Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  “I have something to report,” Sam said. “My mother told me a little boy named Tom once lived with Dr. Croydon. She said she used to find him crying on the curb by the doctor’s house, and she would bring him a cookie to make him feel better. Then she just never saw him again. She was always afraid to ask if something had happened to him.” He paused to take a breath. “Do I get my dollar?”

  “You certainly do. Meet me by the school tomorrow afternoon and I’ll give it to you. Have you heard from any of the other boys?”

  “Not yet. If I do, I’ll call you. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Holmes eyed me expectantly.

  “Nothing new about Becker,” I said, “but apparently Dr. Croydon did have other wards. The ring young Mitchell found probably belonged to a boy named Tom.”

  “If we weren’t so involved in our inquiry regarding Houdini’s death, I’d very much like to learn more about Dr. Croydon’s history with children. Right now, I’d like to know more about his relationship with Margery and Albert Becker.”

  “I can’t tell you anything about the Croydons’ private life,” Rose said, “but I do know the doctor always sits at Margery’s right when she conducts a séance. Mr. H. was sure that was how she was able to perform some of her tricks.”

  “Perhaps you should become Margery and put on a séance for us,” Holmes said. “You undoubtedly know more about her than all the rest of us combined.”

  “That’d take too much time and work, and you wouldn’t learn much from it, anyway. The fact that Dr. Croydon is absent and Conan Doyle will only be around for a short while may work to our advantage. Margery might be persuaded to put on a séance without her husband.”

  Mr. Holmes’s eyes lit. “Very good, my dear. She wouldn’t be alone against a hostile audience. Lady Jean probably would be happy to take the doctor’s place.”

  Violet got up from her table. “And don’t even think of not taking me with you this time. I’m still mad you left me at home when you confronted Albert Becker.”

  “Have no fear, dear lady. You’re essential to the proceedings. It’s Rose I’m concerned about. Margery and Lady Jean may consider her too hostile.”

  Rose jumped in immediately. “I agree. I’ll spend the time contacting the other investigators. They may have information we don’t know about. Unfortunately I may have to run up a large long-distance bill if I do.”

  “Don’t hesitate to do whatever you find necessary. We have myriads of intriguing possibilities in our investigation, but little hard evidence. Anything you find out could be vital.”

  “It may not be too hard to get Sir Arthur and Margery together as it might seem,” Violet said. “She’s lecturing tonight, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Sir Arthur was intending to attend.”

  Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, dear lady. I’ll give him a call and find out. What time does the lecture start?”

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “It’s only five-thirty now. We should have more than enough time to make our arrangements.”

  The phone rang and Holmes answered. “It’s for you,” he said with a nod in my direction. “It sounds like a youngster.”

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Wiggins, this is Terry Fields. I was one of the boys you talked to earlier. The one with the braces.”

  “I remember you, Terry. I suggested you pass on your findings to Sam, but I’m happy to talk to you, too.”

  “Sam told me to call you because it’s important.”

  My ears pricked. “Did you see the man in the drawing?”

  “Yes. I went back by Dr. Croydon’s house after I left the schoolyard. Dr. Croydon and this man were talking. The man in the picture is staying at the Milner Hotel.”

  My heart started to pound. “Great job. I’ve got a whole dollar for you when we meet tomorrow.”

  “Wow! That’s great. Remember, don’t tell my mother.”

  “The Milnah Hotel?” the driver parked outside the hotel asked. “That’s by the Leatha District and China Town. It’s not the Parka House, but it’s a nice clean place to stay. It’s ova on Cholls Street. You want me to take you theah?”

  “Not exactly,” Holmes said. “We’d like you to drive by it. A friend is staying there, and we want to see what the hotel is like.”

  “Get in.”

  We did, and were greeted by the essence of pastrami. The driver must have just finished his supper. There had to be a delicatessen nearby, and I was dying to sink my teeth into an old-fashioned Reuben sandwich. Almost anything, actually. The expensive fare Holmes kept forcing on us was fine, but even chop suey or chow mein from China Town would be just as welcome.

