The detective set down his teacup. “Let us say I am reserving my judgement.”
“Oh, come now, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade retorted. “Dr Watson himself was unable to fix the time of death precisely, save to confirm that the body had been in that trunk for more than twelve hours. It’s obvious that she was dead before we took Houdini into custody.”
“But I tell you I spoke to the countess the following day!”
“How can you be so certain that you saw her alive, Doctor, when you failed to recognise her dead?”
“But then who did I speak with at the Cleland? If it was not the countess, why did Herr Osey tell me it was?”
“I will ask him when I find him, Doctor. He has been summoned back to Germany on government matters.”
“You don’t find that at all curious? Are you so determined to convict Houdini that you are blind to all other suspects? Why has Herr Osey left the country so precipitously? For that matter, why haven’t you questioned Houdini’s assistant, Franz? He had access to the trunk!”
“Don’t worry, Dr Watson. I always make certain of my facts. Herr Osey’s summons was official. I confirmed it myself. As for the assistant, he makes a poor suspect. He had neither the motive nor the opportunity. I looked into that story he told you, it’s all true. He is what he says he is. What’s more, he fainted dead away at the sight of the body! Don’t you see, Doctor, the assistant’s presence at the theatre is the final proof of my theory. This man Franz would have detected any intruders to the theatre, just as he did you and Holmes. Therefore, no one could have placed the body in Houdini’s trunk without his knowledge. No one, that is, but Houdini himself. So you see how neatly it all comes together.” Lestrade sat back and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.
I looked at Holmes in despair, but the detective remained silent.
“Look, I’ll explain from the beginning,” Lestrade continued. “We already have Houdini for the theft of the Gairstowe papers. Now this countess — another German, mind you, and a theatre person to boot — turns up dead in his trunk. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this,” he leaned forward confidentially, “but it is my understanding that the murdered woman was very much involved with the documents which are now missing.”
“You don’t say?”
“It is so. No doubt that is why Houdini had to kill her.”
“But to place the body in his own trunk! Surely only the clumsiest of murderers would dispose of a body in this fashion?”
“He probably knew we’d never look in that trick trunk of his. Or, more likely, he planned to move the body later but was taken before he could do so.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s probably it.”
“But why murder the countess at all?”
“I suspect she was in on the theft. Perhaps she was threatening to expose Houdini. We are looking into the possibility that they were... acquainted.”
“Surely not!” I cried. “Houdini’s wife assures us that he is a most devoted husband.”
“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” Lestrade gave a knowing wink. “Look, Doctor, I’ll spell it out plain as day. Even if there were no footprints, we should have soon reasoned that Houdini was the only person at Gairstowe House capable of penetrating the vault. Now we find this Countess Valenka’s body in his trunk. And how was she murdered? By a chain wrapped tightly around her neck, and locked in place with one of Houdini’s own padlocks. Suppose, Dr Watson” — Lestrade threw down his napkin and began to pace the room — “suppose that you were to murder someone in this manner. Say you and I have robbed a bank, and have just now returned to Baker Street to divide the proceeds. At some time in the course of our negotiations, you become angry with me and decide to kill me without delay. You cast about for a weapon. In your case, a scalpel or even a poison might come to hand. But suppose you were Houdini, and our argument were taking place down at the Savoy? You see a length of chain from one of your escapes lying close by. You snatch it up and wrap it about my throat, but then what happens?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Think, man! Here you are, strangling me with a chain,” Lestrade bulged his eyes and made alarming noises in his throat. “It is horrible to see! You’ve never killed a man before. You suddenly realise, ’Oh no! I am killing my old friend Lestrade!’ Still, though you cannot bear to look at my face, you decide to go through with the murder. You pull the chain tight and lock it fast.” He pantomimed this motion. “This allows the constriction of the chain to finish me off. But observe, Watson, in the course of locating and fastening the lock, you must surely have taken one of your hands away from my throat. This means that you maintained a choking grip on the chain with only one hand, even against my struggles. May we not assume, then, a murderer of great strength? Might we also assume highly developed coordination, and, I think it safe to say, a functional knowledge of locks? Our friend Houdini possesses all three traits, does he not?” Lestrade picked up his teacup and smiled expectantly at Holmes and myself. “It all makes perfect sense, do you see?”
