The Ectoplasmic Man

by Daniel Stashower

  “My dear fellow—!”

  “I shall not sit by any longer while Houdini remains locked up at Scotland Yard. I cannot bear it.” I went on to describe the dreadful circumstances of Houdini’s imprisonment.

  “Dear me!” Holmes said, “That’s bad. Very bad. Well, it shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “Not if I have any part in it,” said I. “Now, what is our errand this evening?”

  “Watson,” Holmes began, his face quite grave, “this business tonight may involve, well, burglary. Though our cause is just, we shall nonetheless place ourselves on the wrong side of the law. Are you still inclined to join me?”

  “I stand firm.”

  “Good fellow!” he cried, clapping my shoulder. “Still, I find your eagerness a bit worrisome. Perhaps I have been looking too far afield for the Gairstowe thief.”

  Though Holmes attempted to make light of the situation, he was plainly uneasy over involving me in any wrongdoing. Rather than argue the point with him I simply kept quiet and waited, knowing that my willingness would soon out-weigh his concerns. In any event, I had no intention of letting him out of my sight until I was certain that he had not resumed his use of narcotics.

  At length Holmes appeared to reach a decision, and with a shrug of resignation he leaned forward to confide his plan.

  “Do you recall the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study which so engaged our attention?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “We know that those prints were made by Houdini’s shoes. If we accept that Houdini’s feet were not in them—”

  “Then someone else got hold of a pair of his shoes. Where have we run across that before, eh, Holmes?”*

  “Precisely. Now, I have already ascertained that the shoes could not have been taken from Houdini’s hotel room. Therefore we must attempt to steal a pair from his dressing-room at the Savoy.”

  “Why not simply ask Mrs Houdini for the shoes?”

  “Because it will be much more informative to steal them. If we cannot contrive to do so, we will have learned that the shoes were taken by someone with a more ready access to the theatre. This would suggest an employee of the Savoy, or a member of Houdini’s own company.”

  “And if we are successful?”

  “Then we will have gone a long way towards shaking the conviction of Lestrade’s case against Houdini.”

  “Very good. I shall fetch the dark lantern.”

  “We’d best put on our rubber-soled shoes as well. And Watson—”

  “Yes?”

  “Better slip your service revolver into your pocket.” He placed a hand upon my arm. “There may be—”

  “I understand. Anything else?”

  “Well, yes,” he said, touching the bell, “some cold sandwiches before we depart would not go amiss.”

  * Watson is probably referring to “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, in which a boot was stolen to put the hound on the scent.

  Twelve

  WE BECOME CRIMINALS

  Within the hour we had arrived in the Strand and were attempting to gain entrance to the theatre. The front doors were heavily secured and the entire building was dark. This cheerless atmosphere was deepened by the few remaining Houdini posters, which were either torn or patched with cancellation notices.

  We made our way down the side alley and found the stage door bolted as well. “How shall we get in?” I whispered, though in truth there could not have been anyone there to hear me.

  “Let us try to be as resourceful as our thief, Watson,” said Holmes, extracting from his pocket a leather case which he opened to display a shining row of metal tools.

  “Good heavens, Holmes! Those are burglars’ tools! Lock picks!”

  “Quite right,” he said, bending over the door lock. “Though I may not cause Houdini to look over his shoulder, I do have a certain facility with the common lock. Hold the lantern just there, Watson. This shouldn’t take but a moment.”

  Holmes could not be accused of false modesty in assessing his own locksmithing skills, for the detective spent nearly a quarter of an hour working at that lock, grunting all the while, until at long last we heard a sharp click and the door swung inward.

  “The lock was stiff,” Holmes said testily, as we stepped into the darkened theatre.

  Playing the lantern across the backstage area we could see many large crates and other, more irregular shapes, all covered with oilcloth against the theatre dust. Moving cautiously past the battens and counterweights, we soon came upon the broken remains of the Water Torture Cell, glinting ominously in the lantern light, and beyond that stood the imposing solid brick wall.

