Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  I could tell from his tight smile he still didn’t believe me. “If what you’re telling me is true, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  “You’re very wrong. Violet thinks I’m the son of a vicar in Bayswater. What’s she going to think if she meets Holmes and finds out my real background?”

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be concerned about it.”

  Charlie’s words floored me. “Are you daft? How can you possibly say that? She thinks I’m an entirely different person.”

  “Are you?” Charlie asked with a sly grin.

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay, how long have you been married?”

  “Twenty wonderful years, and I want at least twenty more.”

  “Has your wife been happy, too?”

  “I certainly think so.”

  “Then she’ll think your childhood was romantic. What you are now is all that matters. This isn’t England, for Pete’s sake.”

  “How would you know? You’re a damned bachelor.”

  He downed the last of his whiskey and got to his feet. “I just do. You’re wasting my time. You’ve got nothing to worry about, so I’m going to give you your notebook back. Stop conniving and start thinking again. Write your own damn story.”

  Chapter 3

  I brooded over the Hamtramck article for the rest of the day and finally finished it before the deadline. When it got to be time to leave, my stomach was tied up in knots. Charlie might think I was over-reacting, but he wasn’t the one who had to face Violet.

  She had fixed an excellent piece of Coho salmon for supper, broiled in the oven and served with a baked potato and tossed salad with mandarin orange slices.

  I finally gathered up my courage while washing dishes.

  She gave me a slant-eyed look as she passed me a plate to wipe, “And just who is this Trevor Claybrook I’m supposed to meet at the station?”

  I took a deep breath before. “Trevor Claybrook is the name Mr. Holmes used to book passage from England. From what I had been told, it might even be his real name. He’s a very old friend I’ve known all my life.”

  “Are you sure he’s not the great detective Sherlock Holmes?”

  At the words, the plate slipped out of my hand and shattered on the floor. “What?”

  “Sorry. I should have told you I found your diary. I thought you were writing a novel. It’s so good I was sure you’d get it published some day when you finished it. Then I discovered your first edition A Study in Scarlet. Autographed to Timothy by none other than Sherlock Holmes. Imagine my surprise to find your name in the story. I had no idea Vicar Douglas and his wife let you live on the street when you were a child.”

  She already knew! And she was smiling. I could barely believe my fortune. “You’re not angry?”

  “Of course I am. I’m absolutely furious. What if you discovered I’d been a lady-of-the-night twenty years after you married me? Wouldn’t you be mad, too?”

  “No. Then I’d know how you learned your tricks.”

  She kicked my shin. Hard. It hurt, but it seemed to be small enough punishment for twenty years of deception.

  We’d met in a nineteenth-century English lit class at the university. She came into the auditorium late one spring day and the only vacant seat near the door was next to me. I liked the wavy blond hair under the bonnet, and the way her nose wrinkled when she smiled. She slipped out of her sandals to show off her very small feet. Noticing my interest, she brazenly asked me to have coffee with her in the union after class. We married in our senior year. She proposed to me.

  “I’m sorry I deceived you. I was afraid you wouldn’t want to marry me if you knew my real background. I’m certain your parents would never have approved.”

  “I wouldn’t have cared how you grew up unless you had robbed a bank or killed someone.” She stopped. In a worried voice she said, “You didn’t, did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you had nothing to worry about. I love our life, and I couldn’t care less what my parents might have thought of you.”

  “Um,” I said. Not knowing what else to do or say, I stooped on my haunches to pick up the pieces of the plate.

  “Don’t. You’ll cut yourself.” She handed me a broom and dustpan. “None of this makes any sense whatsoever to me. How can Sherlock Holmes be a real person? Everyone knows he’s just a fictional character.”

  “Everyone else is wrong. He’s very real. It’s just that Sherlock Holmes is not his real name. No one knows what it is. Not even Sir Arthur himself. He invented the name when he wrote his stories telling about the real detective’s assistance to the police.”

