The Ectoplasmic Man

by Daniel Stashower

  “Think of it!” he cried, raising his arms to quiet the house. “It combines all of man’s worst fears! The fear of confined spaces, the fear of darkness and” — here Houdini achieved the remarkable impression of having met every eye in the house — “failure means a drowning death! Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time on any stage, I give you the Deadly Riddle of the Milk Can!”

  By now he had worked the audience into such a state that the very name of the effect produced wild applause, punctuated by several feminine shrieks. From the upper balcony a man shouted for Houdini to desist, which pleased the young American greatly.

  “No! No, my friends!” cried the magician, again holding up his arms to be heard. “Though your concerns are justified, and the dangers great, I will not back away from this or any other challenge! This is what it means to face the dark spectre, this is what it means to chart the limits of man! This, ladies and gentlemen, is what it means to be Houdini!”

  There then followed such a tumult of wild applause and shouting that it was several moments before the performance could continue.

  To say that Houdini’s return to the stage that evening had thus far been a triumph would be to do the great magician a disservice. His performance had been nothing less than miraculous, and his grip upon the imaginations of his audience had been masterful. For many weeks previous, the theatre sections of the London dailies had anticipated his re-emergence with great excitement, while in the forward sections of the newspapers, Houdini’s role in the Gairstowe problem was detailed at some length. Even the ceremonies surrounding the coronation of the Prince of Wales as George V could not entirely eclipse the news and speculation about Houdini. All the while the magician had been content to avoid the public eye, revising and refining his effects and allowing the renewed interest in his doings to feed upon itself. Now, standing there beside him on that remarkable night, his first public appearance since the mistaken arrest and imprisonment, I could only marvel at how he had turned the near disaster to his personal advantage, propelling himself to the very fore of the public’s attention.

  Having overseen the placement of several large pails of water, a black folding screen and the large clock used with his Water Torture Cell, Houdini turned to me and whispered, “I have to leave the stage for a minute, John. Keep them entertained while I’m gone, all right?” He slapped me on the shoulder and stepped behind the black screen.

  Happily, the audience was still so wrought up in the wonder of the coming escape attempt that Houdini’s absence was scarcely noticed. It was not until he reappeared a moment later, garbed in his bathing costume, that the house fell silent once more.

  “All is ready,” the magician announced. “As you see, my assistants are filling the milk can with liquid.* But before I undertake the challenge, let us try a different sort of test — one in which each member of the audience may participate. I will now enter the milk can and duck down below the surface of the water, but without locking the top into place. I invite each one of you to hold your breath along with me for as long as you possibly can. In this way, we’ll see how each one of you might have fared against the milk can.” Houdini stepped up to his waist into the mouth of the canister, splashing a quantity of water onto the stage as he did so. “Dr Watson, that electrical switch at the base of the clock will start the hands. And remember, Doctor, I expect you to hold your breath, too! Now, if you are all ready, ladies and gentlemen... Begin!” Houdini slipped below the surface of the water as I started the huge clock. From the other side of the footlights I heard an enormous intake of breath as hundreds of the audience members endeavoured to outlast the young magician. I was something of an athlete at university, and I was always quite proud of the power of my lungs when swimming, but before even one minute had passed I was gasping for air along with most of the audience. In my case, I attribute my shortened endurance at least partially to my nervousness at appearing onstage before so many people. Houdini, evidently, suffered no such stage fright.

  Before ninety seconds were shown to have elapsed on the large clock, many loud gasps from the house indicated that even the hardiest of the patrons had been forced to take air; and before two full minutes had passed it was clear from the excited chattering all about the theatre that no one had managed to outlast Houdini. All eyes were now fixed to the milk can, but still the magician stayed below the surface of the water. As the hands of the clock reached three minutes, Houdini splashed upward out of the mouth of the can, his hands held high in triumph.

