Who Done Houdini

by Raymond John

  This brought another laugh, more unpleasant than the first. “Mercy, no. He’s out cavorting in the sulfur pits with some of his Kike friends. They’re all clannish and constantly plotting something together, you know. Even here. And they stink worse than brimstone.”

  “I wasn’t aware of that. Does Mr. Houdini know he was poisoned by thallium?”

  Everyone caught their breath. Even Walter, if he actually breathed.

  Before he could answer, Holmes continued. “I understand you and Dr. Crookes had a very interesting conversation about that metal’s properties and uses.”

  The ectoplasmic outline flashed more brightly, then Walter’s voice erupted into another bout of laughter. Angry, this time. “Are you silly enough to suggest I had something to do with his death? Quite impossible you know, much as I would have enjoyed being able to do it.”

  “Not you, but perhaps someone else who was present when the discussion took place.”

  Like Margery or Dr. Croydon. How I wished I could see their expressions more clearly.

  Dr. Croydon’s quickly became clear. “What are you insinuating?” he growled. “My wife and I and three of our friends were the only other ones present.”

  I bent forward, barely able to wait to hear what Holmes would say next.

  “Do you recall their names?” Holmes asked Dr. Croydon. “It’s possible one of them could have learned of the metal’s darker properties and resented Mr. Houdini’s treatment of your wife.”

  “NO. And the idea is preposterous,” Dr. Croydon replied. “Besides, even if it were true Houdini died from thallium poisoning, it wouldn’t necessarily have been an intentional act. He could have been knowingly taking it as a depilatory without being aware of its poisonous nature. Or he may have accidentally ingested rat poison.”

  I was amazed. Dr. Croydon’s words sounded very much like those from someone who wasn’t sure how much we knew, and where we got our information. To me, it represented a clear admission of guilt. Even O’Neal’s suspicions must have been aroused. “I’ve heard enough,” he said.

  “Please tell them you’re joking, Walter,” Croydon pleaded.

  Walter answered with a laugh. His outline dimmed and disappeared.

  Margery’s hand jerked away from mine. “Turn on the lights, LeRoi,” Margery said, apparently coming to from her trance. “This séance is over.”

  Chapter 38

  Dr. Croydon got up first and started toward the door. “I’ll have to ask everyone to leave immediately.”

  O’Neal stood. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. Please wait for a moment, sir.”

  Sir Arthur and Lady Jean murmured angrily, and I could imagine psychic sparks flying in O’Neal’s direction.

  O’Neal paid no attention to them. “As much as I dislike what must be done, I need to use your phone, Dr. Croydon.”

  “He already knows where it is, LeRoi,” Margery said in an unhappy voice. “If you’re calling in other officers, make sure they take off their shoes before they come into the house. I won’t allow them to track up my floor.”

  O’Neal snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell them that. I can’t guarantee they won’t forget, though.”

  “Then I’ll be the one to meet them at the door to see that they don’t forget. Otherwise, Mayor Nichols will hear about this. I will tell him personally.”

  Apparently properly chastised, O’Neal turned on his heel and followed Croydon out of the room without further comment.

  Soon after, Margery stood. “Well,” she said with a smile. “It seems as if we’re the only ones left. I can put a pot of tea on, and I have cucumber sandwiches in the refrigerator.”

  “If I might have a word with you before you do,” Holmes said.

  “Just a word then,” she said, eyes narrowing.

  Violet and I followed them through the door to the hallway. Sir Arthur and Lady Jean looked bewildered but remained in their chairs.

  “There are some things about the kidnapping you probably have not heard,” Holmes said. “Do you know an Isaac Bradford?”

  To my surprise, Margery answered without hesitation. “I recognize the name. I think he’s a new convert who wanted to contact his wife. She had passed beyond some years ago.”

  “Yes. That would be he. Mr. Bradford has a farm in Framingham and currently is in England. The man who calls himself Albert Baker somehow got use of the gentleman’s house and automobile. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?”

  I expected her expression to change. It didn’t, and she replied in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice. “No. But as I mentioned in my lecture, LeRoi often attempts to find accommodations for visiting church members within our local Spiritualist church. I think Mr. Bradford may have joined our cause after my husband introduced him to a church member who worked at his hospital. I understand they became close, and went to England together. If Mr. Bradford knew he was going to be away for an extended period, it’s quite possible he would have left the keys with LeRoi. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

  She stiffened at the sound of a doorbell. “Who can that be? The police can’t be here already. Please excuse me.”

  “What do we do now?” Violet asked.

  “Examine the room, of course,” Holmes said. “I have to know how Margery did her tricks.”

  “Are you sure they were just tricks?”

  “Very. I’m convinced her son is involved in some of the effects. The bugle blast, for one. The young gentleman must be quite a trumpeter.”

  “That may well be. I don’t see how she could make Walter appear, though.”

  “Neither can I. At least, not yet. I expect there may be a magic lantern or some other projector such as a camera obscura about somewhere.”

  He opened the door to the séance room, and we followed him back in. Sir Arthur and Lady Jean were still waiting, looking confused.