  “What about Dr. Watson?”

  “That dear fellow also exists, but the chronicler in the Sherlock Holmes stories was Sir Arthur himself.”

  She dug her fists into her hips and cocked her head. “You’re just teasing me, aren’t you? Why would anyone go to all the trouble to change names? Is Holmes a spy or something?”

  “No, but his brother Mycroft was, and still is, a high-ranking member in the Admiralty Office. He feared that if his brother’s exploits were publicized, his own identity would become known. The Office learned of Sir Arthur’s plans to publish the great detective’s adventures and demanded that the names in the stories be changed. Sir Arthur agreed. The Diogenes Club is the name the Admiralty Office took for itself. They were always looking for credible information from reliable sources. In other words, honest men.”

  Her scowl gradually disappeared as I finished sweeping up the shards of the plate. “Were you as good a detective as you appear to be in your diary?”

  I unintentionally broke into a grin. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Holmes about that. All I know is that he always relied on my information when he was involved in a case. He and his brother provided most of the money that sent me to the University of Michigan.”

  The scowl returned. “I can’t believe you never told me this. It sounds as if you have as many secrets as the Holmes brothers themselves.”

  I wondered if she knew how close to the truth she had come. “Not nearly as many, my dear. All I’m asking you to do is meet Mr. Holmes at the train station and see he gets to the Royal Palm Hotel.”

  “How will I know him? Will he be wearing a cape and deerstalker cap?”

  “I doubt it very much,” I said with a laugh. “He’ll recognize you. You’ll be carrying one of Cameron’s U of M pennants and wearing a beanie. I wired the train office to pass on the message, so he’ll know what to look for. Go Wolverines.”

  She giggled. “Then you’ll have to leave the Chevrolet for me.”

  “Not on your life,” I said. “You don’t even know how to signal your turns and someone will crash into you. I have the trolley schedule.”

  “I do too know the signals. Arm up is right turn, arm straight is left turn, and arm down is stop. So there.” She stuck her tongue out at me.

  “N-O.”

  “Spoil sport,” she said. Unlike every other woman I knew, Violet wanted to drive. She pestered me about it. Only one of the unfortunate consequences of her being a feminist I had to endure. “Oh, all right.”

  I gave her a hug. “Thanks m’dear.”

  Chapter 4

  Next morning, the phone rang as I was at my desk writing up my meeting with the mayor. “Wiggins.”

  The phone crackled, then cleared for a long-familiar voice. “Good morning, my good man. Hard at work, I suspect.”

  “Holmes!” I blurted. I said it loud enough I was sure others could hear me, but, looking about, no one seemed interested. “Where are you?”

  “In the lobby of the Royal Palm Hotel. Can you break away for a midday repast sometime soon?”

  The clock on the wall behind my desk said 11:15. “I can leave righ
t now. Should I meet you at the Royal Palm?”

  “Yes. I’ve bought a copy of your newspaper. You will find me sitting behind it in the lobby. Your piece about the progress of the police inquiries into Houdini’s death is quite excellent. I can hear your voice very clearly in it.”

  “High praise indeed. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  The doorman opened the door to the hotel lobby. Passersby on the parkway must have been surprised to see a middle-aged man in suit and tie dashing down the street, quite unable to understand why I didn’t take a cab. After daubing my forehead with my handkerchief, I took a quick look at the denizens of the lobby. Only one was hidden behind a newspaper.

  As I approached, the paper lowered and a familiar face appeared. “For shame, Wiggins. You are more than four minutes early. I should have guessed you had a better grasp of the distance and time than that.”

  I answered in a firm voice. “Ten minutes was walking time, sir. As you can plainly see, I didn’t walk.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. My mistake. I’m flattered by your obvious desire to see me. Other than your dampness, you don’t appear to be any the worse for your sprint. I do see you’ve added a few pounds about your middle, and your hair has added a hint of gray. Otherwise you look much the same as the last time I saw you.”

