Harry Houdini Mysteries (6 page)

W
E WERE NEARLY AT THE
W
ALDORF, RIDING IN AN OPEN CALASH,
by the time I persuaded Harry to return the watch. Make no mistake, Harry could easily have eaten the watch had he wished it, as there is a fair amount of truth in an omnivore act. From my vantage, however, I was able to see that he had simply palmed the watch and substituted a small chicken bone, which accounted for the crunching sounds that had so alarmed Biggs.

“You’re a primate, Houdini,” Biggs said, wiping the watch on his coat sleeve before returning it to his pocket. “You really are.”

“One day you will plead for the honor of an interview,” Harry said serenely. Biggs slumped back against the hard leather seat and glowered for the remainder of the journey.

The Waldorf-Astoria had only recently opened, as I recall. Today, of course, the original building is long gone, knocked down to make room for the Empire State Building, but at that time it was one of the most splendid buildings in New York. I barely had time to register the gleaming marble expanses and ornate staircases as Biggs rushed us through the main reception area. We hurried past the grand clock at the center and made our way toward the Peacock Alley bar.

As we pushed through a set of etched glass doors we were greeted by the low murmur of male voices. The dim lights were made to seem even dimmer by the dark wood panelling and
low tin ceiling. Heavy plumes of cigar smoke hung in the air, all but obscuring the faded Venetian tapestries on the rear walls.

Biggs hesitated in the doorway for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Upon spotting his friend seated alone at a table near the back, he waved aside the maitre d’ and led us past the bar.

“Kenneth!” Biggs cried as we approached the table. “What’s that you’re reading? The
Herald
? I’m surprised they allow such a liberal sheet in here!”

“Not so liberal as all that, Biggs,” the young man answered. “I’ve just been reading your screed on the events in Manila Bay. You’re becoming something of a saber-rattler.”

“Well,” replied my friend, “it sells the newspaper.”

“That’s a rather feeble justification for war, Biggs.”

“My editor takes a different view. He’ll soon tire of the conflict, I expect.”

“Let us hope so.”

Kenneth Clairmont was a slight, pale man of roughly my own age, with clear, intelligent eyes behind a pair of round spectacles. He wore an understated brown suit of fine Scottish wool with a black mourning band on the arm. Along with the newspaper there was a book on the table in front of him—the latest novel by Richard Harding Davis—and I guessed that Clairmont was a man who preferred reading to the usual bar room chatter.

Biggs made the introductions as we took our seats. Clairmont greeted us with enthusiasm and signalled for a steward. “I’ll have another Walker’s and soda,” he said, lifting his empty glass. “I imagine my learned friend here will take the same. Hardeen, what can I offer you?”

I shuddered at the thought of what a drink would cost in such a place. “Nothing for me, thanks,” I said.

“Absurd!” cried Biggs. “The same for Dash, as well.”

“Excellent,” Clairmont said, smoothly maneuvering past my embarrassment. “I should be thought a poor host otherwise. How about you, Houdini?”

“I do not drink,” Harry said.

“Not at all?”

“I have embarked on a rigorous course of muscular expansionism. Alcohol has an inhibiting effect.”

“You don’t say?” Clairmont lifted his empty glass and examined it critically, then turned back to the steward. “Better make mine a double measure, then. Will you take a glass of minerals, Mr. Houdini?”

“Mineral water is fine,” my brother said.

The steward nodded and moved away while Clairmont rose to greet a pair of older gentlemen who were approaching our table. From their conversation, I gathered that the two had been colleagues of Clairmont’s late father. The young man spent several moments in earnest conversation, then resumed his seat. “This place was a great favorite of my father’s,” he said, by way of explanation. “I’m forever running into his friends and associates. I don’t know why I keep coming back, to be honest. I never came here before.”

“It is a natural thing,” said Harry quietly. “When our father passed, I found myself walking through the park each day along the same path where he took his exercise. Each day I would be stopped by people from the neighborhood who knew him. They would tell me stories of things he had said and done—small things, but they meant a great deal to me. It is a comfort at such times to know that one is not alone.”