“What about the mud?” asked Holmes.
“The mud? The mud?”
“The mud which made the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study. Where does the mud fit in?”
“Holmes, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”
“On the contrary, I have followed you closely. I simply wish to know what provisions you have made for this highly disconcerting mud.”
“I fail to see the importance of this mud, Holmes. I have presented what I believe is the correct solution of the case, and you are off on a wild tangent. Very well then, the mud was left by Houdini’s shoes, if I must state the obvious.”
“How did Houdini’s shoes come to be muddy?” Holmes asked, warming to the subject.
“I expect he stepped in a puddle,” Lestrade said brusquely.
“Inside of the house?” Now it was Holmes who began to pace. “In order to get from the main ballroom, where Houdini performed his conjuring tricks, to Lord O’Neill’s study, one passes through two hallways and up one flight of steps. I have examined these areas, and saw not one mud puddle.”
“He must have stepped outside.”
“Why?”
“To allay suspicion. To be seen leaving the gathering.”
“All right, Lestrade, suppose we accept this premise as fact. We are still faced with three insurmountable difficulties. The first involves the trail of muddy prints in the study.”
“Holmes! Where is your mind? It was not a trail, it was more of a grouping.”
“Ah! But it should have been a trail. Instead we found nothing leading into or out of the study; only a distinct, isolated grouping of prints behind the desk. You see the problem.”
Lestrade did not reply.
“Second, as I have tried repeatedly to impress upon you, I am certain that the mud came from nowhere within the confines of the Gairstowe estate. In fact, I cannot place the mud at all. So, we must assume that Houdini left the gathering, travelled to some distant point where he muddied his shoes, and then returned — perhaps walking on his hands so as to avoid leaving a trail. Why should he do this? How did he get past the guard?”
“Really Holmes, to make so much of a trifle! Can you be so certain of the mud?”
Holmes ignored the question.
“And the third irregularity, Holmes?” I asked. “You mentioned three.”
“The ground was dry that night. It had not rained for three days.”
“So there would not have been any mud puddles,” I reasoned.
“Precisely so.”
“Oh, come now!” cried Lestrade, growing quite irritated. “He may well have stepped into a flower-bed, Holmes. A flower-bed filled with moist earth which was not native to the estate. Have you considered that possibility? I don’t know what your game is, but I haven’t the time for it now. It’s all very well for you and Dr Watson to lose yourselves in these details, but I must have results; and in this instance I must have them before the di
plomatic complications become unmanageable.” He took down his hat and ulster. “Thank Mrs Hudson for a lovely breakfast, gentlemen, but I must return to my duties.” He paused at the door and raised a finger in admonishment. “I welcome your insights, Holmes, but you must learn to address them to the facts, not your idle theories. They’ll lead you nowhere! Good day.” He turned and bustled down the steps, slamming the lower door behind him.
“That was an agreeably dramatic exit,” commented Holmes. “He is developing quite a flair.”
“A flair!” I scoffed. “He is intolerable! He grows more so by the year. Why do you abide him?”
“Actually, Watson, he and Gregson are the best of the lot, and of the two Lestrade has the virtue of honesty.” With this equable comment, Holmes began packing his after-breakfast pipe.
I hope the reader will indulge me in my dotage if I digress here for a moment, for I find that the mention of Holmes’s pipe affords an opportunity I have long awaited.
