“I must say, Dash,” said Bess. “You’re looking even more spruce than usual this morning.”
“Am I?” I rubbed at my chin. “Well, I had a shave and haircut from the hotel barber.”
“Shoes polished, too, I see.”
“Well, yes.”
“And what’s the scent?”
“A new hair tonic. Mitchell’s Lime Root.”
Harry snorted. “Availing yourself of all the amenities of the hotel, are you?”
“It seems a shame to let the opportunity pass,” I said. “No, thank you, Mama,” I added, as she placed a dish of salted herring before me. “I—well—I had a rather hearty breakfast in the hotel.”
Harry regarded me with interest. “With anyone in particular?”
“Miss Wynn asked for my company,” I explained. “She doesn’t like to dine alone.”
“Ah, the charming Miss Wynn!” said Harry. “You seem to be enjoying a great deal of her company.”
“She was quite devastated by the events of last night,” I replied. “I tried to lend some comfort.”
“Is that all it was?” Bess asked, smiling.
“You are wasting your time with him, my dear,” Harry said. “He seems determined to remain a bachelor. Miss Wynn is just another of the names on his list of suspects to be studied and questioned.”
“Surely not!” Bess cried. “You can’t seriously believe that Miss Wynn could have been responsible for last night’s tragedy!”
“Someone tampered with the lock on the lion cage,” I said. “Is it really so impossible to believe that this same person might have tampered with the Floating Lady apparatus?”
“Perhaps,” said Harry. “Perhaps not.”
“Harry, I won’t hear any more superstitious claptrap! If you insist on going on about Mr. Kellar’s so-called curse—”
“You admit that there is such a thing as coincidence?”
“Of course.”
“And perhaps you have experienced the strange sensation of déjà vu?”
“Naturally.”
“Then your mind is beginning to open toward the possibility of senses and sensations beyond the normal realm. Small steps, Dash. Small steps.”
“Harry, you don’t believe in such things yourself.”
“No, but my mind is supple,” he said. “I am open to possibility. At least for the present.”
It must be said that these were strange words to have come from the mouth of Harry Houdini, who in his later years would acquire a reputation as the most outspoken anti-spiritualist crusader of his generation. There would come a time when he would devote the better part of his time and resources to the unmasking of fraudulent spirit mediums, whom he regarded as nothing more than sideshow hucksters. “Mine has not been an investigation of a few days or weeks or months but one that has extended over thirty years,” he was to write shortly before his death, “and in that thirty years I have found not one incident that savored of the genuine.”
By that time my brother had grown so accustomed to fraud on the part of the spiritualists that it was no longer possible for him to keep an open mind. With his vast knowledge of magic and its techniques he easily saw through the paper-thin deceptions of the séance room. But in his younger days, he was of a far more liberal frame of mind. “I wish to believe,” I often heard him say. “I long to believe. Yet I must have evidence that I can see and touch.”
But to my way of thinking, my brother’s “supple” mind was bringing us no closer to a plan of action. “Harry,” I said, impatient to return to the matter at hand, “we have only a short time in which to act. For the moment, shall we restrict our attentions to the earthly plane?”
“I appreciate what you are trying to do, Dash. You are trying to ease my conscience over my role in the death of Miss Moore. You are hoping to prove that it was the work of some enemy of Mr. Kellar’s, but I shall carry—”
“Harry, you and your conscience can do whatever you like. I’m on my way down to the theater to see if I can shed any light on this matter. I intend to do so without recourse to the psychic realm. I would welcome your company, if the spirits will permit it.”
“There is no need for sarcasm, Dash,” he said in an injured tone. “Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“No, Harry. Mr. Kellar has given us the full run of the theater. We have only to—”
“I was referring to your salted herring,” he said. “As Mama says, you can’t hope to put in a full day without a little something on your stomach.”
Within the hour, the Brothers Houdini, their stomachs warmed with herring and numerous cups of tea, made their way back downtown to the Belasco. To our surprise, the front doors were bolted and we found a police padlock on the stage entrance. “Odd,” said Harry, “I thought Lieutenant Murray had finished last night. Well, no matter.” He took out the leather wallet containing his pick locks and held it up to the door. “Quite routine, really. A Glickson two-pin. Have it open in”—there was a sharp click as the padlock fell open—“less time than it takes to say.”
We pushed the stage door open. Inside, we felt our way through the darkened corridors toward the main stage. As we rounded a corner, we could make out the faint outlines of a figure seated on a stool near Mr. Kellar’s dressing room. “Hello?” Harry called. “Who’s there?”
The figure didn’t stir. “Dash, I don’t like the looks of this.” Harry edged closer, reaching out to shake the figure by the shoulder. As he did so, the familiar face of Matilda the mannequin pitched forward into the light, smiling placidly.
“Keeping watch, are you, Matilda?” Harry asked. “We’ll just put you back where we found you.” He propped the mannequin back onto the stool and we edged further along the dim corridor. As we drew near the stage we found that the house lights were illuminated.
“Hello?” Harry called. “Is anyone there?”
“Someone has been here,” I said. “The lieutenant’s men, most likely. McAdow would have a fit if he knew these lights were left burning.”
