Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  I stopped in mid-sip of my water. “We? She lives in Boston. That’s halfway across the country from here. This isn’t Britain where we’re only a few hours away from anywhere. It would take days, and I’m not sure I can get away.”

  Mr. Holmes tapped at the side of his nose. “That has already been taken care of, my good man. I contacted the owner of your newspaper by telephone, and Mr. Scripps is absolutely delighted to find a possible front-page story that his rival Mr. Hearst knows nothing about. He has agreed to put you on special assignment at my expense. Mr. Hoffman will be assuming your beat until we are finished.”

  I could barely believe my ears. A chance to investigate a story involving two of the most famous personalities in the world would make me the star reporter on both sides of the Atlantic. And to be able to associate with Mr. Holmes again to do it made it a joy beyond belief.

  “If you want to talk to Margery, I expect we may have to pay for a séance,” I said.

  Holmes paused to cut off a piece of his Wellington. “She doesn’t charge for them, and even if she did, it would be money well spent. Especially if she isn’t aware of who we are or why we’re there.”

  Our waiter appeared at our table and noticed my friend’s full plate. In a worried voice he asked, “Is there something wrong with the food, sir? If so, we will happily replace it with another dish.”

  “I have no complaint. The meat is excellent, though not quite as succulent and well-aged as that which we serve in Britain. I hope you get an opportunity to try our Angus beef from Scotland someday. It truly is incomparable.”

  The waiter suppressed a smile. “I’m sure it is, sir. Your food is cold. Would you like me to warm your plate?”

  “Unnecessary. We will be leaving in a few minutes--unless you would like some more mineral water, Wiggins. I thought it quite good.”

  “Nothing more for me, thank you.”

  Left to his own designs, Holmes dispatched the rest of his lunch in a few larger than gentlemanly-sized bites. The waiter returned to remove the plate. “Would you like dessert?”

  “Might you perchance have Spotted Dick?”

  The waiter’s mouth gaped.

  I stepped in before he could reply. “It’s not what you may think. It’s an English dessert made out of suet. I’m sure you’ve never even heard of it.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t, sir,” the waiter said.

  “Too bad. It is quite delicious,” Holmes said as he took out his wallet. Handing the man a twenty-dollar bill, he said, “I hope this is enough to cover our food. It’s more than four pounds sterling.”

  I took the banknote from the waiter and passed it back to Mr. Holmes. Taking out my own billfold, I handed the young man five dollars. “Please keep the change.”

  Chapter 5

  In a matter of minutes we were on our way to Grace Hospital.

  In Detroit, the downtown folds in on itself along the river, and nearly everything is within walking distance, though more people seem to be driving motor cars every day. Lusty young people crowd the saloons on Friday and Saturday nights, and weekend days attract whole families. I always find it amazing that a one-time site for a circus, now long abandoned, should become such a bustling gathering place. The Statler Hotel, where Houdini stayed on his last visit, was near the hospital, less than a block from the Garrick Theatre.

  In the cab, Holmes sat forward in his seat carefully observing his surroundings. My friend’s remarkable facility to instantly take in every detail, then as quickly forget it when it is no longer of any importance, remained strong as ever.

  “I expect Houdini’s ambulance followed much the same route on the fateful night.”

  “Yes. It’s the quickest way.”

  “Why do you suppose he put off seeking professional help for so long? The pain must have been excruciating.”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea, though I know he lived with pain from his escapes most of his adult life, and seldom saw a doctor. He had hundreds of imitators, in Europe especially. Quite a few even claimed to be him. He hunted them all down.”

  “The best always have their imitators.”

  “Even worse were the ones who tied him so tightly with wires they broke through the skin and muscles, all the way to the bone. Then there were the ones who used locks with plugged keyholes and fouled mechanisms so he couldn’t pick them. The poor man broke an ankle in Albany in mid-October and had to perform on it for all his final shows. Imagine standing for three hours a night on an aching foot.”

  Holmes shook his head. “His ankle wasn’t his biggest problem, it would seem.”

  “I wonder if he felt he was coming to the end of his stage career and wanted to make sure he made the most of his performances.”

  Holmes cocked his head back and closed his eyes in contemplation. “Hmm, yes. I suppose that’s possible. Were there any individuals of particular importance in the audience that Saturday night?”

  “Good question. I know Mayor Smith and his wife were there, as were Mr. and Mrs. Henry Ford and son Edsel. I think I heard that Governor and Mrs. Green had come in from Lansing. Any others, I can’t say offhand.”

  “I see.”

  I recognized Holmes’s expression. It was the same whenever he worked through a vexing puzzle. We didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

  We entered through the hospital’s heavily paned main entrance. A woman wearing a crisp nurse’s hat and friendly smile greeted us. When I showed her my press card, the smile vanished, and she turned her back to us. After an over-the-shoulder look in our direction, she picked up her phone. The call lasted longer than I expected, and Holmes and I traded quizzical glances. At last she hung up and returned. “Mr. Beaufort is on his way here to talk to you. He’s the hospital administrator.”

  “Administrator?” Holmes echoed in an angry voice.

  “Yes. He’ll answer all your questions.”