  “As do you.” I dropped into the chair next to him and gasped in a deep breath before continuing. “Remarkably so, I would say. How was your voyage?”

  Mr. Holmes raised the newspaper and held it in a position to shield our conversation. “A bit rough at mid-ocean, but pleasant enough otherwise. Unfortunately, I barely slept on the train. Tell me, have you heard anything from Sir Arthur recently?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “I talked to him and suggested he contact you. A letter may still be in the mails. When last I spoke to Sir Arthur just before I sailed, he said he’s very sorry for Mrs. Weiss’s loss, and he regrets his falling out with her husband.”

  “Mrs. Weiss? I had heard that Mr. Houdini and Sir Arthur had had a falling out, but Sir Arthur must be very angry indeed if he’s using Houdini’s real last name.”

  “Perceptive as ever, I see,” Holmes said.

  “Houdini’s denial of his own supposed supernatural gifts infuriated Sir Arthur. Worse, the magician’s insistence on exposing other mediums as frauds finally drove our friend to distraction.”

  I shook my head. “I still can’t believe how poor Sir Arthur could continue to believe in Spiritualism after Houdini and other investigators showed every proported medium to be a charlatan.”

  Holmes nodded somberly. “Quite so, but it seems Sir Arthur’s standards for being a medium are a bit different from most. He doesn’t require them to prove physical contacts with the dead as evidence of spiritualistic power. Even the resorting to trickery doesn’t necessarily disqualify someone. To his thinking, twenty percent genuine contacts is more than enough.”

  “Do you know how much he’s paid to the mediums he’s visited?”

  “Not in exact sums, but I know from his published contributions it is not an insubstantial part of his fortune. I believe it is all because he takes great comfort from the purported messages his son Kingsley sends to him from the beyond. Sir Arthur has attended hundreds of séances. One can only wonder why Kingsley hasn’t had a bit more to say other than that all is well, he is happy, and that he misses his father very much.”

  I nodded. “Hasn’t the poor man required some sort of proof? I could fob myself off as a medium, couldn’t I? How would he know?”

  “A very good point, Wiggins. Many of the mediums were said to have produced messages containing facts and events that only Sir Arthur and his son could have known. It invariably turned out they came from sources our friend didn’t know about.”

  I could tell from his expression that he shared my low opinion of the ghouls that feasted on people’s grief. We both knew Sir Arthur has dreamed for years of combining science and religion. We both feared that his agonized quest for contact with his dead son and others he had lost finally overcame his critical faculties regarding Spiritualism.

  Holmes lowered the newspaper and folded it. Laying it on the table in front of him, he said, “Well, Wiggins, it’s time to get something to eat. I avoided breakfast on the train and I’m famished. We can continue our conversation over our meal. I will trust to your judgment where we should eat.”

  “We needn’t go far. The hotel restaurant has excellent food.”

  Orders taken, Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Now, give me all the details of Houdini’s last show. I’m very pleased to hear you were there.”

  “I wish I could say I felt the same way. You are quite correct, however. Violet and I were at the Garrick Theatre on Halloween eve. Everyone was in a festive mood, and the band was playing the Houdini’s theme song, Sweet Rosabelle, for all it was worth. But from the moment Houdini took the stage, I knew something was wrong with him. He performed badly from curtain-up, and seemed terribly distracted. His stage career deserved a better ending.”

  “Indeed it did. And so did his life.”

  “Yes, but in a perverse way, I felt that his death on Halloween day seemed to close an eerie circle. You are probably aware that among his last words was the promise he would communicate with his wife from beyond the grave.”

  “He must have believed in what Spiritualism stood for, if not in mediums. And has Sir Arthur contacted Mrs. Houdini? Like it or not, she’s joined the ranks of the Spiritualists herself.”

  “True, but I have no idea. We hardly even know each other.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it? Both Sir Arthur and Houdini believed in communication from the departed. The only difference between them is Houdini could never be satisfied with the results of his attempts, and Sir Arthur was rarely dissatisfied. What happened after the show?”

