Harry Houdini Mysteries

by Daniel Stashower

  “The Great Houdini?” Foster asked. “Who might that be?”

  Harry’s cheeks reddened. “Why, he is the justly celebrated star of—”

  “You won’t have heard of him,” I said, motioning for Harry to lower his voice.

  Foster did not appear to be listening. “Once a man is dead, there’s an end of it,” he declared, with yet another mighty swallow of whiskey. “I know that as well as I know my own name.” His eyelids fluttered for a moment as he struggled to keep hold of his thoughts. “If that Lucius Craig has any ideas about getting his hands on my sister’s money, he’d better think again. I know a thing or two about him. He’d better tread carefully.”

  “I hear tell,” said Harry, still lagging a step behind, “that the Great Houdini is highly—”

  “You know a thing or two about him?” I asked, silencing Harry with an urgent gesture. “What sorts of things might those be?”

  Foster glanced from side to side in an exaggerated show of confidentiality. “About that daughter of his. Not all she seems, is she? The high and mighty Mr. Craig thinks he’s getting one over on us, but I’m not fooled. I know things. Believe me, I know things.”

  “His daughter? What about his daughter?”

  Foster’s shoulders twitched and he glared at us with sudden ferocity, as though we had insulted his honor. “Say! Who are you to be asking me questions? Baggy-pants circus touts, that’s what you are! I ought to have you turned out of here!”

  “But we were only—”

  “Better yet, I’ll see to it myself, you baggy-pants circus touts!” He set his jaw and took a menacing step forward, cocking a fist as he advanced.

  “Mr. Foster, there’s no need—”

  But it was too late. With a grunt, Foster squared his shoulders and threw a vigorous left hook. It is difficult to say which of us he was attempting to strike, but Harry and I both stepped aside easily, leaving Foster to pitch forward under the momentum of his swing. Harry’s arms darted out but failed to stop our assailant’s forward progress. Foster took three lurching steps and collided with a Hepplewhite side table, upending a bowl of fruit and walnuts as he slumped heavily to the floor.

  “Don’t think you’re getting one over on me,” he declared, resting his head against the overturned bowl. “I know things.” His eyes closed, and his breathing subsided into a contented snore.

  Harry gazed down at the sleeping form. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

  “Don’t ask me, Dr. Weiss,” I said. “I’m just a baggy-pants circus tout.”

  5

  THE LIGHT MILITIA

  THE SUDDEN INDISPOSITION OF STERLING FOSTER CAUSED LITTLE stir. Brunson and a pair of the serving staff converged on the fallen figure with brisk efficiency, bearing him away as though tidying an upended cuspidor. Dr. Wells and Mr. Grange made a point of looking elsewhere as the operation was carried out, while Kenneth Clairmont murmured a quiet word of apology on his uncle’s behalf. Mrs. Clairmont, her hand at her throat, remarked only that her brother had been “most unaccountably run down of late.” I had the impression that such displays were not uncommon in the Clairmont household.

  Within moments of Foster’s unceremonious departure, a slight, red-haired girl could be seen hovering tentatively at the entrance to the room. She could not have been much more than thirteen or fourteen years old, with pale features framed by ringlets. Her bright, green eyes swept the room with a level, direct gaze. Mrs. Clairmont rose and moved across to greet her.

  “Lila,” she said, “I don’t believe you’ve met everyone.” She led the girl to the center of the room. “Lila is Mr. Craig’s daughter,” she told us.

  The girl said nothing but nodded to Harry and me.

  “Is your father ready for us upstairs?” Mrs. Clairmont asked.

  Lila gave a nod in reply and leaned to whisper something in Mrs. Clairmont’s ear. The older woman smiled. “I am told that Mr. Craig is pleased with the equipoise of energies,” she announced. “Perhaps this will be the evening that we succeed in reaching my dear husband. Kindly follow me to the séance chamber.” She turned to the butler, who had just returned from overseeing the removal of Sterling Foster. “Brunson?”

  “Madam?”

  “In light of my brother’s sudden infirmity, I shall require you to occupy the empty chair in tonight’s circle.”

  A slight tremor washed over the butler’s features. “How pleasant, madam.”