  “Nothing’s been moved since Houdini’s arrest,” I whispered. “The wall is just where he left it.”

  “Yes,” came the low reply, “but if you’ve no objection we’ll just walk around it rather than through. It’s simpler that way.”

  “But why do you suppose — good heavens! What is that?” I aimed the light at a sudden movement by the rear curtains.

  “Rats,” answered Holmes. “Come this way.” We crossed the dark stage and made our way into a short corridor of rooms off the far wings. “Houdini’s dressing-room is the first on the left. See what you can find.”

  “Where are you going?” I asked, but Holmes placed a cautionary finger to his lips and turned away. Alone, I crept into the room he had indicated and began my examination.

  Houdini’s dressing-room was small and conspicuously free of the vanities of his profession. A rack in the corner held a blue greatcoat and a modest straw hat. In the closet were four black suit jackets, three with detachable sleeves, and eight pairs of matching trousers which showed considerable wear at the knee. There were two swimming costumes and a dressing-gown, all neatly hung and carefully arranged, and on the floor of the closet sat the objects of our visit — five identical pairs of shoes. I selected the oldest of these and slipped them under my arm.

  Turning my attention away from the closet, I noted that Houdini’s fastidiousness extended to his dressing-table, where he kept only those personal articles which were strictly necessary, and far fewer of those than I myself was accustomed to using. Where one might have expected to see a vanity case or a make-up kit, Houdini’s table held instead a portrait of a venerable old woman, whom I took to be his mother; and crowded about the gold frame were bits of metal coils and springs, a padlock or two, pieces of a broken manacle, and a pair of medieval thumbscrews.

  Taking a seat before this peculiar collection, I could not help but ponder the inconsistencies apparent in the character of Harry Houdini. Whereas he had at first seemed unrelievedly brash and pompous, in moments of crisis I had observed concern not for his own safety or comfort, but for the well-being of the craft which he had struggled so tenaciously to perfect. Here in his dressing-room, his personal effects bore no trace of theatrical affectation. Rather, Houdini’s private tastes were simple to the point of asceticism, and his only embellishments were those which contributed to his stage persona. Where between the flamboyant performer and the disciplined craftsman did the real Houdini lie?

  I was not long in these reflections before the silence of the theatre was broken by a sharp, strident cry which could only have come from Sherlock Holmes.

  “Good Lord!” I shouted, rushing from the room. “Are you all right? What has happened?” I weaved my way urgently among the covered crates and backstage curtains, sweeping my lantern frantically across the black space. “Can you hear me? Where are—?”

  From out of the darkness a powerful arm encircled my throat and held me fast. The attack came so suddenly that I had no chance to resist, and, as I was pinned from behind, I could not even see my foe.

  “Who are you?” snarled a menacing voice, well above my ear. I felt the grip tighten about my throat. “Why are you here?” My lantern clattered to the floor. “Talk! Talk or I’ll snap your neck!”

  Even in my distress I was able to recognise the clipped accent of my assailant. “Franz!” m
y voice came out in a choked gasp. “It is Dr Watson! Release me!”

  “Dr Watson?” He eased his hold and spun me about as though I were a rag doll. “Oh no! Then that must have been Sherlock Holmes that I pushed down the stairs!”

  “What? Holmes!” I bolted forward to the edge of the stage, “Are you all right? Can you hear me? Turn on the light, Franz, I cannot see him!”

  Franz dashed to the wings as I called out desperately, straining my eyes against the gloom. “Holmes! Can you hear me? Are you down there?”

  “Please do not shout, Watson,” came the familiar voice. “My head is not yet recovered from the first onslaught.”

  “You’re all right? You are not injured?”

  “I am quite well,” he said, “though this has not been my finest hour.” At last the lights came up to reveal Holmes seated in the aisle, gingerly touching the back of his head. Franz, greatly relieved that he had not done away with the world’s greatest detective, lifted Holmes up and deposited him in the nearest theatre seat.