In the last twenty years I have seen countless drawings and other renderings in which a likeness of Sherlock Holmes is shown smoking a large, curved calabash pipe. He is generally seen puffing reflectively on this pipe while explaining some simple point to his elderly, easily befuddled companion. As Holmes and I are the same age, I pride myself that my mind is still keen enough to recollect that he never, to the best of my knowledge, owned a calabash pipe. It was, then, his disreputable old black clay that he smoked upon Lestrade’s departure that morning, filling it with all the dottles and plugs left over from his previous day’s smokes, lighting it with an ember from the fire, and tamping it down with Mrs Hudson’s silver butter-knife. I myself took a cigar, and waited patiently for Holmes to comment on the murder of the countess.
“Lestrade is correct on one point,” Holmes said, replacing the fire-tongs, “and that is that this business must be concluded quickly. No doubt he is under enormous pressure from his superiors to convict Houdini.”
“But why?”
“To have the case solved, and more importantly, to have it solved quietly and without scandal. Should it transpire that the countess was murdered by an Englishman, the relations between our countries would become even more strained.”
“That would be unfortunate, of course,” I said, “but the Yard is on the point of convicting an innocent man! Are the diplomatic worries so very great?”
Holmes did not appear to have heard. He walked to the window and stood motionless for a long while, staring down at Baker Street. But for the staccato puffs of smoke rising from his pipe, I should have mistaken him for the wax bust which briefly occupied that space some years earlier.*
“Watson,” he said at last, turning away from the window. “Are you still as eager for the chase? Would you undertake a brief journey on my behalf?”
“Of course,” I answered. “I had planned to visit Houdini again, but seeing this morning’s headlines, I’m not sure I’d have the heart to face him.”
Holmes took the newspaper I held out to him. “’American Magician Accused of Murder’,” he read, “’Theft Suspect Already in Custody’. No, I don’t think he’ll like that.”
“Holmes, it will devastate him. You must solve this case immediately!”
“Very well then, Watson, I shall do as you instruct, but you must participate in the solution.”
“Gladly. What am I to do?”
“Fetch your coat, I shall explain in the cab.”
Within moments Holmes had secured a hansom and issued instructions to the driver. “Now then,” he began, as we lurched off towards Portman Square, “for the time being it will be necessary for me to devote my energies to this latest problem.”
“The murder?”
“The murder, yes, but the actual murder itself is not my central concern. What is even more compelling is this uncertainty which surrounds the countess’s identity and movements. Her final days must be reconstructed before we can proceed.”
“I see. And what is my part in all of this?”
“You shall approach the problem from the opposite direction. Remember, we initially came to this investigation by means of a threat against Houdini. Though the problem has now grown beyond that, we should not lose sight of our original concern.”
“’Tonight who the fraud is we shall see’?”
“Exactly. I have made some enquiries concerning this rival escape artist of Houdini’s, Herr Kleppini. I have satisfied myself that he is involved in the Gairstowe crime at least, if not the murder. At present, Kleppini is plying his trade from a booth on the Brighton Pier. I have determined that he performed there on the evening of the crime. I am also told that he conducted a seance the following afternoon. You must—”
Our hansom pulled up sharply. “Victoria!” shouted the driver from on top of the box.
“Come along, Watson,” said Holmes, leaping down, “your train leaves in a moment.”
“My train?” I asked, hurrying after him.
“Yes. You are going to Brighton,” he informed me, leading us through the arch. “If the theft of the letters occurred as I suspect, Kleppini could not have returned to Brighton in time to conduct his afternoon seance.” He pulled me along the platform, signalling to the conductor. “You must determine if it is Kleppini himself conducting his afternoon seance, and if so, whether or not it would have been possible for another performer to take his place. Do you understand? Good, off you go!”
“But, Holmes,” I said, considerably unsettled by the haste of these arrangements, “is this not a fool’s errand? If Kleppini did steal the letters, won’t he have disposed of them by now? Why has the scandal you fear not come to pass?”
“Because,” said Holmes, hastening me into a coach as two short whistles sounded, “I have discovered that there is one letter yet remaining in Lord O’Neill’s possession. A letter in the countess’s own hand, in which she denounces all the others. So long as we have this letter, all the rest are rendered harmless.”