  Harry drew me aside as Mrs. Clairmont led us through to the grand staircase. “At last I am going to meet the famous Lucius Craig,” he whispered, as we climbed past a gallery of oil portraits lining the stairs. “Apparently his psychic powers have not alerted him to the presence of a formidable adversary!”

  “Harry, we’re just here to observe. Don’t do anything crazy.”

  “Of course not. However, it is only sporting to alert Mr. Craig to the fact that he is being watched by an expert in the arcane arts!”

  “Harry, I don’t know what you’re planning, but—”

  “Mr. Hardeen? Dr. Weiss? There you are!” Mrs. Clairmont waited for us in the doorway of a room at the top of the stairs. “Come along, gentlemen. I’m eager to introduce you to our honored guest.” She beamed happily as we passed through the doorway.

  We found ourselves in a large and comfortably furnished gentleman’s study. Cluttered bookshelves lined three walls, jammed with worn volumes, loose papers, and odd curios such as an African fertility carving, a battered whale harpoon, and an array of brass weather instruments and wind gauges such as might be found on the bridge of a merchant vessel. A fourth wall opened out onto a tall bay window, before which stood a polished maple desk. The surface of the desk was absolutely bare and had been recently polished to a high gloss. I suppressed a shudder as I recalled that this was the spot where Jasper Clairmont had taken his own life.

  An octagonal table stood on a thick pedestal at the center of the room, exactly as Kenneth Clairmont had described, with a ceramic tray, a pad of paper and a chalk slate arranged on its surface. Eight chairs were circled about the table, with the one nearest to us partially enclosed by an arrangement of sheer cloth screens. A bright carpet of an odd plum-colored Indian design was spread out beneath the table, and I guessed that the floor coverings had been changed immediately following the family’s tragedy.

  A slender figure stood at the windows with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing down into the street below with an air of intense fascination.

  “Lucius?” called Mrs. Clairmont. “I’ve brought our visitors.”

  Lucius Craig turned from the window and greeted us with a faltering smile. He was tall and round-shouldered, with reddish hair running to gray, and a pair of wide-set, sunken eyes that gave the impression of peering down from a great height. He crossed the room with a curiously weightless, almost spidery, movement, waving one hand as though conducting a symphony.

  “Good of you to come,” he said in a soft, feathery voice. “So good of you to indulge me. There is a decided chill in the air this evening. It bodes well.”

  I noted that Lucius Craig spoke with a trace of a British accent, though unlike any I had heard before. I speculated that he had spent time in Ireland or perhaps Scotland. His head bobbed agreeably as he was introduced to me and Harry, but his fingers seemed to shrivel under the force of our handshakes, as though physical proximity was somehow painful to him.

  “I do hope that the spirits might favor us with a manifestation this evening, Mrs. Clairmont,” Craig was saying. “I am so hopeful after the promising results we obtained the other night. Now, if I might ask you to take your places at the table. Dr. Weiss, you shall be there, and Mr. Hardeen, may I ask you to sit beside him?”

  We took our places around the octagonal table as Craig stepped over to a large music box and set it in motion. A tinny rendition of a Mozart étude filled the room.

  “Ah!” cried Craig, waving his fingers to the music. “Very soothing! Just the thing!”

 
“This is the celebrated Lucius Craig?” I whispered to Harry. “I expected a more commanding presence—something almost demonic. He seems like a dithery old schoolmaster.”

  “It’s often the way with mediums,” Harry answered. “They appear harmless so as not to invite suspicion. I guarantee that there is more to him than meets the eye.”

  I watched as Craig lingered by the music box, swaying to the music with a dreamy expression on his face. “There would have to be,” I said.

  When the rest of us were seated Craig spent a further moment or two fussing over the screens behind his chair, explaining that the arrangement of fabric was needed to form a crucible for his energies. This done, he settled himself between Mrs. Clairmont and Mr. Grange, smiling with happy contentment.

  “Now, then,” he began, laying his hands on the surface of the table, “it is my fervent hope this evening that we shall journey into unknown realms. However, since Mr. Hardeen and Dr. Weiss were not with us for our previous effort, we must again take care that we bring our minds into alignment before we can begin. As with the tuning of a musical instrument, our vital forces must be brought into accord. For the moment, we shall leave the lights as they are, though if we are to ascend to the next level as the séance progresses, we shall have to extinguish them entirely. Do you understand?”