  “Please forgive me, Mr Holmes,” he said anxiously, “I could not see that it was you. You should have telephoned before coming down.”

  “Yes well, think nothing of it,” Holmes said, wincing as I probed a swelling on the back of his head. “It is no more than I deserved. I trust your reasons for being here are more creditable than our own?”

  “Do I need a reason to be here, Mr Holmes? Where else would I be? In a stuffy hotel room? No, thank you.”

  “But surely you don’t sleep here?” I asked, having satisfied myself that Holmes had suffered no great injury. “Even Houdini does not go so far.”

  “Only because his wife would not permit it, Doctor,” Franz answered. “So the job falls to me. I would not have it any other way. It is the very least that I can do for the Houdinis.”

  “The very least?” asked Holmes. “It seems to me that Houdini expects rather a lot from you.”

  “Not at all,” Franz returned. “You see, I am far more than just an assistant to Mr Houdini. Far more. I am his confidant, his... his” — Franz thought for a moment — “his Dr Watson, if you will. Both he and Mrs Houdini have treated me as family since fate brought us together in Stuttgart.”

  “Fate brought you together?” Holmes asked. “Fate is not usually so accommodating.”

  Franz smiled. “Yes, it may seem odd to you, Mr Holmes, but I am a great believer in fate. I have had... I have had an odd life, and if the Houdinis had not found me when they did I would be dead or worse by now.”

  “Dead or worse?”

  Franz nodded. “I make no secret of my past,” he began, “but it is not a pleasant story.

  “I was born in Stuttgart to an old, established family, and I was bred to a life of idle comfort. But my father died when I was still young, and he left a number of debts behind. My mother tried her best, but she could not save us from ruin. All of our property was taken from us and we were reduced to poverty and disgrace. Within three years my mother, too, was gone.” Franz folded his large hands and then unfolded them again. “I was then twenty years old. I had no money, no skills, and only that education which befits a young toff. I was ill-prepared for what lay ahead. The next six years... well, suffice it to say that at the end of six years I had sunk very low in the world. I lived from hand to mouth, and worse, I had developed a powerful and consuming addiction to cocaine. The drug made me a madman! I would do anything to satisfy my cravings. Can you understand this? The depravity? Can you imagine the absolute degradation of one’s soul?”

  Holmes chose not to answer.

  “It is a time of my life that, mercifully, I do not remember very well. There are bits and fragments which return to me: Foraging through garbage, sleeping with vermin, striking down an elderly man for his cloak — no, I was not above stealing from others to support myself and my addiction. I would prey upon travellers who had been unwise enough to stray into the waterfront district, the area known as ’Satan’s Lair’.

  “One night I set upon a young American couple and demanded their money. I did not know it at the time, but they were Mr and Mrs Houdini. I had been foolish enough to think that such a small man would be easily overcome. But Mr Houdini was not intimidated either by my size or by the knife with which I threatened him. Within a second he had knocked me down and seized my knife. I was rendered entirely helpless. And he did not stop there. He took my knife, broke off the blade, and said, ’It’s one thing to threaten me, my big friend, but when you threaten my wife, that is a different matter.’ To make a long story short, the Houdinis saw me cured of my addiction and restored to health, and when the time came for them to return to America, I went with them.”

  Franz reached into his pocket and withdrew the broken handle of a parang knife. “This is all that remains of the life I once led. And that, gentlemen, is how I met the man that Scotland Yard now calls a thief. Houdini is not a thief! He is a reformer of thieves!”

  “That is a very remarkable story, Franz,” I said.

  “Yes, it is,” Holmes agreed. “And you have travelled with Houdini ever since?”

  “Yes, for four years. They have been the best four years I have ever known. Soon these ridiculous accusations against Mr Houdini will be proven false, and he will perform again. He will find that I have everything ready.” Franz looked about the theatre proudly. “All will be ready.”

  Holmes stood up and rubbed at the back of his head. “Perhaps you can help us to hasten that day, Franz. Your capacity here may be of use to us.”

