“The point is this, Mr Houdini: Last night a thief broke into the vault at Gairstowe House and stole an important package of documents, documents which compromise the security of His Majesty’s government. We have reason to believe that you are that thief.”
“That’s absurd!” cried Houdini. “Why that — you can’t possibly mean that! Houdini a thief? A spy? You’ve made a mistake!”
“Scotland Yard does not make mistakes, Mr Houdini” — Lestrade glanced briefly at me — “at least not in this case. The evidence is conclusive. You must come with me now. You will be held at the Yard until a trial is arranged.”
“I will be held? In one of your Scotland Yard cells? You must be joking.”
“We have made certain provisions,” Lestrade informed him. “You won’t be able to escape this time. Now come along with us, please.”
“But—”
Franz stepped quietly through the knot of assistants and stagehands gathered about Houdini and Lestrade and spoke urgently to his employer. “Sir, you must go on. The audience thinks you’ve drowned in the Torture Cell. You must do something.”
“Mr Lestrade,” said Houdini, “I’m afraid your little spy story will have to continue without me. I have an audience. Let’s go, everyone! Mummy’s Asrah! Charlie! The house lights! Signal—”
Two of Lestrade’s burly constables grasped Houdini by the arms. “No, Mr Houdini,” said the inspector, “not tonight. You will come with me. Now.”
“Look, Inspector, don’t you understand? They think I’ve drowned.” Houdini spoke as if explaining algebra to a very dull boy. “I must undo Watson’s blunder. We can’t have the British public thinking the Great Houdini was drowned in that ridiculous Water Torture Cell. Think of my reputation!”
“The British public may think what it likes. I wished to spare you the humiliation of being arrested onstage. We planned to make the arrest during the interval. But if you insist we shall announce to the public that you are being taken on suspicion of crimes against the Crown. Think of your reputation then, eh?”
The colour drained from Houdini’s face and he leaned heavily on the arm of Franz, who was still at his side awaiting instruction. News that the sun had been extinguished could not have had a more profound effect. “Franz,” he said quietly, “announce... announce that the Great Houdini is unable to complete his performance this evening, but that he invites the public to return at his expense. And Franz” — the young American stared significantly at Lestrade — “tell them to watch the newspapers for news of my greatest escape yet.”
With a slight smile, the only mirth I ever saw him betray, Franz bowed and stepped through the curtains. As we heard him address the audience in his clipped Germanic tones, Houdini writhed and grimmaced as if each word pierced his soul.
“My performance!” he moaned. “My career! All because of some idiotic policeman!”
“Inspector,” said one of the uniformed officers, “there’s a crowd of newspaper men out by the stage door. They must have gotten wind somehow.”
“All right,” said Lestrade. “We’ll wait until the theatre empties and take him through the front.”
“Harry! Harry, what is all this?” Bess Houdini had found her way backstage and was clearly bewildered by what she found there. “Franz just cancelled the show! Are you all right? I thought you really had drowned! Who are these men?”
Slowly, painfully, Houdini explained to his wife that he was suspected of espionage and had been arrested. Neither of them seemed to comprehend how this could have happened. “Bess” — Houdini took her small hands in his — “it is the end of my career! After all those years in the dime museums, all those years we waited to strike it big... now what’s happened? How can this be?”
Bess Houdini cast a withering look at Inspector Lestrade. “You are the man who has charged my husband with this crime?”
Lestrade nodded.
“Do you believe that he is guilty?”
“I do.”
“Do you also believe in justice? That every man must be held accountable for his actions?”
“Indeed I do, and there is no higher justice in the world than that of a British jury.”
“There is one higher,” said Mrs Houdini, “and I would fear it if I were you, sir. Dr Watson?”
“Yes, Mrs Houdini?”
“Was my tale of this morning the prating of a deluded woman? I told you that some ill would befall my husband, and here we are. Where is the great Sherlock Holmes now?”
“I assure you, Mrs Houdini, if I have anything to say about it, Holmes will devote his full energies to the matter.”