  Mrs. Clairmont nodded her agreement, though my brother—even behind his moustache and monocle—appeared decidedly agitated.

  “I would like each of you to take a slip of paper from this pad,” Craig continued. “Allow yourself a moment or two to clear your mind of all stray impressions, then jot down a word or phrase on the slip of paper. It should be a thought that comes naturally to mind—do not confuse matters by straining over an old memory or a lengthy maxim. The message should be brief and direct. As I said, this is merely an exercise—a means of clearing the palate before we move on to the main feature of the evening.”

  My brother grew more and more restive during Craig’s remarks. “Brief and direct,” he muttered, bending low over his slip of paper.

  Craig waited for a moment while the others scrawled out their messages. “That is excellent,” he said when each of us had finished. “Now, you would oblige me if you would each add your initials at the bottom of your message. Good. Now, we finish by folding the slips in half, then in half again. Excellent. Let us place the papers in this tray.” He watched as a shallow ceramic tray was passed around the table. “Very good,” he said when the tray made its way back to him. “We are ready to proceed.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Harry grumbled. I shot him a warning glance.

  Resting his hands on either side of the tray, Craig closed his eyes and remained motionless for a moment. Then, without opening his eyes, he dipped his fingers into the tray and withdrew one of the slips of paper. Pressing it to his forehead, he concentrated for a further moment before a smile spread across his features. “A fitting invocation,” he said. “The message comes from our hostess, and it reads, ‘Success.’ I do hope so, Mrs. Clairmont.”

  Craig unfolded the message and set it aside before dipping his fingers into the tray once more. “Here is a message from our friend Mr. Grange,” he said, pressing the next folded slip to his forehead. “It reads, ‘Violet.’ And here is an offering from Mr. Brunson, unless I’m mistaken. His message is ‘Remember the Maine.’ Dear me! How very patriotic! Let us see, I believe this next slip of paper holds a rather longer message. ‘Unnumbered spirits round thee fly.’ A line from Pope, is it not, Kenneth? How does the poem continue? Ah, yes. ‘Unnumbered spirits round thee fly, the light militia of the lower sky.’ Now, then, what have we here...?”

  The demonstration continued in this manner for some moments, with Craig plucking each folded slip from the tray, pressing it to his forehead and, after a moment’s concentration, reading out the words printed within. As he successfully divined each particular message, Craig unfolded the paper billet, scanned the contents to confirm his reading, and then tossed it aside before moving on to the next. I could not help but marvel at the easy, conversational manner in which he carried out the feat. There was no suggestion of performance about his actions and nothing in his bearing to convey pride or satisfaction in the demonstration. Instead, his attitude was that of a humble supplicant who considered himself fortunate to be taking part in a remarkable happening. The distinction, I realized, was an important one, for it shifted the emphasis of the gathering away from any examination of his deeds. Instead, we were invited to join in his apparent wonder at a power greater than ourselves.

  “I believe this is the message from our friend Dr. Wells,” Craig was saying. “The sentiment is brief and, I dare say, painful. It simply says, ‘Toothache.’ My sincere sympathies, Dr. Wells.”

  From across the table, the doc tor nodded ruefully and rubbed at his jaw.

  “Yes,” Craig continued, “that can be most”—a pained expression passed over his face suddenly—”unpleasant. Very unpleasant, indeed.”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Craig?” asked Mrs. Clairmont. “You seem distressed.”

  The medium gripped the edge of the table. “A sudden shift of animus,” he said. “Most extraordinary. I hope our experiment is not compromised.”

  “Dear me,” said Mrs. Clairmont.

  “Think nothing of it, dear lady,” Craig continued. “Let us continue.” He pressed another folded slip to his forehead. “Another message begins to reveal itself, though not an entirely serious one, I see. It reads, ‘Whiskey and soda.’ “

  This brought an appreciative bark of laughter from Dr. Wells.

  “Very amusing, Mr. Hardeen,” said Craig, unfolding the slip of paper. “I’m certain that Brunson will be pleased to accommodate you when our gathering has concluded. But what is this?” His features darkened once again. “How strange! How terribly strange!”

