“Well, Mr Holmes, it’s one thing to break out of those tin boxes they have over there, but our British gaols are the finest in the world. If this little American thought he was just going to walk in and walk out, quick as you please, we were only too happy to oblige him. So we took him into the ground floor cell block and put him in a free cage. Frankly, I thought he’d back away when he saw the lock on the door, but he didn’t, so we locked him up tight. I promised to come back for him in a few hours, when he’d had enough.”
Holmes looked over at the inspector. “And then?”
Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and looked out of the window. “Thirty minutes later we received a telephone call in the C.I.D. office. It was Houdini. He said he’d made it back to his hotel all right and he just wanted us to know he’d left a surprise in the cell block. Naturally we didn’t believe it, but when we got in there we saw that not only had he broken out, but he’d also switched around every prisoner in the entire wing! Seventeen prisoners and not one of them was in his right cell! We had quite a job just — Mr Holmes! I fail to see what is so amusing in all this!”
“Quite so, Lestrade,” said Holmes with a short cough, “forgive me. But still, I don’t see that your problem is as grave as you suppose. I’m sure it’s simply a question of improving the design of your goal. Perhaps Mr Houdini could be persuaded to cooperate—”
“My God, Mr Holmes!” Lestrade cried impatiently. “Do you really think me such a fool as all that? The cells are nothing! That was only the beginning! But if he can get in and out of our gaol cells he can get in and out of anything! Anything at all! Some of the men even suspect... well, they suspect...” He paused and looked down at his notebook.
“Yes?”
“It’s nothing.”
“There, Lestrade, you were on the point of saying something.”
Lestrade cast a wary eye at Holmes and then at me. “I don’t believe any of it, mind you, but some of the men say that Houdini is a... a spirit medium.”
“Oh, come!”
Lestrade held out his palms in a gesture of disavowal. “It’s not my theory, I assure you, but it has to be taken into account. I’ve done a bit of research on this fellow and the results are very surprising. Very surprising indeed. Just consider the facts for a moment, Mr Holmes, and see what you make of them. Every night, on stages all over the world, Houdini allows himself to be tied up, wrapped in chains, nailed into packing crates, and I don’t know what all, and he always gets free! Now what does that suggest to you?”
“Great skill and technical proficiency?”
“Perhaps, but don’t you find it in the least strange that he never fails? Not once? Can you say the same?” Here Lestrade was referring, rather indelicately I thought, to the theft of the black pearl of the Borgias, an affair which even Holmes had been unable to penetrate. Though he would soon recover the pearl in a case I have recorded elsewhere, * the matter weighed heavily on him at present. I realised then how great was Lestrade’s sensitivity over the issue at hand, for he was never one to open old wounds.
Holmes reached into the scuttle and threw a lump of sea coal onto the hearth. “Occasionally my methods fail me,” he observed quietly, “but then, I receive no assistance from the other world.”
Lestrade looked away quickly. “I didn’t mean to give offence, Mr Holmes, I’m simply asking you to keep an open mind to this thing, as I’ve done.” He flipped through the pages in his book. “Now, there’s a group in America that calls itself the Society for Psychic Research. These aren’t witch-doctors in this group, they’re scientists and doctors, reasonable sorts like you and me. This society swears up and down that Houdini achieves his effects through psychic means. They say no other explanation is possible.”
“And what of Houdini himself? Does he claim to traffic with the spirits?”
“No, he’s denied it repeatedly. But don’t you see? Even that fits the theory. If he were using special psychic powers to make a living as a magician, he’d have to conceal his gifts in order to protect his livelihood!” Lestrade gave a nervous laugh. “I know that what I’m saying sounds incredible, but two days ago this fellow walked out of one of our tightest cells without turning a hair. No one has ever done it before, and frankly I doubt if anyone will ever do it again. A thing like that sets me thinking maybe we are dealing with... well, with the unknown. Now I’m not saying I hold with all of this psychic claptrap, but after Houdini was at the Yard I went down to the Savoy to see one of these performances of his. What do you suppose I saw?”
“Do tell.”
“It was astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it. During the course of his magic show, Houdini had his workmen construct a solid brick wall on the stage behind him. There was no trickery about it, I’m certain. The wall was put together brick by brick; it was absolutely solid. And he had it positioned so that he couldn’t get around it in any way, but somehow he managed to travel from one side to the other, right before my eyes! Right through the wall! Now how could he possibly have done that?”
“He was assisted by elves?”
“According to the Society for Psychic Research, Houdini can only do this trick by reducing his entire body to ectoplasm.”
“Ectoplasm?”
“It’s the substance of spirit emanations. What ghosts are made of. I know that sounds ridiculous, but how else could a man pass through a solid substance? At least at Scotland Yard there was a door in the cell, but this was a solid brick wall. So naturally when the theft occurred—”
“Theft?” Holmes was instantly alert. “Would this theft be the crime of the century you mentioned earlier?”