“Thank you.”
“Wilkins!” Lestrade called to one of his constables. “Escort Mrs Houdini to her hotel.” One of the large officers took Mrs Houdini’s arm and began to lead her off the stage. “Is the theatre empty yet?” Lestrade called to another of his men. “Where is that music coming from?”
“Wait!” cried Mrs Houdini, turning to her husband. “Harry! It will be all right! I will—” What happened next occurred very suddenly, and with no malice of intent, but as the officer gripped Mrs Houdini’s arm more firmly to hasten her off, the small woman stumbled and fell heavily to the stage. From where Houdini stood it must have looked as if the constable had shoved his wife to the ground, for he gave a cry of rage, pushed Lestrade aside and quickly dispatched Officer Wilkins with a blow across the chin. Another of Lestrade’s men spun Houdini about and landed a thudding blow to his abdomen. It was as solid a punch as I have ever seen, but it had no effect whatsoever on Houdini. He simply winked at the officer, spread his arms, and said, “Would you care to try again?”
It was at this moment that the heavy maroon curtain was raised to reveal that the theatre was now empty, empty but for one figure, dressed in evening clothes, perched on a seat in the centre of the house, playing upon the violin.
Six
THE VIOLINIST SPEAKS
“Good evening gentlemen and Mrs Houdini,” said Sherlock Holmes, setting down his violin. “I rather thought you’d have to come out this way. Lestrade, I trust you have a good reason for disrupting Mr Houdini’s performance? I was enjoying it immensely.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” said Lestrade indignantly, “I should have known you’d be close by, what with Watson making a fool of himself onstage here.”
“There, there, Lestrade. You’ll recall that I’ve been of assistance to you on one or two occasions in the past. And as for Watson, I fear he was rather too swept away by the adoration of his public to take any note of my presence.”
“You were here the whole time, Holmes?” I asked sheepishly.
“In the orchestra pit, Watson. Fiddling along with the Savoy’s own excellent musicians.”
“You’ve wasted your time then, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade. “This is an official investigation of the greatest importance. We no longer have room for amateurs, thank you.”
Holmes smiled indulgently. “Why not humour me, eh Lestrade?” he said. “I’m getting on in years, you know. Watson, is Mrs Houdini recovered from her fall?”
“I’m fine, Mr Holmes,” she answered. “I just slipped. Harry can be a bit overzealous at times.”
“So I see. And how is Constable Wilkins?”
“Still unconscious, Holmes,” I replied.
“Will be for some time,” added Houdini, proudly.
“Very well. Then suppose we take a few moments while Wilkins recovers to review the case against Houdini. You say that he has stolen some documents, Lestrade? Is this your own idea?”
“Our case against Mr Houdini is quite complete. We have our man.”
“And yet you are taking some care in avoiding the gentlemen of the press. You have never been one to avoid taking the credit in a case, Lestrade. In fact, I have often known you to take mine. Can it be that your case is not as secure as you might like us to believe?”
Lestrade was silent.
“Now then, what is the nature of these documents
which Mr Houdini is said to have acquired?”
“I am not empowered to say,” Lestrade answered sullenly.
“Meaning that you do not know. Now, correct me where I go astray in these conjectures, but am I safe to assume that there were quite a few people at Gairstowe House last night, or did Houdini and the prince have a tête-à-tête?”
“It was a rather large party, for all that it matters, including a good number of diplomats and their wives.”
“Dear me! Diplomats and their wives, characters quite above reproach! And Houdini was invited along to lend dignity to the occasion?”
“He was asked to perform some conjuring tricks.”
“I thought it might be something like that.”
“He is said to have greatly amused the prince.”
“I was brilliant,” said Houdini. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“Were you?” asked Holmes, amused by the magician’s brashness. “And having wrung that confession out of you, may we also know if you did in fact nip upstairs to steal these mysterious documents?”
“Certainly not!”
“His footprints were found in the room, Holmes!” Lestrade said hotly.