  This feat of stamina won him a tremendous round of applause, which Houdini acknowledged by bowing deeply over the edge of the milk can. “Thank you!” he cried, struggling to regain his wind. “Thank you very much, you are very kind! And now — if you will allow me — the real test will begin! My assistant will now bring the lid to be locked over the mouth of the milk can. Incidentally, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to take this moment to introduce my assistant to all of you. She is my wife, Bess Houdini!” Mrs Houdini came forward from the wings, wearing a fetching costume of violet silk. She was plainly delighted to have been reinstated as her husband’s assistant, and she smiled warmly at me as she took her place by his side. “Thank you, Bess,” said Houdini as he took the milk-can lid from her and held it aloft. “And now, once more I shall curl myself up inside the milk can. My assistants will then fill the can up to overflowing, replacing any water which has spilled out. Then my wife and Dr Watson will fasten the lid onto the can, sealing me inside without any air at all. You have seen that I can last for three minutes underwater, but will I be able to escape from the milk can in that time? We shall see.” Houdini paused here, standing waist-deep in the milk can, and gazed searchingly into the distance. “This ancient Celtic mystery was learned from a holy council of Druids who—” Houdini paused again, seeming to reconsider his words. I saw him glance up at the royal box, where the newly crowned George V sat smiling benignly. By His Majesty’s side, in a chair generally reserved for members of the royal family, sat Sherlock Holmes. To the rear of them, in a position denoting what amounted to royal indifference, was seated the detective’s older brother, Mycroft. As Houdini looked up at them now, his eyes seemed to frame a question, a question to which Sherlock Holmes responded with a slight inclination of his head.

  Houdini looked back out over the audience. “My friends,” he said, breaking away from his rehearsed patter, “my kind audience … many of you have read of my recent” — he searched for the proper word — “misunderstanding with Scotland Yard. Please be assured, I blame no one for the unhappiness, even though it nearly ruined my career. No, I blame no one.” Inspector Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in the first row. “Still,” Houdini continued, “I would be remiss if I did not thank the two men responsible for setting the affair to rights. One of them you have met already, he is standing here beside me. The other man is also here with us this evening. He is Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

  I would like to be able to report that Holmes blushed and averted his eyes, but in truth he rather liked public accolades, and most especially this one, led as it was by His Majesty the King, while Mycroft Holmes stared moodily at the floor.

  “Without Mr Holmes,” Houdini continued, “my cause would have been lost. But he continued to seek the truth when all others thought me guilty of a terrible crime. The evidence against me was overwhelming, but Mr Holmes was able to unravel it by focusing on what looked like an insignificant detail. Anyone else would have ignored this detail, but he seized on it and did not let go until it led to the answer he sought. This one detail, this seemingly unimportant aspect of a very complicated case, was ordinary milk. The milk which was contained in this very can. And my friends, just as Mr Holmes recognised the importance of this ordinary can of milk and built it into one of the great successes of his career, so too will I. Mr Holmes has shown me that there are great wonders to be found in life’s commonplaces.” Houdini paused and turned to me. “Dr Watson, if you are ready... Bess... Your Majesty... Mr Ho
lmes... Inspector Lestrade... ladies and gentlemen... I now present the Deadly Riddle of the Milk Can!”

  Houdini drew in a deep breath and slipped below the surface of the water. One of his new assistants came forward with a pail and poured water until the can overflowed onto the stage. Mrs Houdini then clamped the lid over the top, fastening one side while I locked the other. Two more assistants placed the black screen around the can, shielding it from view. There now remained nothing to do but wait.

  In my own defence, I must say that I began well. I recalled only too clearly my disastrous actions during that earlier performance of Houdini’s, and I was not keen to repeat myself. This resolve enabled me to endure the first minute of Houdini’s watery confinement with scarcely a qualm.

  Even as the hands of the clock reached two minutes, and the audience began to grow agitated, I still remained calm, confident of Houdini’s physical and technical skill. Had he not just shown that he could last three minutes underwater with no ill effect? Surely there was no cause for alarm.