“Somehow I think Mr. McAdow has other things weighing on his mind at the moment. Now, Dash, what is it that you’re expecting to find?”
“I want to take a closer look at the rigging up there in the dome. We worked out every detail of that illusion, including the safety features. Assuming that Miss Moore’s harness was attached properly, there’s no possible way that she could have fallen. You know that as well as I do.” I hopped down off the stage and made my way through the empty house with Harry at my heels.
“I agree that it’s unlikely,” he said, “but not impossible. After all, the bullet catch trick is also supposed to be fail-safe, but there are a number of dead magicians whose widows could attest to the contrary.”
“That’s different, as you know perfectly well. The bullet catch involves a loaded gun. We weren’t using anything more dangerous than a smudge pot.”
“And an enormous height,” Harry said, looking up into the dome. “Don’t forget that.”
“I haven’t forgotten, Harry. But Miss Moore had training as an aerialist, remember? Collins tells me that she spent three years with the Kendall Brothers. Heights held no terror for her.”
“The Kendall Brothers?” Harry asked. “Miss Moore worked with the Kendall Brothers?”
“Of course, even the best wire-walkers have accidents,” I allowed. “Perhaps she unfastened the harness after he left her. Maybe she needed to change position for some reason.” I paused at the spot behind the seats where Miss Moore’s body had lain the previous night. A heavy cloth covered the spot. “After all,” I said, “Collins said that she seemed out of sorts. But why would she have taken any unnecessary risks? It doesn’t make sense!” I pulled the cloth aside and instantly regretted having done so. A sickly smell rose from beneath. “Come on, Harry,” I said, hastily replacing the cloth. “Maybe we’re wasting our time here.”
He was staring into the dome. “You say that Miss Moore worked with the Kendall Brothers
as an aerialist?”
“That’s what Collins tells me.”
“I knew Bartholomew Kendall,” Harry said. “A very fine fellow. Also very much in the thrall of what you would call superstitious claptrap. He and his brothers were very much creatures of habit.”
“Harry, what are you getting at?”
“Did you examine the catwalk last night?”
“You know I did.”
“So did I. But I was looking for anything that seemed out of place. I should have been looking for something that wasn’t there at all.”
“Pardon?”
“I wonder...” For a moment or two he seemed lost in a trance. “Wait a moment, Dash,” he said, suddenly snapping to attention. “I’ll be right back.”
He darted off into the lobby before I could even frame a question. In the hush of the theater I could hear the drifting sounds of footfalls and doors slamming. Then, very faintly, I heard a sound from overhead, as though a cat were clawing at the ceiling.
I looked up and immediately wished I hadn’t. My brother was blithely hopping about inside the dome, without any manner of safety wire or harness. The previous evening he had made use of the rope ladder; now for some unfathomable reason he was walking along one of the support wires that held the suspended platform. I fought back the impulse to shout a warning, as I did not want to risk startling him. For several moments he paced back and forth on the slender wire, then hopped onto the platform at the center of the dome. To my horror, he then repeated his reckless wire-walking on each of the remaining three supports. He appeared to be studying the wires with extraordinary care, as if he expected to find something clinging to one of them. As he neared the far edge of the final support, he glanced back and saw me staring up at him.
“Dash!” His voice reverberated in the dome. “Did Lieutenant Murray—”
“Harry! Be careful! At least put on a harness!”
“Why bother? It didn’t do Miss Moore any good. Tell me, did Lieutenant Murray find any strange markings up here last night? Anything at all?”
“You saw as much as I did. He didn’t mention anything.”
“It’s very important. No matter how trivial it might seem.”
“I’m quite certain that he didn’t, Harry. Now get back on the catwalk!”
“Honestly, Dash,” he called. “You can be such an old woman.” He extended his arms and continued his journey along the final wire while I watched with my heart in my throat. He took a minor stumble as he neared the far edge, but recovered smoothly with a minimum of arm-waving. He hopped onto the catwalk and I lost sight of him as he slipped through the hatchway. A moment later he had returned to my side.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you in a moment. First we must venture into forbidden territory.”
“Oh?”
“The ladies dressing room.” He led me up the stairs and past the offices on the second floor. We knocked at the entrance to the ladies dressing area and, receiving no answer, pushed open the door. Although larger than the male dressing room, the ladies suite was laid out along much the same lines, with rows of dressing mirrors on either side, and an array of seating couches running down the middle. While not nearly so grand as the private rooms reserved for the star attractions, the chamber was airy and pleasant, a welcome contrast to the arrangements we often encountered on the road.
“This must be where Bess was sitting,” Harry said, gesturing to a mirror near the door. “Those are her dancing slippers.”
“And I believe those yellow gloves belong to Miss Wynn,” I said, pointing to the next seat over. “Could this be—yes! I recognize the scarf she was wearing when I first saw her. This must be Miss Moore’s dressing table.”
Harry sat down at the mirror and examined the surface of the table. “It should be here,” he said, lifting up a square of linen. “Where would she have—ah!” He pulled open a shallow drawer. “Here! Do you see this, Dash? Isn’t it lovely?”
