The Ectoplasmic Man

by Daniel Stashower

  To my right was a sallow-faced young man in a striped jacket and straw hat. At his side was a samples-case, and I was able to gather by his conversation that he was a commercial traveller making sales calls in Brighton. “These spiritualists,” he was explaining to his companion, “are fraudulent without exception, but they provide a certain” — he paused and laid a finger alongside his temple — “intellectual amusement for the truly incisive mind.”

  His companion, a pale-complexioned schoolgirl of no more than seventeen years, giggled and clutched at his arm in nervous affirmation. “I don’t know about any of that,” she said, pulling a strand of hair out of her eyes. “I just know that it gives me a bad fright just to think about talking with dead people!”

  “That’s all right,” laughed her young man, pulling her close to him. “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Throughout this exchange the third member of our party sat by regarding the pair with obvious distaste. This man’s dress and manner proclaimed him an active sailor, but his age and physical limitations suggested otherwise, for the bristles which covered his chin were stark white, and though he continually stroked and worried at them with one hand, the other — a hook — remained motionless at his side. As always when in later years I would encounter highly unusual characters in suggestive settings, I examined the sailor for any sign which struck me as familiar, but a scrutiny of several moments left me uncertain as to whether this old salt could possibly be Sherlock Holmes in another of his disguises. Could even Holmes have managed the hook?

  My seat, if the crouching position I had assumed on the pillow could be called such, was set very near to a ragged grey screen in the corner of the room. Before long I heard whisperings and jostlings from behind the screen, followed by the sudden appearance of a plump, matronly German woman. This woman stood for some moments appraising our group with tight-lipped disapproval before stepping back behind the screen. The whispering renewed, with the words “Vier? Nur vier?” being plainly audible. Then, as if propelled by a shove, the woman reappeared and solemnly addressed the assembled patrons.

  “He who is Kleppini is soon appeared,” she managed to say in a guttural drone, “for showing the miracles which no man is understanded. But before he is here, you must each to put five shillings here.” She held up a brass cup in front of each of us in turn, displaying no emotion as we deposited our coins.

  “This is now good,” she said, assuming a position before the screen, “for miraculous Kleppini is appeared.” With as much drama as she was able to muster, this leaden-faced woman began to shake an African gourd in a steady, insistent tattoo. Evidently this was meant to heighten the suspense of the situation, but when it went on for two full minutes without result, the four of us began to grow restless. Then, at last, Kleppini strode forth with a sweeping flourish and a grateful wave of his hand, by which he seemed to imply that his arrival had been nothing short of miraculous, when in fact he had simply stepped from behind the screen.

  “I greet you, I greet you all,” he said with a low bow. “I sit down. I sit down with you.”

  Herr Kleppini was a much smaller and slighter man than the illustration on his signboard had suggested. In fact, he was some inches shorter than Houdini and only half as broad. He wore a pale-blue robe painted with flecking silver stars, and about his head was wound a frayed turban which bore the unmistakable imprint of hotel linen.

  “And now,” he said, placing his palms on the table, “let us join hands, and together we shall attempt to communicate with the great beyond. Together we shall attempt to cross that stormy chasm which separates our world from theirs, the living from the dead.” Kleppini closed his eyes and began to rock his head forward and back, humming loudly. “Great Spirits,” he chanted, “beings of the night, hear me! Hear Kleppini, who beckons you from the land of the living!”

  The humming resumed at an increased volume and Kleppini’s head continued to rock back and forth. “Great spirits... great spirits... wait!” Kleppini sat upright and stared off across the room. “I sense another presence! I sense that the spirits are here with us now! O Spirits, let me be the vessel through which you speak! Let me be thy voice!” With a final burst of frantic humming, Kleppini’s head slumped forward onto the table.

  For a moment the four of us sat in silence, hands still joined, staring apprehensively at the slumped figure at the head of the table.

  “Perhaps he’s gone and died himself,” suggested the young salesman.

  “Quiet!” his lady friend remonstrated. “He’s trying to reach the spirits!” She leaned towards Kleppini solicitously. “Mr Kleppini? Are you all right? Can we help you in some way?”

