The Floating Lady Murder

by Daniel Stashower

  “Are you all right, Perdita? Perhaps you’d better take a bit of this brandy.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiled weakly, but her face was ashen. “It’s been quite a shock. Thank heaven you’re all right.”

  Lieutenant Murray put a hand on my shoulder. “Hardeen? If the ladies are finished with you, I’d like to ask a few more questions.”

  “Yes,” said Biggs, leaping out of his seat. “How did you know Valletin was responsible? How could you have—”

  “Indeed,” Frank Lyman broke in, “how could you have known that—”

  Lieutenant Murray held up his hand for silence. “Gentlemen, this is still a police investigation. With your indulgence, I’ll ask the questions.” He turned to me. “How’d you spot him, Hardeen? How did you know it was Valletin?”

  “And how did he manage the murder of poor Francesca?” asked Kellar, handing me a glass with a generous measure of brandy in it. “Forgive me, lieutenant, but I feel we are all entitled to know.”

  “It was Harry’s idea as much as mine,” I began, after taking a sip of brandy. “He refused to believe that Collins could have killed Miss Moore.”

  “It was impossible!” Harry cried. “The man is utterly trustworthy! I knew it from the first!”

  “Harry’s conviction sort of rubbed off on me,” I continued, “but we couldn’t agree on why anyone would want to sabotage the Floating Lady. Harry was convinced that someone was trying to drive Mr. Kellar out of business and acquire the exclusive rights to the trick. Those rights would have become even more valuable with all the publicity in the wake of the tragedy. People would be flocking to see the so-called ‘fatal illusion.’ All of that seemed to point to a rival magician—Servais Le Roy.”

  “Preposterous!” cried Le Roy.

  “I realize that now, sir. But you’ll have to admit, if you were a less honorable sort of fellow, you’d have been able to turn this terrible business to your advantage.”

  He wrinkled his forehead. “What a devious mind you have, Hardeen.”

  “Actually, it was Harry’s brainstorm, and you’re quite right— he does have a devious mind.”

  “I had not had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Le Roy when the thought occurred to me,” said Harry, blushing. “I know now that he is incapable of such a thing.”

  “Be that as it may,” I continued, “I was approaching the problem from a different angle. I was convinced that Miss Moore was the intended victim. I couldn’t believe that anyone would kill her just to get at Mr. Kellar. So I spent some time digging around in her background to see if there was anything to suggest a motive. I found nothing, absolutely nothing.”

  “But what about the lion?” asked Lieutenant Murray, cutting to the salient point, as always. “If Miss Moore was the intended target all along, why mess with the lion cage? There was no guarantee that the lion would attack Miss Moore.”

  “No,” I said, “although she would have been the most likely victim. If Boris had escaped during the first performance in Albany, as seems to have been the intention, Miss Moore would have been the person standing closest to the cage. She was to play the part of the young bride threatened by the lion. As it happened, the mishap on stage meant that Boris got out quite a bit earlier than planned. Luckily, Harry was there to help capture him.”

  “So Miss Moore could have been Valletin’s target in both cases,” Murray said. “What did he have against her? Were they, uh”—he glanced at Bess and Perdita, struggling for a delicate euphemism—“were they, uh—”

  “No, lieutenant. But I think Miss Moore learned something about Valletin that made her a risk to him, though she couldn’t have realized its significance.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m afraid it has to do with the curse of Kalliffa. I believe—”

  “Now look, Hardeen. If you expect the New York City Police Department to go chasing after some ghost, you’re even crazier than your brother. No offense, Houdini.”

  “None taken,” Harry answered.

  I took another swig of brandy, feeling the warmth go to work on my frozen toes. “Tell me, lieutenant, do you believe in coincidence?”

  He eyed me with suspicion. “Depends what you mean.”

  “Twenty-five years ago, a woman named Hermione McGregor fell to her death attempting to assist her husband with the Floating Lady effect. A quarter-century later, almost to the exact minute, Francesca Moore was murdered while performing the very same effect. I think that’s quite a remarkable coincidence, don’t you?”