Clairmont nodded, and once again I caught Biggs staring at my brother with transparent surprise, as though Harry had suddenly shown himself to be fluent in ancient Sumerian.

“I suppose we must all find a way of coming to terms with our ghosts,” said Clairmont, glancing up as the server returned with our drinks. “Biggs tells me that you have some experience in this line—ghosts and spiritualists and all that.”

“A bit,” I said. Clairmont listened attentively as I recounted much of what I had told Biggs about our spook show days. He asked several questions and seemed particularly intrigued by the
manner in which we had been able to transform idle gossip into seemingly miraculous spirit revelations.

“So it was all fakery?” he asked when I had finished.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Very artful fakery,” Harry added.

“Have you ever known of a genuine medium?”

Harry leaned forward. “Lucius Craig, you mean?”

“Exactly. Could he be the genuine article?”

“No,” I said. “There is no such thing.”

Harry swirled the water in his glass. “I wonder.”

“Mr. Clairmont,” I said, “just because a man rattles a tambourine doesn’t mean he is trafficking with the spirit realm. You are in a fanciful frame of mind because of your recent loss, and perhaps this has left you more receptive to Mr. Craig’s blandishments than you might otherwise have been. I can assure you that you will not find answers in the séance room. You may safely send Mr. Craig on his way.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Clairmont said, raising his glass to his lips. “My mother is quite taken with him. She has been very distraught since my father—since my father—” He set down his glass and stared down at the tabletop for a moment. “Well, I suppose you know all about it. My father took his own life—suddenly and without warning of any kind. My mother simply cannot accept that he should have done this. Her health has always been fragile, and I have worried that the strain might prove too much to bear. I am studying medicine, as it happens, and have been able to care for her to some extent, but she is not a strong woman.” The corners of his mouth turned down slightly as he took another sip of his drink. “I fear that fetching powders for my mother may be as close as I come to an actual medical practice.”

Biggs looked up at this. “What do you mean, Kenneth?”

“Father’s death has forced me to reconsider my choice of career. There is a place waiting for me in the family firm.”

“The shipping business? You’ve always loathed it!”

The young man shrugged. “I hardly have a choice in the matter. My father is gone, and my uncle is of no use. If the business is to stay a family concern, I must step in.”

Biggs shook his head. “But your medical studies! What about—?”

“My father always wished me to abandon them,” Clairmont said briskly. “It seems he’s won the point after all. In any case, it has no bearing on the matter at hand.”

“Lucius Craig?” asked Harry.

“Money,” answered Clairmont. “My father’s money. As you may know, my father amassed a considerable fortune over the course of his lifetime. It is to be expected, then, that my mother should attract her share of suitors once her mourning period has ended. Make no mistake, my mother is a charming woman, and I would be quite delighted if she were to find companionship after a suitable interval, but it is my nature to be cautious on her behalf.”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. “You think she is liable to fall prey to fortune hunters?”

“She has too much common sense for the average Lothario, and up to this point she has limited her social engagements to a small circle of family intimates. It is possible, I suppose, that she might in time form an attachment to one of this group. My father’s friend Dr. Wells, for instance, has been spending a great deal of time at the house, and our family lawyer, Mr. Edgar Grange, has been seen about the place rather more often than his official business might dictate. But these are both men of considerable means. If they evince a social interest in my mother, I like to think that their intentions are genuine. Lucius Craig is a different matter entirely.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Harry. “How did your mother meet him?”

“It was at a dinner party given by one of her friends, Mrs. Watkin. As it happens, the occasion marked the first time that my mother had ventured out of the house since my father’s
passing. She had heard a great deal about the remarkable Mr. Craig, and her curiosity got the better of her. Mr. Craig did a few of his minor miracles that evening, and my mother—”

“Were you present?” asked Harry.

“I was.”

“Describe these minor miracles, please.”