  Once again the insane illogic of Boston’s streets played out for our amusement. I had never before heard of moving west by going northeast and doubted I ever would again. Finally, we turned onto a street with traffic. Atlantic Highway quickly took us where we wanted to go.

  A canopy with the words “Hotel Milner” rigidly guarded the sidewalk to the hotel. Trees in boxes stood like tiny sentinels along the carpet to the door. In nice weather, guests would sit out on their balconies above the street. Now, the windows were shut snugly, and the flowerboxes stood empty except for the occasional dismal bit of wilted green.

  “Stop,” Holmes said.

  The driver put on his brakes, then moved up against the curb to park behind a black Pierce-Arrow 33 motor car.

  Holmes got out. I followed. The Arrow, one of the legendary “three P” automobiles, had always been my favorite car. The Packard and Peerless were beautiful, too, but I liked the Arrow’s canvas roof and the silver archer on the front of the hood. I could never understand why they had two tires strapped to the trunk. Did they really run the risk of a double blow-out? Or were they of such poor quality they could never be trusted at all?

  Having had my fix of arrow-envy, I got back into the cab.

  “How do you like Bas-ston?” the driver asked.

  Under the circumstances, I wasn’t much in the mood for small talk. “It’s very scenic. I’m from Detroit, so it’s entirely different.”

  “I s’pose it is. You know why we ah called Bean Town?”

  Though I didn’t really care, I said, “No. Why?”

  “The colonists liked to bake beans in molasses. The name stuck. There’s another interesting story about molasses, too. Did you ever hear about the big molasses flood of 1919?”

  I snapped to attention. That intrigued me, even though I had to translate every other word he said. “No. What happened?”

  “Some company turned molasses into alcohol up the north end of town, right on the sea. They stored the molasses in a huge tank. One day in mid-January they had more’n two million gallons waitin’ to be converted. It had been cold overnight, but the next day it warmed up. People say they heard what sounded like machine-guns firin’, and then all of a sudden, everything around was flooded with molasses. Men driving wagons in the streets had their horses drowned. Anybody walkin’ on the street either got sucked under or swept away for blocks to get up and walk away unharmed. The company had to pay a million dollars in fines. The tank wasn’t strong enough to hold that much molasses. I can still smell it sometimes on a hot summer night.”

  “That’s really interesting,” I said, hoping Holmes would get back soon.

  He did—ten minutes later. He was scowling when he got into the seat next to me. “Please return to the Parker House.”

  Chapter 23

  As was his wont, Holmes kept his silence on the ride back to the hotel. While we rode, he wrote in his notebook, his mouth working as if he were adding sums before shaking his head and starting anew.

  At the hotel, he let me pay the taxi driver and the door man, barely looking at them as he passed. I followed behind, puzzled. I had never seen his though
t processes so close to the surface before.

  Finally, he bent close to my ear and said, “Your intelligence report was correct. Albert Becker is staying at the hotel, but he isn’t in his room. I called the Boston Police. They said they’ll contact the New York police to verify the attempted murder charges before they try to arrest him. Even if they succeed, which I very much doubt, we still have to contend with Schmidt and his accomplice.”

  “We have to assume Becker is still on the loose. I’m certain he knows about our intent to meet with Margery and the three of them are waiting for us to make the first move.”

  “Lamentable, but quite true,” Holmes said.

  I broke into a broad smile. “But what they may not know is that we’ve already met with Sir Arthur. I expect we moved too quickly for that.”

  Holmes eyebrows raised. After a moment of silence, he said, “Brilliant, dear fellow. I’m amazed I didn’t realize that myself. Sir Arthur probably is the only one who can contact Margery safely. What we told him about Becker would allow him to help us without having to switch sides. What time is it?”

  “Nearly six-thirty.”

  “That should give us just enough time to get to Margery’s speech.”

