Harry Houdini Mysteries (17 page)

“That explains why he was in such heated conversation with Edgar Grange last night. The two of them appeared to be arguing over something when Harry and I arrived.”

“No doubt Foster was trying to pry another fat check out of the estate. I saw much the same display. I understand most of the money is still tied up, and a good deal of it will pass straight to Kenneth—on the condition that he enters the family firm.”

“The family firm,” I repeated, fingering the ragged edge of a yellowed clipping. “Biggs, when we met Kenneth the other night, you seemed greatly surprised that he appeared willing to give up his medical aspirations.”

“I’ve known Kenneth for some time, Dash, and he has always been determined to become a surgeon. He has a talent in that direction and his instructors saw great promise in him. But he’s the only son and heir apparent to the Clairmont shipping empire, and his father simply wouldn’t hear of him entering another profession, no matter how honorable.”

“Harry and I have chosen a rather different path from the one our father envisioned for us. Surely Kenneth might have defied his father.”

“If Mr. Clairmont had lived, I have little doubt that Kenneth would have stuck to his guns. You heard him the other night, though. He doesn’t feel he can turn his back now that his father is dead. He considers it his duty to look after his mother.”

I recalled that my father had extracted a deathbed promise from Harry and me to look after our mother. Even in our hardest times, we always managed to send home a small portion of whatever meager earnings we had.

“Biggs, is there some manner in which the death of Edgar Grange releases Kenneth from his obligation to enter the family firm?”

My friend’s head snapped up. “That’s a rather devious thought, Dash. Are you suggesting that Kenneth murdered Edgar Grange so that he might pursue a career in medicine? It seems a rather inauspicious start to a life of healing, wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m only trying to figure all the angles,” I said. “Everyone else seems to have a possible motive—or at least some form of grudge against the dead man. If we are to rule out Kenneth as
a suspect, we must at least be candid in assessing what he stands to gain.”

Biggs shook his head. “I don’t see how Grange’s death changes things for Kenneth. His father’s finances are now thrown into further disarray, and he will now have an even more difficult time fighting off the grasping claws of his father’s competitors—not to mention those of his uncle, Sterling Foster. Apart from that, I do not see a great change in his prospects.”

“What about those of Mrs. Clairmont herself?”

“What a mind you have, Dash!” Biggs said, shaking his head. “You imagine that Mrs. Clairmont plunged a knife into the lawyer’s back? It’s a pleasing image, I’ll admit, but I just can’t feature it. Mrs. Clairmont as a kind of Lizzie Borden in pearls? You see how frail her constitution is, Dash. Moreover, there can’t be any motive.”

“Why not? We know nothing of how Grange had been managing her husband’s affairs. Perhaps he had been dipping his hands into the pot. Maybe she found him out.”

“She would surely have other forms of recourse than murdering him in a room filled with seven other people.”

I sighed. “You’re right, of course. But I can’t help but feel that there is more beneath the surface. She seems so blind in her devotion to Mr. Craig’s mediumship, I cannot help but feel that she is not quite in her right mind.”

“What about Lucius Craig himself? Surely his motives are as strong as anyone’s.”

“I should have thought that was apparent. Kenneth said as much the other night. Craig has been exerting a great influence over Mrs. Clairmont, which in turn would naturally place him in a position to influence the disposition of the Clairmont fortune. Edgar Grange had some harsh words for Mr. Craig last night. He objected to the manner in which Craig was assuming control over the household. If Grange himself had designs on the Clairmont fortune, that would bring the two men into direct opposition.”

“Which would give Craig a motive, albeit a shaky one, for murdering Edgar Grange.” Biggs reached across the manuscript table for his notepad. “You say he was tied to a chair at the time of the murder?”

“Yes,” I said. “Even Harry would have had trouble freeing himself, and when the lights came back up, Craig’s bonds did not appear to have been disturbed in any way. It would be useful to know if Craig has any background as a magician.”

“I wish I could help you there,” said Biggs, “but I’ve noticed something very curious about our Mr. Craig.”

“What is that?”

“He doesn’t seem to have existed prior to the year 1888.”

“Pardon?”

“There is simply no record of the man,” Biggs explained. “It’s as though he sprang into being just over ten years ago, clutching a snuff shaker in one hand and a chalk slate in the other.”

“He must have changed his name,” I said. “He is a performer of sorts. Perhaps he found it expedient to adopt a separate identity for his spiritualist endeavors.”

Biggs indicated the wall of battered wooden filing cabinets where the packets of theatricals were kept. “That was the first thing that occurred to me,” he said, pulling open a file drawer, “but our system of records makes allowances for such things. For instance, when I consult the packet marked
Theodore Hardeen
, I find a notation informing me that the subject’s name at birth was, in fact, Ferencz Deszo Weiss.” Biggs cocked an eyebrow. “Ferencz?”

“Named for a relative back in the old country, I’m told.”

“It suits you,” Biggs said drily. “In any case, I’ve consulted our records on immigration and all other likely sources—including prison records—and I can find nothing on Mr. Lucius Craig prior to a town meeting in 1888. Barely a decade. He is not exactly a young man, Dash. What was he doing—and under what name—prior to that date?”

“How odd. It’s as though his past has been wiped clean.”

“Well put, Ferencz.”

“You can forget you ever saw that,” I said, “and I’ll be good enough to forget that we used to call you Stinky.”

“Fair enough. But I’m still baffled as to what Mr. Craig might have been doing for the first forty years or so of his life.”