“The same. I can’t give you the details just yet because the matter is highly confidential and involves certain highly placed individuals. But I’m convinced that the crime can only have been committed by someone who can walk through walls. Mind you, I’m not saying he actually does walk through walls, but he certainly manages to convey that impression. So if you would just come down to the Savoy with me and have a look—”
“Lestrade, this crime—”
The inspector held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I’ve told you all I can. You are not an official detective, Mr Holmes, and this matter is absolutely confidential.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“What!”
Holmes threw another lump of coal onto the fire. “I am clearly out of my depth, Lestrade. Men made of ectoplasm, thefts of such high confidentiality.” He shook his head. “No, no. It’s too much for me. Watson, would you care to take a stroll in the botanical gardens?”
Lestrade’s mouth fell open. “But — but you don’t understand! All I’m asking is that you come down to the theatre with me and see this Houdini for yourself! Now where’s the harm in that? It’s not so much to ask, is it?”
“I’m afraid it is, Inspector,” Holmes said evenly. “You are asking me to enter into a criminal investigation with no knowledge of the actual crime. You are asking me to entertain a theory which accommodates men who walk through walls. I am not an official detective, as you have so conscientiously reminded me, but neither am I a haruspex. Should you need my services in matters pertaining to the corporeal, my door will be open. Until then, good day.”
Lestrade let out a long sigh and moved towards the door. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” he said, taking down his hat and ulster. “We were given specific orders not to consult you on this case. I just thought—”
“Orders?” Holmes whirled about, his features drawn tight. “Orders from whom?”
“Why, the government, of course!”
Holmes stiffened. “What branch?”
“The message came from Whitehall. It was unsigned.”
A high colour crept into the gaunt cheeks of Sherlock Holmes. “Lestrade,” he said, his voice rigid with emotion, “either you are the most devious man at the Yard or you are an unpardonable lummox.”
“What—?” The inspector stammered, but Holm
es was already gone, running down the steps to Baker Street, blowing two shrill blasts on his cab-whistle.
* For some reason Watson is referring to “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons,” a case which occurred years earlier.
Two
THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN
Holmes was silent as our four-wheeler sped towards the Savoy, and Lestrade, to his credit, knew better than to probe for the source of the detective’s sudden agitation. For my part, I had observed these fits of pique on several previous occasions, and I knew them to be grounded in a personal, rather than professional, vexation. As Holmes now seemed to have regained his composure, I thought it best not to remark upon the matter, for I knew that if my suspicions were accurate, all would be revealed presently.
And so I passed the journey wondering what sort of man it was who could so readily divest himself of canvas strait-jackets and pass through solid brick walls. In my long association with Holmes we had been concerned in a score of mysteries which, at their outsets, seemed to involve spirit beings. Crime aficionados still remark upon the macabre affair of the earl, the ascot and the heavy feather, which had been the despair of several well-trained investigators. Only Holmes had been able to prove that flesh-and-blood murderers were responsible, rather than the vengeful revenants originally suspected by Scotland Yard.
Would Holmes be as successful in penetrating the mysteries of Houdini, or had Lestrade at last presented him with a problem which had no logical solution? This was the challenge my companion had unwillingly undertaken that afternoon. In Lestrade’s defence I must say I rather doubt that he ever truly believed all this spiritualist commotion about Houdini. He was, rather, a man who dearly loved to have a key for every lock, no matter how unwieldy the keys became.
I had not been to the Savoy Theatre since the passing of my beloved wife, Mary. Together we had attended many of the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan there, and though she had been gone many years, the association was still a painful one. My mood was certainly not lightened by the appearance of the theatre itself, which was dark and grim. The plush lobby, which I was so accustomed to seeing brightly lit and filled with cheery theatre patrons, now appeared shadowy and hollow. Through the far doors I could see rows of empty seats which seemed to stretch forever, creating an impression of eerie expectation. I am not ordinarily given to flights of fancy, but I imagined that I could feel my wife’s presence in that opulent crypt, and I acknowledged to myself that if I were ever to see a spirit, it would very likely be in this place.
“Do you see this?” Lestrade was saying. “Do you see this, Holmes?” He pointed to one of the dozens of theatrical posters which covered the walls of the lobby. “Houdini claims to have no interest in spiritualism, and yet he draws attention to himself with a poster like this! There’s more here than meets the eye, I tell you!”
The poster showed an ordinary wooden barrel secured with chains and heavy padlocks. Above it hovered a likeness of Houdini, who had evidently just wafted from the barrel as smoke rises from a chimney. His legs, the illustration plainly showed, were still vaporous. To strengthen this supernatural impression, the young man was shown receiving counsel from a small band of red demons who scurried about his form, while in the background a number of befuddled-looking officials stood scratching their heads. Below the illustration was printed the legend: “Houdini!!! The World’s Foremost Escape King!!!”
“You are absolutely right, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “This is conclusive evidence of the man’s spirit capacities. What a fool I have been ever to have doubted you! Now as to the details of this crime you mentioned—”
“Enough of that, Mr Holmes. You’ll be able to see for yourself in just a moment. Remember, though, Houdini doesn’t yet know that he’s a suspect in the crime, so you musn’t let on!”