  “A doctor examined Houdini backstage and discovered he had a 104 degree temperature.”

  “I expect he was taken directly to the hospital, then.”

  “Unbelievable as it may seem, the Houdinis returned to their hotel. Dr. Leo Dretzka had examined him before the performance. The examination in and of itself is a very curious event. From what Bess Houdini says, Dretzka asked the magician if he wanted to perform that night or go directly to the hospital. Houdini was running a fever and should never have waited so long, though, from what I hear, it wouldn’t have mattered a whit. The poison from the ruptured appendix had spread too far.”

  Mr. Holmes nodded, his eyes taking on a familiar sparkle. “I see. This is turning out to be much more interesting than I originally imagined. Continue.”

  At his words, years melted away and I began to feel we had become colleagues once more.

  “At the hotel, Daniel Cohn, the new doctor on duty, called for an ambulance and one showed up almost immediately. I caught a glimpse of Houdini’s face when they wheeled him out. It was drenched in sweat, but he lay quietly on the stretcher. We on the street watched the ambulance as it drove to the end of the block and turned left. I remember the wail of the hand-cranked siren sounding for a several seconds after it disappeared from sight.”

  “Did you go to the hospital?”

  “Not that night, but I was there at six the next morning. I was told that Houdini had had two surgeries during the night and now lay clinging to life. No one but Bess and his brother were allowed to see him. I wrote his obituary for the Free Press. ‘Died: Harry Houdini at 1:26 PM in Room 410 Corridor D, in the John R. wing of Grace Hospital at the age of 56.’ I still feel a genuine sense of loss. We both came from humble beginnings and worked our way up. He was probably the greatest illusionist and showman that ever lived, and I’m sure no one will ever equal him.”

  “I agree.” He looked at me. “You look pensive. Is something troubling you?”

  “I just realized he was only fourteen
years older than I am. I know I have been aging, but I didn’t realize I had gotten so old.”

  Mr. Holmes reached out to pat my arm. “Ridiculous, Wiggins. No matter how old or young Mr. Houdini was, you will remain the same brilliant, mischievous boy forever.”

  At a loss for words, I took a quick bite of my filet mignon.

  Holmes’ Beef Wellington remained untouched. I reminded him that it was getting cold, but he waved me off and pushed on with his questions. Fur Elise playing from the piano in the corner of the restaurant made our close conversation seem intimate.

  “Are there any other eye-witness accounts of what happened at the theatre?”

  “Len Hopkins wrote a feature article. I’ll happily get you a copy of it, but it doesn’t vary much from what I’ve told you.”

  “I see,” Holmes said, cutting the first piece of his lunch. “Is the hospital where he died near enough to walk?”

  “Yes. But I have to get back to work to finish my article, so we’ll take a cab. Why do you want to go there?”

  “I’m amazed you should ask, Wiggins. I want to talk to the attending physician and the others present at the surgery. Perhaps it wasn’t peritonitis that caused his demise. Did you know that Houdini received nearly a hundred death threats last year?”

  “No, but I’m not surprised. Every medium in the country feared him. He invited them to his show to perform their tricks on stage after his magical performances. Only one ever came close to fooling him. Mina Croydon, also called Margery. I’m sure you must have heard of her.”

  “Ah yes. The White Witch of Lime Street. Sir Arthur has been touting her as the greatest medium in the world for years. Absolutely sterling credentials, he says.”

  “Not quite. Houdini showed how she performed every one of her tricks, or at least he said he did. Some say there were other phenomena he couldn’t explain away.”

  “Be that as it may, his assertions infuriated Sir Arthur so much that he broke off all communications with Houdini. Sir Arthur isn’t the only one of that opinion, either. Some very important psychic researchers regard her highly, too. We shall want to visit her, but, from what I have heard, that may not be easy.”