  I shook my head. “We were hoping to talk with the people who were here when Mr. Houdini was brought in.”

  “That won’t be possible,” said a deep baritone voice.

  Andre Beaufort, more than six-feet tall and solidly built, stood before me. The perfect palace guard, I expected to see him cross his arms across his chest. Instead he greeted us with a cautious smile and welcoming hand.

  Mr. Holmes refused to shake it. I did, and nearly got my fingers broken.

  “What do you mean that’s not possible?” Holmes asked sharply. “Aren’t they on duty at this time?”

  “I’m truly sorry, but I can’t respond to that, either. All I can say is that the hospital is not allowed to answer any further public inquiries, only those from the police.”

  “Has there been an inquest?” I asked.

  “That’s something you’ll have to find out from the authorities. I’m puzzled by your belated interest in Mr. Houdini’s death, Mr. Wiggins. He passed away more than a week ago, and we’ve kept your paper abreast of all the developments.”

  “Your reports have been sketchy, at best.” I said.

  “I’m curious as to why we can’t speak to his care providers,” Mr. Holmes said. “Is there some concern the hospital may face some liability for Mr. Houdini’s treatment here?”

  Beaufort glared at him. “None whatsoever. We did everything we could to help him. Unfortunately he was well past saving when he arrived. And to make things clear, it’s Mrs. Houdini who’s responsible for the suppression of information, and not Grace Hospital. Mr. Houdini was removed from here the day after his passing. From what I understand, no one has viewed the body since he died.”

  “Why such secrecy?” Mr. Holmes asked. “It sounds as if someone is trying to keep something from the public.”

  “Make of it what you will. I’ve heard that Mr. Houdini’s brother has taken possession of all of the stage props and bo
oks, and Mr. Houdini’s body was sent back to New York in his stage coffin. As to what happened after the show Saturday night, that information will have to come from the police.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Holmes said in an icy tone. “We appreciate your help. Come along, Wiggins.”

  Beaufort stood in place and watched us leave the hospital.

  “Things get more intriguing all the time, don’t they?” I said lightly.

  Mr. Holmes squinted. “Indeed, but if good Mr. Beaufort thinks we can’t come up with other ways to find out what we need to know, he’s sadly mistaken.”

  At 4:30 that afternoon, I was at my desk finishing my article for the morning edition when the teletype machine in the next room came to life. As a beat reporter for the Free Press, I had a direct link with the downtown police precinct. I immediately turned on radio station KOP for further details. The Detroit Free Press and Detroit News also have their own stations, WCX and WWJ respectively, and I once jokingly asked why people would pay a nickel for our papers when they could get their news by radio for free. The first reports of Houdini’s illness came over KOP at eleven o’clock at night on Halloween Eve.

  The new alert had more than the usual interest for me.

  Officer McDaniels reports elderly man—I smiled at the words—unconscious on sidewalk in front of Vinton Building at Woodward and Congress. Subject poorly dressed and has no identification. Emergency vehicle called to scene. Subject taken to Grace Hospital Emergency for observation.

  I had the number for the hospital in my desk index, but I knew it by heart, having called it so often. GLendale 0090.

  “Hello, this is Timothy Wiggins of the Free Press. I cover the police and crime beat. I just got a report of an unidentified elderly man being taken to your hospital. Has he been admitted?”

  “Yes,” a female voice answered. Luckily it didn’t sound like the woman who had greeted us on our afternoon visit. “Do you know who he is? He doesn’t seem to be able to tell us.”

  “I think it may be my uncle. Does he have an English accent?”

  “Yes. Sort of like yours.”

  “Then I’m sure his name is Ralph Howard—at least that’s the way it’s spelled. It’s pronounced ‘Rafe.’ He left the house without telling us where he was going this morning, and we haven’t heard from him since. We’ve been worried about him. What’s his condition?”

  “He’s awake and alert, though he seems quite agitated. We thought he might have had a heart attack or stroke, but all his vital signs are fine.”

  “Would you kindly ask him if ‘Rafe’ is his name? I’m sure he’ll answer to it. If it is, please call me back, and I’ll be down to pick him up later on this evening.”

  “His doctor wants to keep him under observation for the night, but we should be able to release him sometime tomorrow.”

  I paused before continuing. “I’m sure he won’t want to spend the night alone, and he can be rather difficult. Assuming it is Uncle Ralph, would it be permissible for me to stay overnight with him?”

  “I’ll have to ask the doctor, but I’m almost certain it will be. May I have your phone number?”

  “RAndolph 8911. Please see he gets a private room. I’ll bring a draft for the hospital charges with me when I arrive.”

  Ten minutes later I got the call. The elderly man was indeed “Uncle Ralph.” The doctor said I’d be welcome to stay the night with him.

  After handing my article to Harold Mitchell for final editing before going to press, I called Violet to let her know I wouldn’t be home that night. I knew what would happen. She tee-heed in excitement and demanded I tell her everything to the tiniest detail when I returned. My shin still hurt where she kicked me, so I promised I would.