Holmes turned and walked towards the empty theatre. “As of yet I have nothing to let on,” he said.
As we gained a view of the stage I could see a group of four workers carrying large packing crates back and forth across the stage. By his resemblance to the poster illustration, I gathered that the man directing the activity was none other than Houdini himself.
Houdini was a small but powerfully built young man. His black, wiry hair was combed out from the centre into two pointed tufts, which combined with the black slashes of his eyebrows to give him a satanic aspect. His every movement was precise and forceful, yet so fluid and full of grace that I was put in mind of the sleek jungle cats I encountered during my Afghan campaigns. He wore a coal-black suit, which contributed to his dramatic appearance, and though he was smaller than any of his workers, he nevertheless insisted on carrying the largest load.
One of Houdini’s assistants drew his attention to our arrival. Upon seeing Lestrade, Houdini gave a cry of surprise and set down his burden. He then leapt across the orchestra pit and made his way towards us, skimming across the backs and arms of the theatre seats as if using stepping stones to cross a river. This display of coordination and balance was not mere bravado, but rather the natural course of one whose control over his own body was so complete that such exertions were as natural to him as walking.
“Mr Lestrade!” cried Houdini as he jumped down into the aisle where we stood. “It’s good to see you!” He gave the inspector a jovial slap on the back. “I didn’t expect to see you snooping around until this evening’s performance! You’re not still upset about that gaol break, are you?”
“No, no,” said Lestrade quickly, “I only wished to introduce you to these two gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, allow me to present Mr Harry Houdini.”
Upon hearing my friend’s name, the young magician was scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he said, grasping Holmes by the hand and shoulder. “I’ve admired you for years.”
“The honour is mine,” replied Holmes. “I trust that you have worked out the difficulties with your rope escape?”
“Why yes, I... wait a minute, how did you know I was having trouble with a rope escape?” In his surprise at this observation, Houdini quite forgot to take my hand and slap my shoulder. “I’ve always read about you doing that, but I never thought I’d actually see it! How did you know?”
“Simplicity itself, my dear fellow. There are several chafing wounds on both your wrists. I have seen identical wounds on the wrists of robbery and kidnap victims who had strained against their bonds for many hours. The natural conclusion is that you have spent some hours attempting to free yourself from a similar restraint, and were, perhaps, less successful than you might have hoped.”
“Wonderful!” Houdini cried. “What a trick! But I did get out of that rope tie. I was practising on a new kind of knot. Better to work it out in rehearsal than to have it come at me during a performance.” He led us towards the stage. “I sure wish Bess were here to meet you, Mr Holmes.” He paused and struck a theatrical pose. “To Harry Houdini,” he intoned, “she is always the woman.”
This brief reference to one of my early Holmes stories * was clearly intended to flatter the detective. Houdini could not have known that Holmes seldom remembered anything but the titles of my stories, when he bothered to read them at all, so it meant nothing to him. Instead, Holmes proceeded immediately to the business at hand.
“Tell me, Mr Houdini, is it true that you are able to reduce your body to ectoplasm?”
The American laughed. “Is that why you came here? No, Mr Holmes, as I’ve been trying to tell Lestrade here, my magic has nothing to do with any witches or ghosts.”
“Witches and ghosts have nothing to do with it,” Lestrade insisted. “I never said that at all. I merely suggested that if you were a spiritualist you would have to hide your abilities from the public. If it became known that you were able to become immaterial, your escapes would cease to be dramatic. Where’s the excitement in an escape artist who can walk right through his chains?”
“On the contrary,” Houdini replied, “that would be the greatest act ever stag
ed. People would pay ten bucks a head to see a real live ghost. But I am not a ghost, I’m an escape artist.”
Lestrade was not satisfied. “You insist that you are not a psychic, but I still feel that no other explanation is possible for what I have seen on this stage.”
Houdini bowed deeply. “Thank you very much, Mr Lestrade. That is the best compliment a magician could receive.”
Lestrade turned to Holmes in exasperation. “I get no where with him! Do you see why I wanted you to come down here?”
“Actually, I do not,” Holmes answered. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me, Lestrade, but your failure to comprehend Houdini’s mysteries will not cause me to embrace spiritualism. I submit that some more logical explanation has escaped your notice.”
“Are you saying I’m thick, Holmes? Or gullible? I’d like to point out he’s not merely pulling rabbits out of a hat; he’s walking through solid brick walls!”
“Pray do not grow testy, Lestrade. I did not invite this interview. Nor am I suggesting that you are slow-witted in any way. I merely observe that in this case you are quick to accept the phenomenal where a more strict logician might turn to the somatic. I have no doubt that the same disciplines which govern the science of deduction would lend some insight into the marvels of Mr Houdini.”
“Pardon me, Mr Lestrade,” Houdini broke in with exaggerated formality. “Did I just understand Mr Holmes to say that my little mysteries would give him no trouble at all?”
The Ectoplasmic Man Page 2