“Ah, we begin to hear the facts. Houdini’s footprints were found in the room. This will warrant a trip up to Gairstowe House, Watson. Tell me, Lestrade, have you yet had a chance to read my little monograph upon the subject of footprints? No? You might find it instructive. I have found that footprints are generally the most unreliable clues in the entire field of detection. Anything else?”
“Well, as you know, there have been certain measures taken to assure the security of Gairstowe House. The vault is said to be the most impenetrable in England. We know of only two men—”
“And both of them are at Newgate,” Holmes mused. “I see. So you drew up a list of others who might possess sufficient skill with locks and found — to your great delight — that one such person was present at the gathering. Not enough to hang a man, Lestrade.”
“There were the footprints.”
“We return to that, do we? There is an agreeable constancy about you, Inspector.”
“See here, Holmes, I have been instructed to make an arrest in this case, and I have done so. The thing is bigger than you suspect. I have been in conference with Secretary O’Neill himself!”
“And you resisted your natural inclination to place him under arrest? Charitable!”
“You are attempting to goad me into revealing what I know. It will not work, Holmes. This is an official investigation now and it must remain so. Has Wilkins come around yet? Good, then let’s be off.”
“Just one last thing,” said Holmes, replacing his violin in its case. “How do you propose to confine Mr Houdini? Suppose he once again reverts to ectoplasm?”
Lestrade flushed angrily. “All right, Holmes, there’s no need to bring that up again. I can see that I was misled. This time when I lock him up, he’ll stay locked up. Here Wilkins, why don’t you show Mr Houdini what a proper pair of British darbies look like?”
The still-dazed officer locked a pair of handcuffs roughly onto Houdini’s wrists. The escape artist examined them with disdain. He seemed on the point of banging them against a chair when Holmes stepped over and placed a hand on the manacles.
“I implore you,” he said, “do not attempt to escape either from the handcuffs or the prison cell. To do so would be an admission of guilt. You must go along with them.”
“But Holmes, these cuffs are child’s play! Toys!”
“Nevertheless, you will remain in Lestrade’s custody. I shall act on your behalf. You must remain at the Yard” — Holmes parodied the magician’s conspiratorial wink — “until I send for you. Agreed?”
We heard a brief jangle of steel, and Harry Houdini extended his free right hand to seal the bargain.
Seven
A WEIGHTY MATTER
“Holmes,” I began when we had left the theatre and were walking briskly along the Strand, “what if—”
“My God, Watson!” cried he. “You are as inconstant as a woman!”
“What can you mean, Holmes?”
“You were about to suggest that Houdini might well be guilty of this theft, when only three hours ago you were chastising me for failing to assist him.”
“Is it not possible that he is guilty?”
“Possible, of course, but hardly probable. We won’t know for certain until we have investigated further at Gairstowe House. But I believe that Mr Houdini is rather too busy with his chosen career to concern himself with such trifles as the theft of government documents.”
“Then you believe this business is the work of Kleppini? And our client has been made to look guilty?”
“Perhaps. Decidedly clumsy job of it, though. Rather like your performance on the stage this evening.”
Mercifully, the street was too dark for Holmes to see my face redden.
“You cannot fault my actions this evening. As I explained earlier, I truly believed that Houdini was drowning. I’ve no doubt that you would have acted as I did, had you been onstage.”
“I tend to doubt it, good fellow. I have never known a drowning man to have the presence of mind to consult a clock, as Houdini did this evening. You forget that I was in the orchestra pit at the time.”
“Yes, indeed. Awfully clever, actually. You didn’t even have to wear a disguise. No one would have thought to look for you there.”
“Actually, there was one man who thought of it.”
“Oh?”
“When I gained permission to play along in the pit, the obliging conductor delivered this message.” Holmes handed me a sheet of plain notepaper, upon which was written: “Join me after the performance.”
“This is impossible!” I ejaculated.* “Who can it be from? Who could have known that you would be in the orchestra?”
“Who else?” said Holmes with a shrug. “My brother, Mycroft. He even knew that I would play third chair.”