  Remembering the receptionist might still be on duty and recognize me, I pulled the slouch hat I kept at the office low over my eyes, then bundled myself in the bulky Chesterfield to help to disguise my size. Charlie Hoffman covered his mouth and snorted when he saw me.

  The weather had turned colder since that afternoon, but not yet wintry. I hoped I wasn’t too conspicuous. Strolling at a leisurely pace to kill time, I still got to the hospital in fifteen minutes.

  I sighed in relief when I found a different receptionist at the desk. A young blonde woman, well-doused with Evening in Paris, snuffed out a cigarette before handing me a clipboard and pen. A new-fangled tall radio set behind her desk blared out a turkey trot. It was the first time I had ever heard music over the airwaves and wondered if this would be a major part of that fascinating invention’s future. Turning down the loudness, she said, “Your uncle is in E wing, room 611. Please sign in on line five.”

  I scribbled a signature, making it as illegible as possible. I didn’t want Andre Beaufort to be able to read it if he checked the guest roster. I knew I would likely become persona non grata at the hospital if he discovered it was me. That’d end my crime beat with the paper for sure.

  “I’ll have an attendant escort you, Mr. . . . Uh . . . I’m sorry, what does that say?”

  I smiled. First hurdle cleared. “Higgins. Jimmy Higgins.”

  She held the board closer to her eyes and turned it from side to side. “Oh, yes. Mr. Higgins it is. You won’t be able to get to his room alone. Visiting hours haven’t started yet.”

  As she spoke, the door behind her opened and a young man in white appeared.

  “Allen, please escort Mr. Higgins to 611.”

  A long walk and an elevator ride later, Allen pointed to a closed door, his finger to his lips. “He may be sleeping. I’ll look in on him first.”

  He gently rapped on the door and opened it. Seconds later he gestured for me to follow.

  “Uncle Ralph” lay propped up on the bed in a sitting position. He threw me a sharp look and set the copy of the Saturday Evening Post on the bed next to him. “It’s about time you got here, nephew,” he said in a suitably irascible tone.

  “Hello, uncle. You had us worried.”

  “Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with me. Why are they keeping me here over night?”

  “Don’t you remember being brought here by ambulance?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Allen shuffled his feet nervously. “Have a good night,” he mumbled before ducking out.

  I shut the door. “So far, so good.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Better than good, old friend. The ambulance attendant was in a chatty mood to ease my ride to the hospital. He says he was with Houdini when he was brought in. He also told me Dr. Charles S. Kennedy, Houdini’s surgeon, is the attending physician tonight.”

  “How do you expect to learn anything from him?”

  “Professional pride, dear fellow.”

  I wasn’t sure if I knew what he meant, but at that moment the nurse came into the room. “I’m nurse Preston and it’s time to take your temperature, Mr. Howard.” She made a gesture in my direction. “You’ll have to leave for a minute or two.”

  Impossible to hide a smile, I got up from my chair. The nurse pulled the curtain around the bed.

  Seconds later, Holmes bellowed, “What do you intend to do with that?”

  “I’m sure you must have had your temperature taken before, haven’t you? Roll over on your stomach.”

  “I will not! I’m perfectly capable of taking my own temperature. Now give that to me.”

  I heard sounds of a scuffle.

  “Don’t. That’s not . . .”

  I couldn’t suppress gagging and laughing at the same time, so I made a dash for the hallway. After several peeps through the door I finally saw the curtain pulled away from the bed.

  Both Holmes and the nurse were beet red.

  “I apologize for my uncle,” I stammered. “He isn’t used to hospitals. It’s too bad all the patie
nts aren’t as nice as Mr. Houdini was.”

  It was a shot in the dark.

  “He was. Everyone in the hospital was excited that he was a patient here. I’m sure we all must have looked in on him at one time or another.”

  “Were you ever his nurse?”

  “No.” Her voice turned wary. “And I can’t tell you who was. We’ve all been sworn to secrecy.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “I’m sure the poor man must have been in terrible pain.”

  “We all felt sorry for him. After surgery, he woke up early in the morning and tried to get out of bed, saying it was important to get back on stage to finish his act. He was so agitated when he heard everyone had already left the theater, it took three attendants restrain him.”

  Eyebrows raised, Holmes and I traded satisfied glances. Nurse Preston had managed to maintain medical confidentiality and at the same time tell us all we wanted to know.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” the nurse asked. “Do you need some fresh water?”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you,” Holmes said.

  “Then . . . I guess I’ll be on my way . . .” she said in a halting voice. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.” She paused and averted her eyes. “I’ll have to get another temperature later.”

  “I’ll be counting the seconds to your return,” Holmes said dryly.

  “Have a good rest.”

  We both held our breath until she left the room.

  “What do you make of that, Wiggins?”

  “Incredible. We know he did finish his act . . . unless . . .”

  Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow. “Unless what?”

  “Unless he was planning to expose another fraudulent medium and hadn’t been able to get to it.”

  He beamed at me. “Exactly what I was thinking, dear fellow. If so, I would very much like to know who that may have been.”

  I felt my blood rising. Everything so far was working better than we could have hoped for. “So would I. We have hours ahead of us. Do you play backgammon? I brought a board and some checkers.”