  Suddenly reanimated, Kleppini threw his head back and gave a deep, raucous laugh. “I am not Kleppini!” he roared in a gruff voice. “I am not the good and gentle Kleppini! I am Lord Maglin! The late Lord Maglin! I have returned from the dead to be with you here today. See how the very room trembles at my presence!”

  The grey curtain and the table began to quiver, as if in fear.

  “It’s a fake,” whispered the young salesman. “He’s rattling the table himself! His wife’s doing the curtain!”

  “Silence!” Kleppini shouted. “Lord Maglin commands silence! It is not your place to question the workings of the spirit world! These are riddles which no living man may comprehend!”

  From behind the screen a trumpet bleated. A moment later the instrument itself appeared to dance above our heads.

  “It’s on a wire!” the salesman insisted. “The trumpet’s on a wire!”

  “I command silence!” Kleppini repeated, still in the voice of Lord Maglin. “The spirits will not abide disbelievers!”

  “Do be quiet, Willard,” the young lady urged of her companion. “I want to see what happens!”

  “You I’d conceal myself inside the room while the vault door was open. That way I could break out from inside once the chamber h2019;d best listen to your young friend,” Kleppini advised darkly. “She knows the power of the spirit world. She knows the great... mystery.” A ghostly hand appeared suspended over our heads and then vanished. The young lady screamed at the sight of it. “Now,” Kleppini resumed, “who will ask a question of Lord Maglin, the prince of the spirit world? Do not be afraid! The past, the present and the future are all one to me here. The loved ones you have lost, they are all here with me now, and the riddles of the ages are made plain. Ask what you will. You, sir” — he indicated the sailor with a broad gesture — “what is your question for the spirits?”

  The sailor, who had declined to join hands with the rest of us, slowly placed his hook upon the table. “Well, I’m not sure I—”

  “Put aside your fears,” Kleppini urged. “Just as the spotted lizard writhes upon the hot sands of destiny, truth is within your grasp. Ask what you will.”

  “Well” — the sailor coughed and stroked his bristled chin — “there was this mate I had once, he fell overboard just off Spitsbergen—”

  “Yes, yes,” Kleppini intoned, “and you wish to speak to him. Very well. The black wolf which howls at the moon of providence smiles upon us. Your friend approaches now.” A ghostly tapping sound filled the room, followed by the rattling of chains. “Listen… he comes. He comes. Call out to him.”

  “McMurdo?” called the sailor tentatively. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, it is I, McMurdo,” said Kleppini, his voice now ghostly and tremulous. “It is good to hear your voice again, my friend. There is much to tell you. I see what the future holds for you. I see a great many things. You will … you will give help to a stranger… and he… he will reward you. He will reward you beyond your fondest dreams. Yes, that is what will happen… And wait! I see more… you… you will be… very happy.” Kleppini’s head sank forward in exhaustion.

  “That’s it?” cried the sailor, brandishing his hook in the air. “Help to a stranger? Rewarded? There has to be more than that!”

  “I am sorry,” Kleppini answered, once again
in the voice of Lord Maglin. “Darkness veils the third eye of the spider.”

  “But — But—”

  Kleppini silenced him with a gesture. “Who else will ask a question of the spirits?”

  The pale young girl spoke up. “I would like to ask a question, O Spirits,” she said with great reverence. “Will they speak to me?”

  With a solemn nod, Kleppini resumed his tuneless humming at an increased volume. “Yes, yes, as the golden fish swims through the crystal waters of tomorrow, the fates reveal themselves to me. Who is it you would speak with across the spirit divide?”

  “I — I have an aunt,” the girl stammered, turning a shade paler, “Aunt Gwyneth. I’d like to speak with her, if it please you.”

  “Gwyneth?” Kleppini intoned. “Yes, Gwyneth is here with us now. Even now she struggles to be heard.” Kleppini inclined his head and the chamber was again filled with ghostly tapping.

  “Hello?” Kleppini’s voice came in a wispy falsetto. “Hello? Is that my niece? Am I speaking to my own dear girl?”