“And it was he who forbade Lestrade to give you the details of the case?”
“Undoubtedly.”
Though all emotions — particularly those as virulent as envy — were abhorrent to my friend’s admirably balanced mind, I had often noted in him considerable jealousy whenever his elder brother, Mycroft, was mentioned. “That is where we are going, then? The Diogenes?” But Holmes walked on in silence.
I have recorded elsewhere that the Diogenes was the queerest club in London; a place where no member was permitted to take the slightest notice of any other member. Apart from the Stranger’s Room, talking was strictly forbidden in the Diogenes Club, and any member heard speaking aloud was liable to expulsion after three violations of the rule. The club had been established, with Mycroft Holmes as a founding member, to accommodate the most unsociable, unclubbable men in the city.
However peculiar the Diogenes might have been, it was made even more so by the regular presence of Mr Mycroft Holmes. As I had been living with Sherlock Holmes for some years before he ever mentioned having a family at all, I was fairly taken aback to discover not only the existence of a brother, but a brother possessed of an even keener mind than that of Sherlock Holmes himself.
“If the art of detection were confined to the armchair,” Holmes had once remarked, “my brother would be the greatest criminal agent who ever lived. But he abhors any kind of activity, save cerebral. He would rather be thought incorrect than take the trouble to prove his conclusions.”
And so the talents of Mycroft Holmes were unknown but for a select circle of government officials who depended upon them. While he had come to government service as an office clerk, Mycroft’s gifts soon made an indelible impression upon Whitehall. He became a clearing-house of information. All the various branches of service would feed their conclusions directly to him; for only Mycroft, in an administration crippled by specialisation, possessed the breadth and mental agility to make truly comprehensive decisions. The machinations of his splendid mind became so central tha
t it was said, on occasion, that Mycroft Holmes was the government. Thus, I should have understood that if the Houdini matter involved the government, by definition it involved Mycroft. Was it any wonder, then, that at times even Sherlock Holmes was awed by this staggering intellect?
“We have not seen Mycroft for some time,” I wondered aloud. “What can he have been doing in all that time?”
“Perhaps you would prefer to attach yourself to Mycroft for a time, eh Watson?” Holmes said curtly. “You may be growing weary of my poor exploits.”
“I shall never grow weary of your exploits or your companionship,” I replied. “And besides, in order to observe Mycroft one would have to become as sedentary as he. That would hardly suit an old campaigner like myself.” In the guttering light of a streetlamp I saw Holmes smile to himself.
Our walk took us through one of London’s most unsalubrious neighbourhoods and, at last, into the more agreeable setting of the Diogenes. We were admitted by the deaf-mute butler and shown into the Stranger’s Room, where Mycroft Holmes stood in wait for us. Though he was careless in many aspects of social custom, Mycroft made it a point to be standing whenever he received visitors. It occurs to me now that he did so to avoid being seen struggling from his chair, for Mycroft Holmes was corpulent to an astonishing degree, and for him the simplest movements required considerable and often awkward exertion.
“Sherlock!” he cried with unaccustomed geniality. “Good of you to come. Will you take some port with me? And Doctor” — he gave my hand a fleshy press — “I am delighted to see you again as well. I must say, though, that I have noticed two or three split infinitives in your recent chronicles of my brother’s doings. Careless, Doctor. Careless!”
“Mycroft,” said Sherlock Holmes, failing to respond to his brother’s conviviality, “we have not seen one another in three and one half years. Surely you did not call us over at this hour to discuss Watson’s literary shortcomings?”
Mycroft sighed and lowered himself, with great effort, onto a settee. Though all physical resemblance to his brother was distorted by his massive bulk, his features retained some of the same sharpness of expression, and his eyes seemed always to hold that introspective look which I had observed in Sherlock’s when he was exerting his powers to their fullest. It was that cast which spread over Mycroft’s face now, replacing the laboured joviality of his greeting, as he lapsed into the peculiar telegraphic dialogue which the two brothers favoured when addressing each other.
The Ectoplasmic Man Page 5