  We stopped at the front desk to learn Mr. Holmes had a message. Holmes read it aloud when we got back to our room. “Sir Arthur wants you to know he’ll indeed be in attendance at the lecture, and he’ll be delighted to see you. He’ll get you invitations. The lecture isn’t open to the general public.”

  Rose, who had been sitting reading a newspaper, got to her feet. “Since I won’t be going with you, this’ll be a good time to start making my calls. Anyone need to use the phone before I start?”

  Finding no takers, she lifted her briefcase from the floor, set it on a chair and moved it next to the phone.

  “I wish you could come with us, Rose,” Violet said in an excited voice. “I’ll wear what I was wearing at the play. I’ve already pressed it so it doesn’t even look as if it’s been worn. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea to you, Timothy?”

  She already knew the answer. She always looked dazzling in whatever she wore, and I could never understand why she asked for my opinion so often. Some deep-seated insecurity women seem to have, I suppose. I found it flattering, and never had to say anything more than mere truth. “You always look a vision, my dear.”

  She certainly outshone me. My serge business suit had gone limp, so I solved the problem by wearing a cardigan sweater and tie with the pants. I did send my shoes down to be shined, putting a rush on the job, but I knew my attire didn’t measure up to Boston standards by any means. I really didn’t care. Except for the Fords and the Durants and the other automobile manufacturers, and maybe the mayor of Detroit and the governor of Michigan, my city didn’t go in for such snobbery. Holmes, on the other hand, could wear the same tweeds he wore when he hired me to be an Irregular, and he’d look as gentlemanly as ever.

  With a knock on the door, my shoes returned. They charged me a whole dollar for the rush job and a half-dollar tip. Outrageous, of course, but I have to admit they did an excellent job of polishing them. I could see my reflection when I looked at my feet.

  “Let us be on our way,” Mr. Holmes said.

  Violet took my arm as we waited for the elevator.

  We stepped out of the hotel into a beautiful late fall evening with a light, refreshing breeze. I took a deep breath. Our cab was waiting, idling. The Bell in Hand was just a few blocks away. I hesitated before opening the door.

  “Come along, Wiggins,” Holmes said. “I’d like to walk, too, but it’s far too dangerous.”

  Suddenly I felt like Dr. Watson. “But how . . . ?”

  “You are transparent, dear fellow. You were looking longingly up the street and determining how far it would be to our destination. I don’t fault you one bit for wanting to walk. I haven’t been getting my constitutionals lately, either.”

  This time we didn’t engage a chatty cab driver. He dropped us off on Union Street in front of a red brick building, allegedly the longest continuously operating pub in Boston. Or at least it had been until Prohibition.

  A small crowd already was waiting outside on the sidewalk. As a Midwesterner, I hadn’t realized the popularity of ankle-length dresses with the cream-of-society woman, or the appeal of bowler hats to their husbands. They gathered in a tight group outside the pub. Though the tones of their conversation were subdued, the gay laughter wasn’t.

  With a huge smile, Violet said hello to a woman in a taffeta dress. The Brahmin worthy gave her a sidelong glance before turning away. My heart fell as Violet’s smile disappeared.

  Mr. Holmes opened the door to the pub.

  “Do you suppose we could stay out here for a moment?” I asked.

  “It isn’t that warm,” Holmes said. “You certainly may, if you wish.”

  Violet turned and joined me. “Save us a seat,” I said.

  The odors of cigar smoke, mingled with what probably was expensive perfume, wafted towards us, but we barely noticed it. I could see Violet trying to eavesdrop on the Bostonians’ conversation, but she quickly gave up.

  I was about to suggest we go inside when a cab pulled up. The driver opened the rear door and Sir Arthur and Lady Jean got out.

  One of the men in the group waved at him. “Good evening, Sir Arthur. I’m glad you came to the lecture. Please join us.”

  Though Lady Jean smiled and waved back, Sir Arthur absently nodded at him before turning his attention to us. “Wiggins and Miss Violet. I’m so happy to see you. I’m sure Mrs. Croydon will do a good job of convincing you of the truth of Spiritualism.”