  But as the clock swept past three minutes I gave in to my building sense of trepidation. By his own admission, Houdini had never performed this escape before an audience. Had it presented unforeseen difficulty? Could Houdini even move in the cramped space of the milk can, far less effect an escape? The audience’s consternation had grown in volume and pitch so that shouts of concern were audible from every corner of the house. The danger was very real, I knew, but I had on that previous occasion seen him last four minutes before I made my dubious rescue. I would not make the same mistake now. And yet, what if my reluctance to embarrass myself cost Houdini his life?

  At four minutes I began to pace a frantic line up and down before the black screen. As before, I saw the assistants shift about nervously, as if deciding on a course of action. But did any of them know the real danger? The man who truly knew Houdini’s limits — the villainous Franz — was now dead. Was there anyone else who would recognise when Houdini’s showmanship had crossed over into genuine peril? I looked about for Mrs Houdini, but I could not see her.

  Four and one-half minutes found the audience in a frenzy, the aisles were clogged with rescuers attempting to reach the stage. All about the theatre women swooned while men begged me to take action. More time had now passed than any man, even Houdini, could survive without oxygen. After all that he had undergone in those trying weeks, was my friend now to drown in a can of milk? I searched the royal box for guidance from Holmes, but his chair was empty. Frantically, I looked about in the wings for a sign from Mrs Houdini. A group of assistants were clustered there by the edge of the stage. Surely they would put an end to it, surely they would unlock the hellish trap? I took a few steps towards them and saw, to my extreme horror, that they were gathered about the unconscious form of Bess Houdini.

  This was all the impetus I needed. Performance or no, I would get Houdini out of that can before another second passed. Once more I dashed to the wings and seized the heavy fire axe. The din of the audience was now deafening, but I paid no heed as I pushed aside the black screen, showing the can still sealed.

  One stroke of the axe knocked the canister to its side. I braced my foot against the neck and raised the axe high. Again and again I swung at the lid, first loosening the metal clasps so that liquid spilled out across the surface of the stage, then breaking them off completely, opening the can at last. Throwing the axe aside, I reached through the narrow opening to pull Houdini out, but I found the can empty.

  I had barely a second to absorb this information before the spilled liquid had flown over the edge of the stage and into the recently installed electrical footlights. This resulted in a great, crackling flash of light, followed by smoky darkness. When the emergency gas came up a moment later, Harry Houdini stood beside me on the stage.

  I shall never know how he managed it. Nor was I greatly concerned to know at the time. My first response was relief, relief which was echoed by the audience at a tremendous volume. But hard at the heels of that relief came the realisation that I had once again compromised his performance and ruined one of his treasured pieces of equipment.

  “Harry,” I strained to be heard above the roar of the crowd, “Harry, I’m sorry about all this... it’s just that... when I saw that Mrs Houdini had been so overcome—” I glanced over to the edge of the stage and saw Mrs Houdini, mysteriously recovered, standing happily at the side of Sherlock Holmes. Only a moment earlier she had been incapacitated with anxiety. It had been her prostration which impelled me to break open the can. How had she recovered so quickly? Why on earth was Holmes smiling so cannily? I cast a suspicious eye at Houdini, but he had turned away to acknowledge the cheers of his audience.

  “Harry,” I began again, “what—”

  “Never mind, John,” said he, bowing deeply to the royal box. “Think nothing of it. I never cry over spilt milk.”

  *Houdini used water in the can rather than milk for obvious reasons. Once, though, he let a local brewery fill the can with beer. He managed to escape but he became rip-roaring drunk.

  Also Available

  THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

  by

  DAVID STUART DAVIES

  Fate has a strange way of creating a series of events which initially appear to be in no way connected and yet which, with hindsight, can be discerned as cunning links in an arcane chain. My friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, was usually very astute not only in observing, but also in predicting these matters. Indeed, it was part of his skill as a detective. However, in the affair of the Scroll of the Dead even he, at first, failed to see the relationship between a weird and singular set of occurrences which involved us in one of our most challenging cases.

