Harry Houdini Mysteries (5 page)

“So you might think,” Bess continued, “but what if the message contained some private, deeply personal piece of intelligence—something that no stranger could possibly have
known? A pet name, for instance, or a memory of some birthday or anniversary?”

Biggs hesitated, stirring the crumbs of his bundt cake with his fork. “I still wouldn’t believe it,” he said.

“Nor would I,” said Bess, “but a fair number of people in Topeka were persuaded otherwise.”

Biggs set down the fork. “You told them that you were communicating with their families?”

“Not in so many words,” I said. “We brought the lights low, and Harry walked forward and stood alone at the edge of the stage. He looked out over the audience and told them that he could see spirit forms hovering in their midst. His voice quavered as he said this, and his hands were seen to tremble.”

“I was mesmerizing,” said Harry.

“It was one of his more remarkable displays,” I agreed. “He spoke in a quiet, reverent voice and kept his eyes closed and his body rigid, as though the exertion of this contact with the other side was threatening to overwhelm him. Then he started to call out names. ‘Mr. Alexander Botham. I sense the presence of your wife. She is here with us tonight. She is happy on the other side. She wishes you well. Mrs. Mabel North, your daughter Helen is being well looked after by her spirit family. Your mother is with her, and your Aunt Catherine.’”

An expression of distaste passed over Biggs’s face. “That’s cruel, Houdini. Giving people false hope that way. You got those names off tombstones.”

Harry nodded and his eyes grew unfocused. “It was unforgivable,” he said quietly.

“Believe me, Biggs,” I said, “we’ve both had occasion to think better of what we did that night. At the same time there was something quite moving about it. I found I couldn’t take my eyes off the faces in the crowd. There was something extraordinary in the way they kept glancing at one another, half afraid, yet half hoping that Harry might call upon them. If we had stopped it there, I might actually have persuaded myself that we had given
them a strange form of consolation. But we took it too far.”

“How do you mean?” Biggs asked.

I glanced at Harry. He looked away. “After half an hour or so, Harry suddenly drew back, and his eyes went wide with alarm, as though he had sensed a new and dangerous presence in the theater. He walked to the lights and peered out over the heads of the crowd, focusing on something that only he could see. ‘Who is this?’ he said. ‘It is a man, but who is he? He is badly injured, I can see. He walks in a halting manner. He does not speak, yet I can sense that his soul is restless and troubled. He draws closer. What do I see? Why—why—it is horrible! His throat is cut! The blood flows freely from the wound, and he—’ “

“The dead man,” said Biggs. “The one who’d been killed in the bar fight.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And it caused an uproar. By the time Harry called out the man’s name, women were screaming from the balcony. Men were on their feet with their fists raised, ready to fight off the angry spirit. There were some who fainted dead away and others who ran from the theater.” I shook my head at the memory. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It was inexcusable,” said Harry. “It was only then that I realized how easily one might prey upon the fears of the public. I might have become a considerable success as a medicine show huckster, but I could not bring myself to walk that path.”

“Oh, come now, Houdini,” said Biggs. “I saw you jump off a bridge once, and I’ve always been convinced that you stayed underwater longer than necessary just to throw a good scare into the crowd. Isn’t it much the same thing? Aren’t your escapes just another form of spook show?”

I expected that the accusation would send Harry into an indignant bluster. To my surprise, he appeared to weigh the question carefully. “There is an important difference. When I do my escapes, the audience feels a degree of fear because they themselves are afraid of what I am facing. They are afraid of being confined. They are afraid of dark places. They are afraid of
drowning. But they are afraid on my behalf, not for themselves. And when I am successful, it is as though they have seen their fears conquered. Not so with the spiritualists. There is nothing honest in what they do. They do not conquer death. Instead they feed upon the fear of death. Such false coin must be nailed to the counter at any cost.”

Biggs looked at my brother as if for the first time. “You sound almost human, Houdini.”

Harry had gone back to his Chicken Debrecen. “No need to trouble yourself over it.”

Biggs grinned and leaned back in his chair. “Do you know anything about a man named Lucius Craig?”

Harry snorted. “A charlatan.”

“You know him, then?”

“By reputation only. But what a reputation! It is said that he has the power to float to the ceiling! That he can elongate his body! That he is resistant to all forms of pain!” Harry leaned forward in a confidential manner. “It is even said that he can walk through walls!”

“Harry,” I said, “you don’t believe any of that, do you?”

“Of course not, but what a
chutzpanik
!”

“Pardon?” asked Biggs.

I thought for a moment. “Someone who possesses an unparalleled degree of gall and brazen nerve.”

“A charlatan!” Harry repeated, brandishing his fork. “But is it not fascinating that a man should be able to convince so many people of such abilities? What a showman he must be!”

“I had dinner with him last night,” Biggs said.

Harry’s eyes brightened. “Did he float to the ceiling?”

“Certainly not. But he did some rather astonishing things, and for the life of me I can’t figure out how he could have done any of them.”

Harry waved his hand impatiently. “Of course not. You are a blockhead.”

“I’m a blockhead?” cried Biggs incredulously. “This from a
man who can scarcely walk without dragging his knuckles on the ground? My dear Houdini, I have a pair of socks back in my room with more brains than you have.” He gestured at the remains of Harry’s dinner. “That chicken, though dead, could undoubtedly defeat you in a contest of wits! And you have the gall to call me—”

He broke off as my mother turned from the stove and raised a finger of warning.

“Mr. Biggs,” said Bess, laying a hand on his arm. “Harry didn’t mean it that way. It’s a term used in medicine shows and dime museums to describe the uninitiated. A blockhead is simply another term for a ticket-holder.”

Biggs glanced at me. I nodded.