“Then why—?” But it was too late, for the train had begun to pull free of the platform, and Holmes was already striding off in the other direction.
* Very briefly. It was almost immediately smashed by a bullet from Colonel Sebastian Moran’s airgun.
Fourteen
A SEANCE ON THE PALACE PIER
THe Journey By Train To Brighton Is A Pleasant One, Made More So By Anticipation Of The Hospitable Seaside Resort At Its End. When Mary Was Alive, She Would Frequently Bring Me Down To Take The Sun And To Visit The Brighton Lanes. There, In That Twisting, Narrow Course Of Antique Shops, We Would Spend Many Happy Hours Among The Dusty Bricà-Brac Of The Previous Century. It Was These Memories Which Engaged My Thoughts As I Alighted In The Brighton Station, Taking My Mind From The Less Congenial Purpose Of My Present Visit.
Leaving the station through the south gates, I strolled briskly dthe chamber had been sealedthe chamber had been sealede the room while the vault door was open. That way I could break out from inside once the chamberown the Queen’s Road, pausing only momentarily to glare at the monstrous Royal Pavilion,* and soon I had arrived at the well-known Brighton seashore.
The better travelled of my readers may scoff at the very notion of England boasting a seaside resort, given our rather temperate climate; but on this day the sun was bright, if not actually hot, and I was pleased to find several hundreds of my countrymen disporting themselves there upon the beach. While it is true that Brighton’s beach is composed of hard pebble and rock, rather than sand, if one lies out on a wooden deck-chair, wrapped in a wool blanket against the sea chill, it is possible to get a good bit of colour in one’s cheeks. Or so my wife always contended, and I never chose to dispute her.
The heavily trafficked section of the Brighton shore is flanked by two marvellous wooden piers, which extend some hundreds of feet into the Channel and are supported by stout wooden piles. The first of these is the West Pier, whose trim, elegant ballroom has housed some of society’s grandest summer affairs. The newer of the two, the
Palace Pier, has attracted a less desirable patronage. Built at the turn of the century, it has become a haven for gypsies and charlatans, who, in hastily constructed booths ranging up and down the length of the pier, display dubious feats of skill or aberrations of nature, offered less for amusement than for the purpose of separating the labourer from his wages. It was here, amid this mean and squalid bluster, that I was to seek the mysterious Kleppini.
Paying my three shillings at the rotting turnstile, I pushed my way into the crowd and out onto the pier. Among the diversions available that afternoon, each heralded by a garishly painted signboard, were a “pulse-quickening” display of snake charming, a “mystic fakir” asleep on a bed of nails, and a burly fire-swallower whose demonstration carried the warning: “Not for the faint of heart.” Picking my way through the eager couples and boisterous youths, I had travelled nearly to the far end of the pier before locating Kleppini’s booth.
I had never before seen the man, but I could hardly mistake his signboard, for it proclaimed in bright red letters: “Kleppini! The Man Who Humbled Houdini!” Houdini’s name, I noted, was printed in larger letters than Kleppini’s own, and indeed the illustration showed a man who looked rather like Houdini, muscular and compact, bound in heavy irons but preserving a characteristically defiant tilt of the head. Leaning against the feet of this illustration was a hand-lettered notice which announced a seance in ten minutes.
Pushing aside a musty grey curtain, I stepped into a booth which was lit by a single candle. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I made out the forms of three other persons seated about a low table in the centre of the room, apparently come to avail themselves of Herr Kleppini’s spiritualistic gifts. Finding no seats, I lowered myself onto a tattered cushion as the others had done and awaited the entrance of Kleppini. Below us the waves slapped against the supports of the pier, and the smell of rotting fish and algae wafted up through the cracks.
I need hardly say that but for my errand, undertaken on behalf of Sherlock Holmes, I should never have found myself in such a peculiar setting. But once there I awaited the proceedings with great interest, and took advantage of my timely arrival to examine the three others who had come to communicate with the dead.
The Ectoplasmic Man Page 10