  “Margery said she’ll be right back,” Holmes said. “We have some things to attend to here in the meantime. We were so impressed by her performance, we’re very close to joining the movement.”

  That brought applause and warms smiles from the Conan Doyles.

  “Walter’s appearance is indeed a formidable poser,” he said, dropping to his knees and looking beneath the table. When he backed out, Sir Arthur called to him in an angry voice. “Whatever are you doing, Holmes?”

  “Merely removing our last reservations. I’m pleased to announce, there is nothing under the table.”

  To everyone’s amazement, he crawled up on the table top and searched the ceiling on his tiptoes. Then he shook his head. “Quite remarkable. If there’s an opening, I don’t see it.”

  Sir Arthur got to his feet, huffing. “Your actions are reprehensible, Holmes. I’m ashamed to have gotten you invited.”

  Before Holmes could respond, the door opened, and Margery stepped in. Catching sight of him, her eyes opened wide. “What in heaven’s name are you doing on my table?”

  “Looking for Walter’s footprints,” Holmes said, dropping to his knees and sliding to the floor. Flashing an innocent grin, he wiped the tabletop with his sleeve.

  “You won’t find any up there” Margery said, eyes riveted on her unmannerly houseguest.

  “I apologize for my friend’s actions,” Sir Arthur blustered. “He told me he is very close to converting to the Faith. I swear I didn’t know the lengths he would go to remove his remaining doubts.”

  “Of course, Sir Arthur,” Margery said in a patronizing voice. “I understand. Rose Mackenburg is at the door. She asked for Mr. Holmes. I didn’t know we had a Mr. Holmes among us. Until now, anyway. Now I understand why you seem to be the most curious of my guests.”

  Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Curious? Yes. I expect some people do consider me odd.”

  That brought a glim
mer of a smile. “I meant inquisitive.”

  “Once again I must apologize,” Sir Arthur broke in, his face now the color of port wine. “Mr. Holmes asked me to conceal his identity because he was involved in an investigation. Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Margery said with a laugh. “Having to reveal Mr. Holmes as a real person would have been an unnecessary chore that could easily be avoided by changing his name. Come along, everyone. I’m locking the séance room now.”

  Full dark had fallen. At the entryway, Holmes slipped into his shoes without tying the laces. Opening the door, he stepped outside. Violet and I peered out from behind him.

  “I’m sorry Margery didn’t invite you in,” Holmes said to Rose. “I hope you didn’t get too cold.”

  “I’m fine.” Coming forward to stand close to his ear, she spoke in a barely audible voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important, but your young spy named Sam just called. He said he wanted to try to make some more money by keeping watch on the Croydons’ house. He was right across the street when Albert Becker showed up. Someone let him in.”

  My heart skipped a beat. I expect Holmes’s and Violet’s did, too.

  “What time was that?” Holmes demanded.

  “It must be a bit more than half an hour ago. Sam had to run home to use the phone, and it took me ten minutes to get here from the hotel.”

  “That’d be about when Walter appeared,” I said. “He created such a stir we could have easily missed hearing the doorbell ringing.”

  “Yes, and I don’t believe in coincidences,” Holmes replied. “Did the young man observe how the miscreant gained entry into the house?”

  “He says a woman opened the door for him.”

  “That must be the housekeeper,” Holmes mumbled. “I’m sure Margery must have a policy for Lucille to answer the door when she’s in séance. I’m equally certain she’s found him a place to hide at his request. Our roast pig is nearly ready to be carved, my friends. We want to be on hand when it is.”

  Margery appeared to lock the door. I had to ask myself how she knew we were done talking to Rose.

  Wretched, he returned to the kitchen. “What now?” I asked.

  Holmes threw me a withering look. “Once again, you amaze me, Wiggins. We find the housekeeper and ask her.”

  Once again, I was left with rosy cheeks not caused by the cold. “Of course,” I mumbled, catching myself before hanging my head. “The three of us are the only ones who know about her complicity. If the police ask her about Becker, she undoubtedly would deny it.”

  Five non-uniformed police officers waited outside. The doorbell rang, and Margery reappeared to unlock it. From my knowledge of police procedures they would have wanted to avoid attracting undue attention, and had come from two different autos parked at opposite directions from the Croydon residence.

  Margery let them in after demanding they remove their shoes. I had never met a sterner schoolmaster in the years I went to lower forms. Soon the hallway was filled with shoes. Sorting them out when they left would be an interesting matching puzzle. Once unshod, the five officers headed for the stairway with guns drawn as Margery relocked the door. After they were out of sight, Margery opened the door to the dining room.

  Glancing out through a window, I noticed the cab across the street and wondered why it was still parked there. Could Becker have arrived by taxi and asked the driver to wait? If so, the police would have to act quickly to catch him.

  Forcing a smile, Margery asked, “Is everyone ready for tea and cucumber sandwiches?”

  “Perhaps we should be getting back to our hotel room,” Lady Jean said. “We’ve imposed on you enough for one evening.”

  “Don’t be silly. You haven’t done anything to make yourselves unwelcome.”