  “Yes, Aunt Gwyneth!” cried the girl, considerably awed. “It’s me, Isabel!”

  “Isabel, my darling! It is so good to be with you again. I have something to tell you. Something very important... but wait! Wait! The mists grow heavier! I cannot hear you… Are you still there, Isabel?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m here,” Isabel said.

  “I’m afraid for you, my dear. I’m afraid that this young man you’ve taken up with is the wrong sort. His kind bring nothing but trouble. He is a… a disbeliever!”

  “A disbeliever?”

  “Yes! He’ll bring you grief, my dear. Nothing but grief!”

  “Then what am I to do?” asked the gullible young lady.

  “A stranger will show you a kindness,” answered the falsetto, “and you will see the way.”

  “Don’t listen to this nonsense,” said the young man, pulling at her arm. “Come on, let’s get away from here.”

  “No, leave me alone.” She pulled her arm away. “Aunt Gwyneth? A stranger, you said?” But Kleppini’s head had slumped forward once more. “Now see what you’ve done, Willard!”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Willard answered. “We’re leaving.”

  “I’m not leaving with you,” sniffed the girl. “Not with a disbeliever like you. I’ll see myself home. Or better still, I’ll ask this kind gentleman to see me home.” To my great dismay, she looped her arm through my own and rested her pallid cheek on my shoulder. “Yes! ’A stranger will show you a kindness!’ It’s happened already!”

  “Now see here, young lady—” I began.

  “Him?” The young man was outraged. “You must be joking! He’s sixty if he’s a day! Come back over here where you belong!”

  “Don’t you pay any attention to him, sir,” the girl told me. “He’s a jealous one. What’s your name, then?”

  “John Watson, but you—”

  “John Watson?” asked the old sailor, who had been silent all this time. “Say, you’re not Dr Watson, are you? The friend of Sherlock Holmes? The one who writes the stories?”

  “Well, I am, but—”

  “Dr Watson?” Kleppini was instantly alert. “You are Dr Watson? We are honoured to have you with us, sir. What would you ask of the spirits? A question from Sherlock Holmes, perhaps?”

  “No, I just… I have no question.”

  “Wait! Lord Maglin will tell us your trouble! Lord Maglin knows all! He will see to the heart of this problem.” The trumpet sounded again from behind the screen. “I am concentrating, concentrating, but it is so hard! So very hard!” He groaned tragically. “I must cast the beacon of my mind through layer after layer of the darkness of tomorrow.”

  With a sigh, I placed a handful of coins into the brass cup. In recognising me, the sailor had unwittingly compromised my errand for Holmes, but for the present there was nothing for it but to hear Kleppini out.

  “Ah… good…” Kleppini said, “good.” He hummed for a moment and then, as if struck by a thunderbolt, he opened his eyes and stared across the table at me. “There has been a murder done! A terrible, terrible murder!”

  The young salesman scoffed. “I read about that in the newspapers this morning! I knew about it already!”

  “Be patient, I begin to see more... hark! Houdini is involved! The upstart Houdini, impudent rival of the great Kleppini! He is the villain, and what is this? The great detective Sherlock Holmes is acting on his behalf!”

  I made to speak but Kleppini silenced me with a gesture. “Oh, I see it all now,” he gasped. “I see everything. Houdini, he has stolen some secret documents from the government of this fine country and... oh! Dare I say it? The woman he murdered, she was a noblewoman! A countess! And Houdini killed her!”

  “Is this true, Dr Watson?” asked the girl fearfully.

  “Certainly not,” I began. “Certainly not–!”

  “Hark!” cried Kleppini. “Hark! All will be plain soon enough, for here is the countess herself! She comes to speak with us! The murdered woman comes!” Kleppini fell silent as the rattling chains and tapping noises swelled through the room again. Now, even I began to feel a trifle anxious, though I had been long since convinced of the fraudulent nature of the seance.

  “Dr Watson?” came Kleppini’s falsetto. “Dr Watson, it is I, the Countess Valenka!”

  The voice, like the one belonging to Aunt Gwyneth, was tremulous and ghostly.