  To relate the story in full, I must refer to my notes detailing a period some twelve months prior to the murders and the theft of the Scroll. The first link in our chain was forged in early May, the year following Holmes’ return from his wanderings abroad after the Reichenbach incident. It was a dark and dismal Tuesday, as I remember it: one of those days which makes you think you have been deceived by the previous day’s sunshine and that spring has not really arrived after all. I had been at my club for most of the afternoon playing billiards with Thurston. I left at five, just as the murky day was crawling its way to solemn evening, and returned to Baker Street. I poured myself a stiff brandy, a compensation for losing so badly to Thurston, and sat opposite my friend beside our fire. Holmes, who had been turning the pages of a newspaper in a desultory fashion, suddenly threw it down with a sigh and addressed me in a languid and casual manner.

  ‘Would you care to accompany me this evening, Watson?’ he murmured, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eye. ’I have an appointment in Kensington, where I shall be communicating with the dead.’

  ‘Certainly, my dear fellow,’ I replied easily, sipping my brandy and stretching my legs before the fire.

  Holmes caught my impassive expression and burst into a fit of laughter. ’A touch, an undeniable touch,’ he chortled. ’Bravo, Watson. You are developing a nice facility for dissembling.’

  ‘I have had a good teacher.’

  He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

  ‘However,’ I added pointedly, ’it is more likely that I am growing used to your outrageous statements.’

  He beamed irritatingly and rubbed his hands. ’Outrageous statements. Tut, tut. I speak naught but the truth.’

  ‘Communicating with the dead,’ I remarked with incredulity.

  ‘A séance, my dear fellow.’

  ’surely you are joking,’ said I.

  ‘Indeed not. I have an appointment with Mr Uriah Hawkshaw, medium, clairvoyant, and spiritual guide, this very evening at nine-thirty sharp. He assures me that he will endeavour to make contact with my dear departed Aunt Sophie. I may take along a friend.’

  ‘I was not aware you had an Aunt Sophie... Holmes, there is more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Astute as ever,’ Holmes grinned, as he slipped his watch from his wai
stcoat pocket. ’Ah, just time for a wash and a shave before I leave. Are you game?’

  Some time later, as we rattled through the darkened London streets in a hansom, Holmes offered the proper explanation for this evening’s strange excursion.

  ‘I am performing a favour for my brother, Mycroft. A member of his staff, Sir Robert Hythe, has recently lost his son in a boating accident. The lad was the apple of his father’s eye and his death has affected Sir Robert badly. Apparently he was just coming to terms with his tragic loss, when this Hawkshaw character contacted him and claimed that he was receiving spirit messages from the boy.’

  ‘What nonsense!’

  ‘My sentiments too, Watson. But to a grieving father such claims are straws grasped instinctively. In despair, logic is forgotten and replaced by wild hopes and dreams. Apparently Mr Uriah Hawkshaw is a most convincing rogue…’

  ‘Rogue?’

  ’So Mycroft believes. He is one of these Spiritualist charlatans who milk the weak and the bereaved of their wealth in return for a gobbledegook puppet show. Mycroft is concerned as to how far this situation may develop. Hythe is privy to many of the government’s secrets and, purely on a personal level, my brother is keen that the fellow should not be misled any further.’

  ‘What is your role in the matter?’

  ‘I am to unmask this ghost-maker for what he is — a fraud and a cheat.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, that should be easy enough. According to my research there are many ways in which these individuals can be exposed. Really, Watson, it has been a most instructive venture. I have thoroughly enjoyed delving into this dark subject. My studies have led me down several learned and diverse avenues, including a visit to Professor Abraham Jordan, expert in the languages of the North American Indian. It is now clear to me that in order for the unmasking to be achieved convincingly, it has to be done while the dissembler is about his nefarious business — in performance, as it were — with his unfortunate victims in attendance.’