril!”

  “’In peril?’ In dire need of the trusty Dr Watson? I’ve done this escape hundreds of times, you idiot! The drowning business is part of the act!” He turned to the shattered glass cabinet and ran an exasperated hand through his wet hair. “Look at the Torture Cell! Who’s going to pay for this?”

  Franz handed the magician a towel. “Your instructions, Mr Houdini?”

  “We milk it. Wait five minutes, I stumble out looking weak. We leave the broken Torture Cell onstage for the rest of the show. Tomorrow’s papers will read: ’Houdini show goes on despite near tragedy’.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll clear this glass.”

  “Your wife,” I said, falteringly, “she was terrified. I truly believed that you were drowning.”

  “Bess always looks like that when I do the dangerous stuff. Get out of the way, Watson. Franz! We’ll go to Mummy’s Asrah; I’ll warm them with Needles and Thread. Charlie! Bring down the house lights. Signal the orchestra. Raise the — Lestrade, what are you doing here?”

  In the midst of all this confusion, Inspector Lestrade had stepped boldly from the wings, followed by three large uniformed constables. “I wouldn’t raise that curtain if I were you, Mr Houdini,” he said.

  “Charlie! Get this buffoo
n off the stage!” Houdini shouted, as if issuing another stage direction. “Take Watson too!”

  “Mr Houdini!” cried Lestrade, puffing himself up. “You are addressing an officer of the law! Now, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest!”

  “Yes, yes,” said Houdini, “I’m sure that’s very interesting, but I have a show to put on. We’ll discuss it later.”

  “We’ll discuss it now,” said the inspector, placing a firm hand around Houdini’s arm. “You are hereby charged with crimes against the Crown!”

  “Crimes against the Crown! What are you talking about?”

  All at once the commotion onstage was stilled, and we could hear the sound of the still-distraught audience through the curtain. Lestrade, suddenly finding himself the centre of a great deal of attention, cleared his throat and withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket. “Let’s just be certain of our facts. You are Harry Houdini, the escape artist?”

  Houdini, still wet from the Water Torture Cell, did not bother to reply.

  Lestrade cleared his throat again. “Right. Last night your performance was attended by a party of government officials, which included His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales?”

  “I had that honour.”

  “And it had been arranged for you to entertain this party at a private reception following the performance?”

  “That is correct.” Houdini shifted about uncomfortably. Through the curtain we heard the din of the crowd growing louder.

  “This reception was held at Gairstowe House, the government residence in Stoke Newington?”

  “Is there a point to any of this? I’d like to continue with my performance.”