  “The Wizard of Kalliffa, right? What was his real name? Duncan McGregor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I told you before, Hardeen. The murdered girl couldn’t have had anything to do with that. She was far too young.”

  “That’s true, but it’s still the reason she was killed.”

  Biggs looked up suddenly from his frantic note-taking. “ ‘K’ for Kalliffa,” he said. “Not ‘K’ for Kellar, or ‘K’ for Kendall. You were looking for something on the background of the Wizard of Kalliffa.”

  “And I found it,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a fading zinc-particle photograph. I passed it to Lieutenant Murray. “The photograph shows Duncan McGregor with his arm around a small boy,” I said for the benefit of Mr. Kellar. “The boy has the face of a cherub, and could only be—”

  “Malcolm Valletin!” Lieutenant Murray cried. “Valletin was Duncan McGregor’s son!”

  “Exactly.” I looked at Mr. Kellar, who had gone a terrible shade of white. “I’m sorry, sir, but Malcolm Valletin, the boy you once knew as Duncan McGregor, Jr., held you responsible for what happened to his father. He was determined to see you ruined, just as his father was.”

  “But—but there was nothing I could have done!” Kellar’s hands were trembling. “McGregor insisted on performing the effect that night! I couldn’t stop him! I tried, but he wouldn’t listen!” His lips were quivering with emotion. “My God! McGregor’s boy! If only I had known!”

  Lieutenant Murray stared at the photograph, scrutinizing every detail. “It doesn’t quite cover it, Hardeen,” he said. “It doesn’t explain how he was able to carry off the murder, or why.”

  “You saw how agile Valletin was on the high wire tonight,” I said. “Obviously he had some training as an aerialist. I believe that his father must have spent some time sharing a bill with the Kendall Brothers during his long slide into obscurity. I think that Miss Moore must have realized that Malcolm Valletin had grown up around the Kendalls. Possibly she even discovered who he really was. In either case, she was dangerous to him. It’s clear that Valletin knew all about Miss Moore’s training with the Kendalls. He used it to manipulate her on the night of her death.”

  “The chalk?” Harry asked.

  “Exactly. Valletin knew perfectly well that Miss Moore wouldn’t go out on the wire without making two chalk marks to honor the Kendall tradition. All he had to do was remove the piece of chalk she was carrying in the Princess Karnac costume. Then, after she’d vanished from the levitation banquette at the start of the effect, she would be sure to return to the dressing room before she went up to the dome with Collins. Valletin must have been waiting in the dressing room.”

  “And he killed her,” the lieutenant said. “Probably held her head down in the wash basin. That would account for her wet hair. But if Valletin was the killer, Collins must have been in on it with him. Collins said that he escorted Miss Moore up to the dome. He said she was alive when he left her there. If Valletin killed her down in the dressing room, Collins must be lying. The two of them must have worked it together.”

  “No,” I said. “Valletin did it himself.”

  “But Collins said—”

  “Collins was telling the truth. But you’re right in a sense, lieutenant. Valletin had plenty of help.” I took another gulp of brandy. “Why don’t you tell us about it, Perdita?”

  I have not had the stellar career of my brother, but there are a handful
of performances of which I remain proud to this day. This was one of them. Everyone in the room was stunned into silence. One might have heard the sound of a mouse skittering across the grand dome. Only Perdita Wynn appeared unfazed. She simply stared at me with those enchanting eyes, the edges of her mouth curling upward as if amused by my audacity.

  “I guess maybe Miss Becker taught me a little more than I realized,” I said, meeting her gaze. “In any case, I double checked at the library this morning.”

  “Who’s Miss Becker?” asked the lieutenant.

  “An old school teacher of mine. Why don’t you tell us the rest, Perdita?”

  “You’re insane, Mr. Hardeen,” she said quietly. “It’s a great shame.”

  “I’m afraid you tipped the gaffe,” I continued. “You said that your father was mad for Shakespeare. It took me a while, but the penny finally dropped. Macbeth. They say that it’s bad luck to say the name in a theater, but I think we’ve already had more than our fair share. In Macbeth, the character of Duncan has a son by the name of Malcolm. And in The Winter’s Tale, Perdita is the daughter of—”

  “Hermione!” Mr. Kellar staggered forward, stretching out his hands to Perdita Wynn. “Good God! You are Hermione’s daughter! Mina McGregor! But you were just a child then! A mere baby!”