“Harry, it’s a piece of ordinary chalk.”
He cradled the little nub of chalk as though it were a precious jewel. “Dash, it is the key to everything! This tiny piece of chalk may well absolve us of any blame in the death of Miss Moore! More importantly, it sets us down the path of a great mystery, one that shall require all of my remarkable gifts to solve! This may well be the greatest puzzle ever placed before the Great Houdini!”
“All that from one little piece of chalk?”
Harry regarded me with narrowed eyes. “Do you not see? You know my methods! Apply them!”
“You’ve lost me, Harry.”
“You said that Miss Moore played with the Kendall Brothers for three years, did you not?”
“Yes...”
“Do you not remember the Kendall Brothers? We shared a bill with them when the Welsh Brothers passed through Illinois and Indiana.”
“I remember, but Miss Moore couldn’t have been with them at that time. I wouldn’t have forgotten her.”
“She wasn’t. But I came to know Bartholomew Kendall quite well during that period. He was a very charming man, and had a great deal to teach me about the discipline of high-wire work.”
“I remember him. Very sturdy, muscles like steel cords.”
“Yes, he was a great believer in muscular expansionism—as am I. He also had a number of the odd quirks and customs that are so common in our profession.”
“He was superstitious, you mean?”
“If you will. In any case, there was one tradition that had been handed down to him by his father, and which was observed by every member of the company, from the walkers to the riggers.” Harry turned the chalk nubbin over in his hand. “Before every performance, each of the walkers made a pair of chalk marks on the wire. Two marks—just like this.” He reached out and made two sharp vertical strokes on the edge of the dressing table. “These marks were meant as a tribute to Zeke Kendall and Emma Bigelow, two members of the company who had fallen from the wire.”
“Killed?” I asked. “Both of them?”
“Yes. In separate accidents. The chalk marks were meant to honor their memory, and to ward off the bad luck that caused their deaths.”
I fixed my eyes on the little nubbin of chalk. “Harry, you’re saying that—”
“How could it be otherwise?”
“You’re saying that Miss Moore should have made two chalk marks on the wire across the dome, before she attempted the Floating Lady.”
“Exactly.”
I let it filter around in my brain for a minute. “She was in a terrible hurry,” I said. “Collins said she seemed distracted. Perhaps she didn’t have time—”
“Dash, you have spent all morning berating me over the quaint beliefs of show folk. Do you mean to tell me that a member of the Kendall Brothers company couldn’t find two seconds to scratch out a pair of simple chalk marks?”
“Perhaps she forgot the chalk. That must be it! What’s her chalk doing here in the drawer? She must have left it behind in her haste to get ready for opening night!”
Harry dipped his hand into the drawer and removed three more pieces of chalk. “I think we can safely say that she remembered to carry a piece with her,” he said. “No doubt Lieutenant Murray will confirm that a piece of chalk was found on her person. Furthermore, I think it’s plain that the tradition had considerable importance to her.”
“Incredible,” I said. “You’re suggesting that—”
“I’m suggesting that Miss Moore should have left a pair of chalk marks before she climbed out onto the wire, but for some reason she did not.”
“Then you’re saying that she didn’t fall at all.”
“No, indeed. She must have been pushed or thrown from the catwalk. One thing is certain.” He stood up, his eyes gleaming. “Dash, it is murder!”
I took the chalk from his hand and stared at it. “Collins,” I said. “He saw her crawl out onto the platform. He didn’t say anything about any chalk marks. Unless—”<
br />
Harry nodded. “He says that he saw her mount the platform, but we have only his word for it. He was the last to see her alive.”
“Collins! That bastard! That four-flushing—”
“Dash,” my brother said stiffly, “you know that Mama does not approve of such language.”
“All right, Harry,” I said with a sigh. “Then shall we go and see if we can find this—this blackguard? I have some questions for him.”
“As do I.” Harry took the chalk and tightened his fist around it. “As do I. Come along, Dash. Mr. Collins has much to explain.”
We had gotten no further than the stage when a voice stopped us in our tracks. “What are you two doing here?” came the familiar growl.
“Lieutenant Murray!” cried Harry. “For once I am glad to see you! I have the most remarkable news! It seems Miss Moore—”
“She was murdered,” he said. “Yes, I know. I wondered how long it would take the pair of you to work it out.”
“You already knew? But how?”
The lieutenant clasped his hands behind his back, walking toward us. “Had my suspicions last night. Her hair was wet, for one thing. I pointed it out to Doc Peterson, and he found something sort of unusual when he examined the body down at the morgue.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“Well, her injuries were severe, as you would expect in a fall from that height. Lots of broken bones and I don’t know what all. But what really got the Doc’s attention was the cause of death.”
“The cause of death? The woman fell seventy feet!”
“So she did.” The lieutenant’s eyes were fixed on the wire suspended high above his head. “But that’s not what killed her.”
“Then what did?”
Lieutenant Murray met my gaze and held it for a moment. “Water in her lungs,” he said.
“It can’t be,” I said.
“I’m afraid it is, Hardeen. It seems that your floating lady drowned in mid-air.”
The Floating Lady Murder Page 14