  “I have an open mind,” I said.

  “Excuse me,” Lady Jean said, turning to me and speaking in a not especially friendly tone, “Just who are you?”

  “I invited them,” Sir Arthur said. “They’re friends of Doctor Trevor Claybrook.” He turned to me. “Is he inside?”

  “Waiting for us. He’s saving our seats.”

  “Then we’ll join you. How do you like Boston?”

  “We haven’t seen much of it,” Violet said.

  “Yoohoo. Lady Jean,” one of the Bostonian women called.

  Lady Jean broke into a wide smile. “Louise! I thought you might be here tonight. We’ll join you inside.”

  Sir Arthur stiffened. “But my dear, I want to sit with Doctor Claybrook and his friends.”

  “Absolutely not.” With that, Lady Jean pulled on her husband’s arm and tried to drag him to the other group.

  Sir Arthur stood firm. “Sit where you will, my dear. I’ll sit with Mr. Holmes and join you after the lecture is done.”

  The look of shock on Lady Jean’s face was a sight to behold. I could barely believe Sir Arthur would flaunt social custom in public, but he clearly wanted to talk to Holmes.

  I held my breath. Lady Jean’s eyes blazed at Violet and me. She opened her mouth, ready to return a verbal volley, then shut it.

  Would she relent and sit with us? I prayed she wouldn’t.

  Turning with exaggerated delicacy and sporting a big smile, she said, “Very well, my dear. Go sit with Dr. Claybrook and his friends.” After another glare in our direction, she contemptuously turned her back to us and walked toward Louise. “How are you, darling? It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

  I blew out a big breath as I opened the door for Sir Arthur and Violet, though I could still feel Lady Jean’s eyes burning into the back of my neck.

  We stepped into a different era. Huge timbers and exposed joists outlining the interior stood bravely, now deeply cured from years of wood and tobacco smoke. The booths along the wall opposite the bar were obviously added in a different century. Holmes, who had taken a seat in the second row, stood and gestured to us.

  We walked past bare shel
ves under huge mirrors behind the long bar. The area where owners once stored barrels stood empty. It seemed ironic that a watering hole where George Washington and John Adams met to quaff an ale on a winter’s evening had to serve near-beer, sarsaparilla, and ginger ale. Somehow, they didn’t quite have the same panache.

  Mr. Holmes stood, and Sir Arthur seized him in a hug. The gesture was so uncharacteristic, I could see the look of embarrassment on Holmes’s face. He didn’t return the embrace, but, by his faint smile, I could tell he was delighted to find Sir Arthur alone.

  Was his uncharacteristic show of affection another effect of embracing Spiritualism? I really wondered.

  Sir Arthur turned to look back toward the entrance. “I’m glad to be able to speak to you alone,” he said in a low voice. “There’s more I need to tell you, and there won’t be enough time tonight.”

  “Then you need to go on a scientific expedition,” Holmes said with a twinkle in his eye. “The local power plant has just installed some important new equipment. I’ll have J.P. Morgan call you tomorrow morning and invite you to view it.”

  Sir Arthur looked startled for a second. “Morgan? Oh, yes I see. Of course. I’ll be delighted to take a look. Lady Jean will be pleased, also. It’ll give her more time to spend with her friends.”

  “Excellent.” Holmes’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “Tell me. I know you are very fond of Margery. What do you think of her husband?”

  Sir Arthur faced away from me, but I could see his back stiffen. “He’s done a great service to the cause. Without him, most people would consider Mrs. Croydon to be nothing more than a skillful magician.”

  “I understand there’s been some question about the whereabouts of a young man the Croydons adopted. Dr. Croydon says he returned to boy to England, but no one seems to know where he is.”

  Sir Arthur stiffened again. “The doctor actually asked my assistance in the matter. I have no real influence with the sheriff or the local constabulary, so I haven’t been able to do much on his behalf. He’s asked how to go about adopting other boys, too.”