Clairmont laced his fingers behind his head as he collected his thoughts. “As I recall, it was only through the most persistent pleadings from Mrs. Watkin that Mr. Craig was persuaded to give any sort of demonstration. He made a great show of reluctance, then agreed to make what he called ‘a modest effort to commune with the spirits.’ He asked that each member of the party place some small object into a hat at the center of the table. He was very careful to specify that the objects be personal in nature. The items were gathered while Craig himself stepped out of the room. When he returned—”

“He was able to identify the owner of each object,” Harry said, “and he was able to reveal some private fact about each person.”

“Exactly! You’ve seen him perform the feat?”

“I’ve done it myself,” Harry said. “It is not terribly difficult.”

“Come now, Houdini,” said Biggs. “How have you been able to bring off such a thing?”

Harry waved his hand as if batting at an insect. “Later,” he said impatiently.

“Well, Mr. Houdini,” Clairmont continued, “I can’t vouch for your abilities, but by the reactions of my mother and the other guests, you would have thought that Mr. Craig had parted the Red Sea. My mother happened to be carrying a stickpin that had belonged to my father. When Mr. Craig grasped it, he seemed to know this at once. ‘This belonged to the late husband of the charming Mrs. Clairmont,’ he said. ‘Her husband was obviously a man of great cunning and intelligence, who also had a deep appreciation of life’s bounty.’”

“A deep appreciation of life’s bounty,” said Biggs with a snort.
“Who would disagree with such a thing? He was simply telling your mother something she wanted to hear.”

“I would have agreed with you, but when it came to be my turn Mr. Craig did something that left me absolutely baffled. I had taken care to provide an object that I felt certain would stymie him. Instead of putting forward my collar stay or something of that nature, I borrowed a fountain pen belonging to Mrs. Watkin’s butler, Lachley.”

“Very clever,” Harry said, appraising Clairmont with fresh interest.

“My little deception proved ineffective. Craig puzzled over the fountain pen for some time, then he looked at me and said, ‘Young Kenneth seeks to confuse the matter. This is not the pen of a young student, but that of an older man, a man born to serve others with dignity and grace—though perhaps a bit overly fond of the fruits of the vine.’ And poor Lachley, who had been standing close by with a tray of fruit cups, nearly collapsed from embarrassment. It was a triumph for Mr. Craig, but ever since that day he has been wary of me. This has not prevented him from attaching himself to my mother, however.”

“How did this come about?”

“Well, Mr. Houdini, it was clear from the first that my mother had been captivated by the possibility of contacting my father’s spirit through Mr. Craig. That very evening she drew him aside and acquainted him with the unhappy circumstances of my father’s death. She knew that he claimed to have the power to speak with departed souls and wished to know whether it might be possible to reach my father in this manner. Mr. Craig professed to be ambivalent, saying that such communications are not always possible and adding that my father might not yet have completed his ‘translation’ to the other side. But my mother would not be dissuaded, and Mr. Craig eventually agreed to visit us at our home the next day.”

Harry fingered the rim of his glass. “Did he conduct a séance?”

“Hardly, Mr. Houdini. That’s what’s so infuriating about this
man. He husbands this so-called gift of his as though it were some precious metal that wears away with use. It is only with the greatest reluctance that he will make any sort of demonstration at all, such as the trick of matching the objects with their owners. He continually dangles the promise of a séance before my mother, but there has always been some reason to prevent it. He will say that there is a negative energy permeating the room or that the stars are in an unfortunate alignment. He does just enough to sharpen the edge of my mother’s interest but no more. The result, of course, is that she must continue to entertain him in high style, in the hope that he will become able to use his powers on her behalf.”

“I take it that he is now a regular visitor at your home?” I asked.

“It is more than that, Mr. Hardeen. He has taken up residence. My mother insisted on it. At first he would simply call in for an hour or two. In time he began to accept small gifts and he would occasionally pass the night in one of the guest rooms. Soon enough, however, we had reached our present circumstance, which finds him installed in a suite of rooms and given the run of the house. As if that wasn’t sufficient imposition, we must also give lodging to his young daughter, Lila.”

“His daughter travels with him?” I asked.

“He claims that she is a catalyst for his psychic energies, so of course nothing will do but that she is entertained in the same high style as he. She is an odd little girl. Quiet and watchful. She makes me uncomfortable.”