  “Of course! I will do anything I can! I would walk to the end of the earth to straighten this matter out!”

  “That won’t be necessary. All I require is information.”

  “Ask me anything you like.”

  “You have been in the theatre every night since Houdini’s arrest?”

  “Every night since we arrived in England. Someone must stay with the show at all times. These secrets are the most sought after in all of vaudeville. We must maintain our guard.”

  “Excellent,” said Holmes, “and in that time have there been any intruders? Perhaps more accomplished ones than Dr Watson and myself?”

  Franz laughed heartily. “Yes, Mr Holmes. You British are no different from the Americans when it comes to Houdini’s secrets. I have not caught anyone, but I have seen the signs.”

  Holmes’ eyes grew bright. “What signs?”

  “Oh, things not in their places. The coverings disturbed.”

  “Any disorder in Houdini’s dressing-room?”

  Franz regarded my companion with a puzzled look. “Yes, in fact, though what anyone hoped to discover in there is beyond me.”

  “Would you show us what was disturbed?” Holmes asked eagerly.

  “Certainly, if you think it’s important,” Franz said, leading us back onto the stage. “Just a moment, I’ll find the light for the backstage area.”

  While he went to turn on the light, I stepped over to where my dark lantern had fallen, and it was there that I made a most distressing discovery. Still a bit shaky from Franz’s choking hold, I steadied myself on one of the covered packing crates as I bent to retrieve the lantern. When I stood up I found my hand unaccountably sticky. It was then that I noticed an odour which, as a physician, I knew only too well.

  “Holmes,” I said quietly.

  “In a moment, Watson. We must see—”

  “Holmes.”

  “Very well, Watson, what—” As he stepped closer, he too perceived the odour. Without another word he uncovered the crate, but found that it was padlocked.

  “Franz!” cried the detective. “We must open this trunk!”

  “I cannot, Mr Holmes. That is Mr Houdini’s famous metamorphosis substitution trunk, one of his most jealously guarded secrets.”

  Again Holmes withdrew his burglars’ tools and set to work on the lock with a grim determination.

  “All right, Mr Holmes,” said Franz. “Don’t do that. You’ll only damage it.” He produced a se
t of keys and unfastened the lock.

  “Oh istenem! “he cried, raising the lid. “This is terrible! Terrible!”

  There in the trunk was heaped the body of a young woman, hideously strangled with a length of steel chain. The chain had been drawn so tightly about her neck that it bit deeply into the empurpled flesh, and sent crimson streaks upward towards a face of such remarkable beauty that even the ravages of violent death could not entirely disfigure it.

  “Holmes,” I whispered hoarsely, “who is this unfortunate creature?”

  Holmes turned to me in ashen-faced surprise. “What? You do not recognise her?” He looked again at the figure in the trunk. “Watson, this is the Countess Valenka!”

  Thirteen

  MURDER AND BREAKFAST

  “Now let’s see if I can get this clear,” said Lestrade at breakfast the next morning. “The woman in the trunk is the Countess Valenka, that much is certain. But if the countess has been dead all this time, who was Watson speaking to at the Cleland the other day?”

  “What can you mean, Lestrade?” I asked. “I’m quite certain that I was addressing the countess herself.”

  “And yet you failed to recognise her when you discovered her body at the theatre?”

  “Is it any wonder that I did not immediately recognise her in the trunk? After all, there was considerable damage. She had been strangled to death!”

  “True, but it’s a very important point,” Lestrade said, reaching across for the eggs. “You see, I don’t believe you ever spoke to the countess at all.”

  “I assure you I did!”

  “You only think you did, Dr Watson. I don’t know who it was that you spoke to at the Cleland, but at that point the countess was already dead, killed by Houdini.”

  “You can’t mean that, Lestrade!” I cried.

  “But I do! It’s perfectly clear that the murder conforms exactly to my early conjectures — confirms them, I should say. The body was found right in our suspect’s trunk! I should be very dull indeed if I failed to see a connection. Don’t you agree, Holmes?”