Harry appeared to be ignoring us. “So many blockheads,” he said. “An entire planet filled with them. It is no great feat for a clever magician to prey upon willing and susceptible minds. If people want to believe in ghosts, it is not difficult to provide a ghost for them. I might just as readily claim that I am able to read minds because I am able to divine which card has been chosen from a shuffled pack. But Lucius Craig, there is a different matter.”

“You don’t mean to say you put any credit in his nonsense, Houdini? Even you couldn’t be quite so”—Biggs cast a wary eye at my mother—“even you couldn’t be quite so... open-minded.”

“Do I believe that he can float from an open window? No. Do I believe that he can stretch his body to twice its length? Of course not. Yet he has been received as an honored guest in the homes of the Vanderbilts and the Astors, while I struggle to earn my keep as a sideshow attraction. That in itself is remarkable, would you not agree? I should like to know how he does it.”

Bess had been watching her husband with considerable interest during this exchange. “How do you know so much about Lucius Craig, Harry?”

“Houdini knows many things,” he said.

The answer did not entirely satisfy her. “Harry,” she said, “you promised you would have nothing to do with spiritualists ever again.”

“And I shall not. I don’t think his modus operandi would be particularly suitable for a married man, in any case. He seems to have a habit of attaching himself to wealthy widows.”

“Just so,” said Biggs. “He finds a rich society matron and attaches himself like a leech.”

“Yet it is said that he accepts no payment for his services,” Harry offered.

“That’s true,” Biggs admitted, “but he would hardly require a fee, would he? He allows himself to accept the lavish hospitality of his hostesses, and he is continually showered with extravagant gifts from grateful clients. It seems he’s been making his living in this manner for years.”

“Still,” Harry returned, “who but a widow would have need of the services of a man who claims to contact the dead? And who but a wealthy one would have the resources to pursue the matter?”

Biggs raised his chin. “Houdini, you almost sound as if you have a certain sympathy for this man!”

“He fascinates me,” Harry said. “That is all.”

“Don’t be fooled, Biggs,” I said. “I’ve heard him argue the other side of this matter with equal vigor. If you’re looking for someone to help you with your story on the mysterious Mr. Craig, Harry’s your man. Not me.”

Biggs’s distaste at the prospect of collaborating with my brother could be plainly read on his features. “It’s not a story,” he said, “at least not yet. I was there last night as a favor to a friend.”

“A friend?” Harry asked.

“Mrs. Clairmont’s son, Kenneth. He and I were at school together.”

“School?” Harry turned to me. “Then you must know him as well, Dash.”

“I believe Biggs is referring to New Haven, Harry.”

“Oh.” Harry rolled his eyes. “College.”

“Kenneth and I weren’t terribly close,” Biggs continued, “but he always seemed a decent sort of person. Quiet, very studious. In any event, Kenneth seems to think that I can be of some use. He’s concerned over the influence that Lucius Craig is exerting on his mother and asked me to look into the man’s background. Our files turned up very little, I’m afraid. After last night’s demonstration, I decided I’d better ask someone with a bit more experience in the spirit realm.”

“Very well,” said Harry. ‘Tell me everything. Begin with last night’s séance. Omit nothing, no matter how seemingly insignificant.” He leaned back in his chair and assumed an expression of utmost concentration, with his eyes closed and his fingers steepled at his chin. “To a great mind, nothing is little.”

Biggs glanced at me and raised his eyebrows.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” I said. “He thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes.”

Harry waved a hand for silence. “Data! Data! Data! I can’t make bricks without clay!”

Biggs sighed. “Actually, Houdini, I’ve come to take Dash for a drink at the Waldorf. I suppose you’d better join us.”

Harry opened his eyes. “Surely this is no time for carousing, Biggs. If you’d care to have my assistance, I am willing to give it. If not, Dash and I have an important rehearsal.”

“I’m meeting Kenneth Clairmont there.”

“Ah.” Harry nodded. “Our young client. Very good.”

“He’s not a client, Houdini. He’s a friend of mine and he’s asked for help. However, if you are too busy with your rehearsing, I’m sure that Kenneth will understand. I should hate to deprive the Broadway season of its newest sensation.”

Harry’s brow darkened but he said nothing.

Biggs glanced at his pocket watch and rose from the table. “We’d best be getting along,” he said. “I told Clairmont I would meet him at the Peacock Alley.” He turned to my mother and took her hand. “Mrs. Weiss, once again you have surpassed
yourself. The meal was delectable. There is none finer to be had in all of New York.”

Mother blushed. “You were getting too thin. It is not good, the empty stomach walls rubbing together.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Come along, Dash. You, too, Houdini—if you’re coming. It’s nearly half past seven.”

“What an exceptional watch,” said Harry.

Biggs patted the watch pocket of his waistcoat. “Thank you,” he said. “It belonged to my grandfather.”

“Swiss?”

“Yes.”

“Might I see it?”

Biggs unhooked the watch from his chain and passed it over. “It came to me through my father,” he said. “The case is white gold, and the face is hand-painted ivory. You can see the inscription on the inside cover.”

Harry examined the watch with elaborate care. “A remarkably fine timepiece,” he said. “This might be just the thing for my new act.”

“Your act? I hardly think so.”

“No? I assure you, it promises to be the sensation of the new Broadway season. Allow me to demonstrate.” With a flourish, Harry threw back his head, parted his lips wide, and dropped the watch into his mouth.

“Houdini—!” cried Biggs.

“A most delicious pocket watch,” Harry said, amid loud crunching noises as he worked his jaws. “How very delectable. There is none finer to be had in all of New York.”

“Houdini, what the devil—!”

Harry swallowed with exaggerated relish. “Ah!” he patted his stomach. “I believe that a drink at the Waldorf might be just the thing to wash it down.”

Without another word, he turned and made his way down the back stairs.

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