  Violet reacted quickly, so quickly I couldn’t stop her. “I’ll help you in the kitchen. You have a wonderful house, and I want to find out more about it. I expect the bedrooms are on the third floor.”

  “They are. We have five,” Margery said.

  “I remember you have a housekeeper. Are there are any other help?”

  “No. I enjoy doing housework. It keeps me busy between séances.”

  Sir Arthur and Lady Jean sat at the dining room table. I could feel their anger towards Holmes, who had returned to the table and sat opposite them with a placid smile.

  My attention wandered between the silent drama at the table, and the events taking place in the kitchen. Violet ran water into a tea pot and put it on the range while Margery retrieved a tray of sandwiches from the refrigerator.

  “How do you start the stove?”

  “Turn the white handle and light a match from the box on the shelf.”

  I caught a whiff of gas, then an explosion as flames flared wildly. Violet had never lit a stove before.

  Margery rushed to her side. I was sure she could smell singed hair as easily as I could. “Are you all right?”

  “I-I’m fine,” Violet stammered. “Really I am. Just a little frightened.”

  “You’re supposed to light the match first.”

  “Of course. How silly of me. No harm done.”

  Holmes got up and moved to stand in the kitchen door. “Does the chauffeur live in the house with you as well as the housekeeper?”

  “Yes. He lives in the basement.”

  “Is he around now? There were some questions I wanted to ask him about the kidnapping.”

  “No. He took his sweetheart to see ‘What Price Glory.’ It’s supposed to be a smash hit, if I have the expression right. I know he was looking for sympathy for his injuries.”

  “I love the movies and read Variety all the time, but I haven’t heard anything about it,” said Violet. “If you’ll tell me where you keep the napkins, I’ll set the dining room table for you.”

  “They’re in the pantry to the left. The silverware is in the drawer behind you.”

  As the domestic scenario played itself out, Holmes and I traded admiring glances at Violet’s masterful wheedling of information from Margery.

  Even Margery seemed impressed. “How did you know the bedrooms were on the third floor?”

  “The housekeepers usually live on the second floor to be close to the kitchen and living room on the floor below, and the bedrooms on the floor above. Where do you keep your tea?”

  “I’ll get it. You have your choice of Darjeeling or Jasmine.”

  “Whichever Sir Arthur and Lady Jean prefer,” Violet said. “Either one is fine with me, I don’t expect the men will want to join us, anyway.”

  “Regrettably not,” Holmes said, pushing away from the table. “If you will excuse us, we’ll find Officer O’Neal and your husband. We’re both anxious to join in the search.”

  Chapter 39

  I felt a thrill of excitement as I got to my feet. The path to the end game now lay open. And all because of Violet. I was sure Margery wasn’t happy about having two additional unaccompanied strangers joining the posse already tramping about in her house, but she had no choice. The biggest hurdle had been cleared, and mostly because of my amazing spouse.

  Holmes read my mind.

  “She indeed is a wonder, Wiggins. The only woman I know who even came close was our beloved Mrs. Hudson.”

  “Except Violet isn’t a saint. Mrs. Hudson must have been one to put up with you for so many years.”

  Holmes snorted. I thought in humor. It wasn’t. “Certainly you could have come up with a better line than that, Wiggins. You’re a professional writer.”

  “And you are a professional snob.”

  “Heh heh,” he said.

  My heart beat faster as we climbed the spiraling marble stairs, our pathway shining brightly from the medieval sconces dangling high on the wall beside the st
airway. Once lit by candles, then by gas, they now furnished steady, unflickering electrical light. Too much light, to my taste. For all the years I stood on the sidelines and reported the battles of the Detroit police, I was now a warrior myself, albeit unarmed. This was a castle, and I wanted shadows.

  We reached the second floor landing. Halting, we listened for voices. All I heard was the drip of a faucet somewhere in the expanse. We stood at the edge of an enormous Persian rug that covered the heating vent and led to the Croydons’ version of an attic. It could have been a library or an art gallery, with glass-fronted bookcases, furniture, statuary and piles of oil paintings neatly arranged to form aisles. This was no medieval castle, it was a damned antiques shop!

  I stopped in my tracks. “We may have some difficulties. Lucille may remember seeing us at Margery’s lecture at the Bell in Hand.”

  “No matter. If she does, she still has to account for being seen by Sam. The threat of exposure may be enough to prise loose what we want to know.”

  “I don’t understand why we’re working alone. Why don’t we just find O’Neal and have him take over? I’m sure he’s more than capable of nabbing Becker without our help.”

  “Of course he is, but he’ll have Dr. Croydon with him. I want to find Herr Becker alone and hear the whole story from him without others present. Especially Dr. Croydon, for obvious reasons. Over the years I’ve developed some highly effective interrogation tactics of oriental design the police may not find acceptable.”

  “We won’t have time for the Chinese water torture.”

  “That’s merely the technique everyone knows about by the penny press. There are others at least as effective that take far less time. Unfortunately, they would make a polite western European cringe.”

  I had to smile. “I see. Then you better let me do the talking. Lucille will know you’re not a Boston cop the minute you open your mouth.”