  Mrs. Clairmont leaned toward him. “What is it, Lucius?”

  “A strange challenge, though I cannot begin to fathom the meaning.”

  “What does it say?”

  Craig unfolded the slip of paper and held it up for all to see. “ ‘Lucius Craig, your judgement is at hand!’”

  Mrs. Clairmont gave an exhalation of alarm and sank back in her chair. Edgar Grange, meanwhile, fixed my brother with an expression of intense interest. “You’re the only one we haven’t heard from yet, Dr. Weiss,” he said. “What is the meaning of this strange declaration?”

  Harry adjusted his monocle. “I am afraid—” he began.

  “See here,” Craig interrupted, pointing at the slip of paper. “The initials are not those of Dr. Weiss. The message is signed ‘H. H.’” He glanced around the table. “But who might that be?”

  Harry rose from his chair and gripped the edge of the table. “Can you not guess?” he demanded, allowing his voice to sink to a dramatic register. “Can you not fathom who this mysterious H. H. might be?”

  “I’m afraid I’m at a loss,” said the medium.

  “Then allow me to assist you,” cried Harry, snatching the monocle and moustache from his face. “For, you see, I am none other than the Great Houdini himself!”

  A confused silence greeted this revelation.

  “The Great Houdini!” Harry repeated. “The renowned magician!”

  Our fellow guests looked back at him with blank expressions.

  “The man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel praised as—”

  “My brother apologizes profusely for any confusion that his behavior has caused,” I said, stepping into the breach. “What he wishes to say—and undoubtedly would have said had his eagerness to be of service not gotten the best of him—is that as a professional magician he is privy to a great number of secrets of stagecraft and sleight of hand. Some of these secrets have suggested a means by which Mr. Craig’s demonstration might have been accomplished by strictly conventional means.”

  Dr. Wells cleared his throat. “Do you mean to say you’re accusing Craig here of being a fraud?” The prospect seemed to delight him. �
��You mean it was just a magic trick?”

  “Yes!” cried Harry. “That is exactly—”

  “Not precisely,” I said, with a quick glance at Mrs. Clairmont, who appeared positively stricken. “Harry merely wishes to suggest, in the spirit of sportsmanship, that he might be able to duplicate the effect. Of course, he does not mean to imply deception on the part of our esteemed friend.”

  Dr. Wells grinned at my evasion, then looked at Lucius Craig. “Well, what do you say, Craig? Are you up to a little sporting challenge?”

  The medium had been studying my brother intently. For a moment his features flashed with annoyance, but he soon mastered himself. “This young man intrigues me,” he said with some of his old geniality. “I should like to see this so-called duplication, though I’m not entirely certain what Mr.—Houdini, was it?—I’m not entirely certain what Mr. Houdini seeks to prove. With sufficient application, any one of us might be able to copy a painting by Rembrandt. By your logic, that would render Mr. Rembrandt himself a forger.”

  “It’s not quite the same thing,” said Edgar Grange, rising to the challenge in a lawyerly fashion. “So far as I’m aware, Mr. Rembrandt claimed no spirit guidance for his works.”

  “Even so,” Craig began, “I fail to see—”

  “Gentlemen,” said Mrs. Clairmont, “I will not permit any squabbling in this room. If Mr. Craig is willing to permit Mr. Houdini to proceed, then let us get on with it. If not, I am anxious to resume the séance.”

  Craig looked again at my brother. The medium’s expression was that of a man preparing to step out onto a tightrope. “Very well,” he said after a moment. “Let’s see what this young man has to show us. I must repeat, however, that a magician’s tricks have nothing to do with spiritualism.”

  “No?” Harry pulled at the points of his tie, a gesture he made before every performance. “Well, perhaps we should examine the matter more closely. Mr. Craig, if you would be so good as to exchange places with me, I think it will assist in our”—he glanced at Mrs. Clairmont—”with our experiment.” Harry sat down and reached for the tray in which Craig had deposited the folded messages. “Mr. Craig has given us a fascinating display of what he calls spirit message reading. In the world in which I travel, it goes by a different name. We call it a billet effect.”