  “Once I realized that you and Valletin were brother and sister, it all suddenly made sense,” I said, ignoring Kellar’s outburst. “You took Miss Moore’s place, wearing an identical costume. Collins would never have known the difference, not with you all swathed in that Indian get-up. Only your eyes were showing, and they’re every bit as striking as Miss Moore’s were. Collins remarked that Miss Moore seemed pale, but that makes sense in the circumstances, since you’re a good deal more fair than she was, even in make-up. You went up the stairs with Collins and walked calmly out onto the platform while he watched, just as Miss Moore would have done. You must have learned a lot from the Kendalls. Collins never suspected a thing. When he left, he must have passed your brother hiding in one of the offices with Miss Moore’s body. With Collins out of the way, Valletin climbed up to the dome and threw the body over the edge of the catwalk. You simply hung onto the platform, and then ran back to the catwalk while everyone was watching the body fall.” I kept staring straight into her eyes, watching the tears well up at the edges. “It was a hell of a plan,” I said, “except for the water in Miss Moore’s lungs.”

  Lieutenant Murray shook his head. “All that because you studied Shakespeare as a schoolboy? That’s how you figured it out?”

  Perdita’s hands were trembling now, but her eyes never wavered, even as the tears began rolling down her cheeks. I passed her my pocket square. Her fingers brushed mine as she reached for it. “Always the gentleman, aren’t you, Mr. Hardeen? Even now?”

  I felt my mouth tighten as I pulled my hand away. “That’s very kind of you,” I said. “It’s what Miss Becker would have wanted.”

  17

  THE GREAT AND POWERFUL KELLAR

  THERE WERE FIVE OF US STANDING ON THE ROOF OF THE BELASCO Theater at dawn, watching the sun come up over a snow-covered New York City. Le Roy, Kellar, Lyman, and I had passed most of the night working our way through a final bottle of brandy as we huddled on the slate ledge near the ventilator opening. Harry, abstemious even in these circumstances, was perched on the angled point of the pediment, gazing out over the city.

  “For God’s sake, be careful, Harry,” I called down to him. “It’s still slippery up here.”

  “But the view is beautiful,” he called in reply. “Come and see, Dash!”

  “I’m fine here,” I said. “One broken neck ought to be enough in a single evening.”

  Kellar watched as Harry swung his legs over the edge of the roof, straining for a better view. “He’s really not afraid of anything, is he?”

  “No, sir, he’s not. It can be a bit trying at times.”

  “Well, it was a godsend for me,” he said. “Between your brains and his courage, the pair of you managed to save me from ruin.”

  “Hmm,” said Lyman. “Brains. Courage.” He made a note on his shirt cuff.

  Kellar ignored him. “Even now I can’t quite comprehend it. How could they have hated me so much? I didn’t kill Hermione. I didn’t cause their father’s deterioration. I tried to prevent it. Certainly I could have done more, but McGregor wouldn’t accept my help. He was proud.”

  “I doubt if it would have made two cents’ worth of difference,” I said. “The pair of them lost their mother and then watched their father slide into dissolution. It takes a toll. They needed someone to blame—someone besides their father.”

  Kellar reached for the brandy bottle. “Eva said the same thing. She said there was no one to blame but McGregor himself—he just didn’t have the heart to go on. I still feel I might have done more for him.”

  “Heart,” said Lyman, making another note on his shirt cuff. “No heart.”

  “Lyman,” said Kellar, “what are you doing? I already told you, our little collaboration is finished. I’ll pay you, of course, but I’ve decided I must do this thing on my own.”

  “Collaboration?” I asked.

  Kellar took a swallow and handed the brandy bottle to Le Roy. “It’s a little embarrassing. I’ve reached the stage of my life where I feel it might be worthwhile to set down my memoirs. I am vain enough to suppose that they will be of interest to posterity. But my education was rather limited, having run away from home at the age of ten, and life on the road does not allow much time for the refinements of learning. I decided that I would hire Lyman to assist.”