“Perhaps he was living in another country. That accent of his suggests that he’s spent considerable time in some part of Britain. Ireland, do you suppose?”

“Scotland,” Biggs said firmly. “I’d know those diphthongs anywhere. He has Scottish blood in him, as do I. The south, most likely. Auld Reekie, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Auld Reekie?”

“Edinburgh. I’ve wired to a colleague at
The Scotsman
to see if their files are any more illuminating than ours. So long as Mr. Craig’s past remains an enigma, it seems to me that there is more than one mystery hanging over the events of last night. It seems to me that it might throw some light on our endeavors if we were to discover why a man should completely obliterate all traces of his own past.”

“Sterling Foster indicated that he knew something of Mr. Craig’s history,” I recalled. “He seemed pleased that Harry and I shared his suspicions of Craig’s psychic powers. Of course, this was only moments before he took a swing at us and had to be carried from the house.”

“Foster grumbled something of that sort in my ear, as well,” Biggs said. “It had to do with the daughter.”

“Yes, but he didn’t give any specifics.”

“Nor does the file. I can find no record of a marriage, far less a notation of the daughter’s birth. Of course, this doesn’t stop Mr. Craig from using his status as a widower to play upon the sympathies of his audiences.”

“How so?”

“He makes frequent references to his ‘dear departed wife’ and ‘the sainted mother of my dear Lila.’”

“I didn’t hear him do so last night.”

“No? I did. More than once. He keeps her portrait and a lock of her hair in a silver locket. Every so often he brings it out and gazes longingly in a manner calculated to melt the hearts of any wealthy widows who happen to be in the vicinity.”

“You’re a very cynical man, Biggs.”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “Me? It’s simply a pose to deflect attention from my staggering good looks.”

“You’ve exceeded all expectations.” I fished out my pocket watch and popped open the cover. “I’d better be heading to Gramercy Park,” I said. “The lieutenant wanted us back for another round of questions.”

“Ah, yes!” Biggs cried, his eyes alight. “The suspects are assembled once more under the watchful gaze of Dash Hardeen! How long can the murderer hope to remain at large now that our intrepid amateur sleuth is on the case? The cause of justice has found a sure and steady champion in this diligent and intriguing young man, whose rakish appearance conceals the shrewd intelligence of a—”

“That’s enough, Biggs.”

“I think not!” he said, leading me through the maze of offices back toward the press room. “After all, we still have not decided which of the suspects is most deserving of our youthful paladin’s attention! Will it be the sinister Lucius Craig, whose claim of paranormal ability may conceal a darker and more earth-bound purpose? Or perhaps the bluff and genial Dr. Richardson Wells, whose youth in the rugged mining communities of California may hold the key to a surprising secret? And let us not forget the profligate brother-in-law, Sterling Foster, whose early ambitions have long since been sacrificed on the altar of Bacchus. Which of these three men had the motive and opportunity of plunging a knife into the back of the family lawyer? Or could it have been one of the less likely suspects—Kenneth Clairmont, Lila Craig, Brunson the butler, or perhaps even Mrs. Clairmont herself? How shall the brave young Dash Hardeen be able to—”

“All right, Biggs,” I said, cutting him short. “I believe you’ve
made your point. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if Lieutenant Murray had already solved the case by now.”

“Possibly,” said Biggs, climbing back onto the stool behind his compositor’s desk, “but just in case he hasn’t, I’d like you to give me your word—”

“I know, Biggs,” I said, reaching for my hat. “As soon as something breaks, you’ll be the first to know.”

8

I
SPOTTED
H
ARRY ACROSS THE GREEN AS
I
ROUNDED
E
AST 21ST
Street into Gramercy Park. His shaggy astrakhan coat would have made him conspicuous even among the crowds of Broadway, as did the fact that his gait resembled that of an elderly man.

“What’s the matter with your feet?” I asked, easily overtaking him as he reached the front of the Clair-mont home.

“Nothing’s wrong with my feet. Nothing at all.”

“Then why are you walking like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like old Mrs. Brucher from the fruit stand.”

Harry avoided looking me in the eye. “I have been doing some muscular expansionism involving weights strapped to my ankles,” he said with an air of affected nonchalance. “Perhaps I have strained a tendon. Were you able to learn anything at the newspaper office?”

I spent a few moments reviewing my conversation with Biggs for him. Harry perked up when I mentioned the mysterious void in Mr. Craig’s history.

“His background grows murkier all the time,” Harry said. “I wonder if—Dash, isn’t that Lila Craig playing in the park?” He pointed to the far corner of the green, where a slender, red-haired girl could be seen climbing in the sturdy branches of a maple tree.

“I believe so,” I said.

“I should like to have a word with her,” Harry said, crossing the street.

“She didn’t strike me as a very talkative sort,” I said, falling in beside him. “She didn’t say a word to anyone except Mrs. Clairmont last night.”

“She will speak to Houdini,” Harry said. “The Great Houdini has a marvellous way with children.”

Lila Craig scrambled down from the tree as we approached, cradling a yellow tabby cat in her arms. Again I was struck by her bright and knowing eyes, which seemed at odds with her broad, girlish face. She trailed a length of yellow yarn between her fingers, holding it out while the cat batted it.

“Hello, little girl,” said Harry as we came up beside her. “I am the Great Houdini. This is my brother, Dash Hardeen. You may have seen us last night, partaking of Mrs. Clairmont’s fine hospitality.”