  “Dr Watson… take pity on a murdered woman! Please, I beg you… see that justice is done!” The voice quivered tragically. “Sherlock Holmes has made a mistake! He thinks that Houdini is innocent, but he is wrong! Houdini stole the papers! He stole them! And then… oh! And then he murdered me! Oh, take pity, Dr Watson! You are a good man, take pity!”

  This slanderous dupery was more than I could bear. “Stop it, Kleppini!” I cried, leaping to my feet. “Stop this preposterous nonsense at once!”

  “Take pity, Dr Watson,” the wavering voice continued, “pity a poor murdered woman—”

  “I insist you stop it!” I seized Kleppini by the collar and lifted him to his feet. He blinked his eyes and shook his head as if coming out of a deep sleep.

  “What — what’s happened here? I’ve been in a trance!”

  “You know perfectly well what’s happened,” I snapped back. “You have been disgracing the memory of a decent woman, and you have been accusing an innocent man of her murder!”

  “Wait” — Kleppini rubbed at his temples — “yes… yes, I begin to remember a little. But I assure you, Dr Watson, whatever the spirits said is true. They do not lie.”

  “We know the truth! You are breeding superstitious lies, Kleppini! You are a fraud! A fraud!”

  “Fraud? You call me a fraud?” I had deliberately touched a sensitive point, recalling Houdini’s old humiliation of the inferior magician. “It is you who are the fraud, Dr Watson! You and Sherlock Holmes both! Why did you come here? Because you think I am involved! Hah! Ridiculous! The great Sherlock Holmes, accusing an honest spiritualist... it is he who is the fraud! He has failed! Yes! He tries to find the secret papers? He cannot! And why not? Because they have slipped through the fingers of the great Sherlock Holmes. A murderer! Important documents stolen from under the nose of Sherlock Holmes! He has failed Houdini, and he has failed his country, and who knows what will be the result?” Kleppini fell back on the cushions with a malevolent laugh.

  “Now see here,” I cried, my limbs shaking with rage, “Sherlock Holmes has yet to fail anyone in this case. Harry Houdini will be proven innocent! I will stake my reputation on it just as readily as Holmes has done. And as for my country, she is safe. Even if the papers are never recovered—” I paused, realising that I was on the point of a dangerous admission, but too caught up in the emotion of the moment to stop myself. “Even if the papers are never recovered, we are none the worse. There is still one document in the government’s possession, one document which safeguards against those which were stole
n. So long as we have that, England is safe.” I threw another handful of coins into the brass cup. “There now, my friend, why don’t you look into your own future. I wonder if it is as bright?” I thrust aside the curtain and rushed from the booth.

  Cursing myself I hastened to the far end of the pier and stared angrily out over the Channel. Not only had I made a fool of myself, there was little telling what damage I had done to Holmes’s investigation. If only I hadn’t let my name slip out! If only that old sailor hadn’t been so quick to recognise me!

  “Dr Watson,” came a voice from behind me. The young girl from the reading had followed me onto the pier. “My young man would like a word with you.”

  “Really now,” I said, considerably exasperated, “simply tell your young man—”

  “He is quite insistent. You will find him by the shooting-range.”

  Very well, I thought to myself as I started off down the pier, not only had I made a bollix of the confidence Holmes had placed in me, but now I would no doubt have to fight a jealous lover for this bloodless schoolgirl. I approached the shooting-range full of the conviction that whatever became of me was no more than I deserved.

  I spotted the young man by his striped jacket, hunched over a rifle, making short work of a series of china targets. He was a first-rate shot.

  “See here, young man,” said I, hoping to appease him.

  “In a moment,” came the reply, as five more shots found their targets.

  “Nice shooting, sir,” said the pitchman, when all the targets had been broken. “Here’s your prize, then.”

  Acknowledging the pitchman with a nod, the fellow turned at last to face me. “Here you are, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes, handing me a large cloth bear.

  *George IV’s summer palace, an elaborate imitation of the Taj Mahal. Watson probably considered it an inexcusable tax burden; others merely found it hideous.