  “A ghostwriter?”

  “I preferred to think of it as a collaboration. In any case, I was embarrassed and didn’t want the company to know about it. But I’ve thought better of it now. I shall try to set my memoirs down without any assistance from my learned friend. Again, Lyman, I apologize for wasting your time.”

  “Think nothing of it, sir,” he answered cordially. “The time I’ve spent with you has been a wonderful education for me. I’ve been writing home to my wife about it, of course, and she says that our children are most eager to know more about Mr. Kellar’s adventures. I find myself inspired to try my hand at a children’s tale of some sort. The idea came to me only yesterday. You’ll be in it, Hardeen, and your brother, too. And even the poor unfortunate Mr. McGregor. But of course Mr. Kellar shall be the featured player. Every child’s fable must have a great and powerful wizard.”

  “A child’s tale,” Kellar said. “I wish you every success, Lyman.”

  “As do I, Mr. Lyman.”

  “Please, dear boy, I tried to tell you earlier. Most of my friends call me by my middle name, Frank. Mr. Kellar is referring to me by my given name, Lyman. But my surname is Baum. Lyman Frank Baum. Never cared for the name Lyman, though. Can’t quite see it on the spine of a book, either.” He paused to consider the matter. “L. Frank Baum. That should do nicely.” He made another note on his cuff.

  Le Roy passed over the remains of the brandy bottle. “The tour will continue, Henry?”

  “Of course, but I’m rather short-handed just now. Collins will be rejoining us, of course, but there are a pair of vacancies I may not be able to fill any time soon. Hardeen, may I count on you and your brother, and the charming Mrs. Houdini?”

  Harry, who had been making his way up the angled slate roof, gave a vigorous assent. “We shall be very happy to remain with the troupe,” he said. “Bess will be overjoyed at the prospect of travel.”

  “I hope that it may become something of a longer term arrangement,” Kellar said, as Harry joined us on the ledge. “I may not be ready to retire just yet, but the day is not far off. I shall be looking for a successor, Houdini, and he would have to be a gifted young man. I had rather fancied Valletin for the job, but...” His voice trailed off.

  I looked at Harry. This was the opportunity of which he had dreamed when we joined the company scarcely one week earlier. Now, strangely, he appeared u
nmoved. “I suppose that your successor would be stepping directly into your shoes,” he said, “performing your act exactly as it has been done these many years.”

  “At first, certainly. It’s a tried and true formula, Houdini. I have no doubt that you could learn to handle the illusions, and your sleight of hand is excellent. We might tour for a year or two together, to establish you in the role of my heir, and then I could hand over the entire show to you. Of course I would retain the rights to the illusions, and the show would be billed as the Kellar Show starring Harry Houdini. Dudley would work out an acceptable fee schedule, but a large share of the receipts would be yours. You’d be very comfortable, Houdini. Very comfortable, indeed.”

  “Comfortable,” Harry said sadly. “I am not certain that I am ready to be comfortable. Your offer is exceptionally generous, Mr. Kellar. and I shall always be flattered that you considered me worthy of consideration as your successor. But the illusions are not for me. I have my own act—my own formula for success, if you will—and I still believe it is the only true path for me.”

  “The escapes?” Kellar shook his head. “You’d have to give those up, of course. They’re all right as a novelty, but as an entire evening’s entertainment? No, Houdini. It’ll never work. The illusions are tried and tested. I urge you to reconsider.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Harry said.

  “I will let you do the escapes,” said Le Roy. “Why not come and work for me?”

  “See here, Le Roy—” Kellar began.

  “It is a new day,” Le Roy said, sweeping his hand toward the rising sun. “You and I are rivals once again, Henry. What do you say, Houdini? ‘Servais Le Roy presents the escapologist Harry Houdini, exclusively with the Royal Illusionists.’ It has a nice ring.”

  “This is really too much, Le Roy—” Kellar declared.

  Harry held up his hands. “I must give you the same answer, Mr. Le Roy, though I do hope that one day I shall be fortunate enough to share a stage with you.”

  “Good for you, Houdini,” said Mr. Baum. “Courage!”