The Floating Lady Murder Read online

  TITAN BOOKS BY DANIEL STASHOWER

  THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES

  The Dime Museum Murders

  The Floating Lady Murder

  The Houdini Specter

  THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

  OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

  The Ectoplasmic Man

  THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES: THE FLOATING LADY MURDER

  Print edition ISBN: 9780857682925

  E-book edition ISBN: 9780857686206

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: February 2012

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2000, 2012 by Daniel Stashower

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  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Printed and bound in the USA.

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  THE

  FLOATING LADY

  MURDER

  CONTENTS

  1. Oh, You Wonder!

  2. The Man From Mesopotamia

  3. The Lion’s Bride

  4. Curious And Utterly Baffling Surprises

  5. I Charm The Ladies

  6. Hardeen To The Rescue

  7. Mr. Kellar’s Finest Hour

  8. The Curse Of Kalliffa

  9. The Mark Of Kendall

  10. A Visit To Cousin Chester

  11. Karnac In Flames

  12. A Ponderous Carpet

  13. A Little Something On Our Stomachs

  14. Once More Unto The Breach

  15. Killer On The High Wire

  16. Miss Becker’s Revenge

  17. The Great And Powerful Kellar

  1. The Man With The Cast-Iron Stomach

  About The Author

  1

  OH, YOU WONDER!

  AGAIN, THE DREAM.

  A dark curtain lifted and he saw his brother, blue and lifeless, hanging upside down in the Chinese Water Torture Cell. Harry was bobbing gently in the grayish water, his hair pulsing like seaweed, his arms folded across his chest as though settled snugly into a coffin. He could see every detail. The dark mahogany and nickel-plated steel of the cabinet. The thick glass panels. The tiny clusters of air bubbles clinging to his brother’s nose and lips. He could even hear the ominous strains of music rising from the orchestra pit. “Asleep in the Deep.”

  He would take a step closer, then, as the music started, and stretch out a hand as if to touch his brother’s face. A terrible urgency would grip him as he knelt beside the front panel, peering through the clouded glass. Already he could hear the voices calling from behind, pulling him away.

  A moment longer. That was all he required. In another moment, surely, his brother would open his eyes and give a sly wink. The blue-tinged lips would break into a smile as a stream of air escaped. Another moment. Just one more moment...

  And then the ringing of the alarm. The dream always ended this way, leaving him confused and doleful. Perhaps next time, he thought.

  The old man swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to a wash stand in the corner, trying to dispel the foggy residue of gloom. He chided himself as he made his way down the hall to bathe, and by the time he returned to his room to dress he began to feel better. Why did he let it trouble him so? He glanced at the calendar. That was it, he told himself. It seemed impossible, but another year had passed. He hoped that perhaps this year the anniversary might pass quietly. He sat down and began polishing his black wing-tips, just in case.

  He had finished brushing his jacket and was considering a damp press for his collar when he heard the front door chime. He parted the curtains and peered down at the front stoop. A reporter. No mistaking it. The old man had known plenty of reporters in his time, and he recognized the type. Slouch hat, pencil behind the ear, well-thumbed note pad. In fact, it appeared to be the same man who had come out the previous year. What was his name? Matthews, was it? Yes, Matthews. Call me Jack. He’d brought another photographer with him, too.

  He heard the chime again and listened for the sound of Mrs. Doggett’s footsteps galumphing through from the kitchen. Mrs. Doggett kept a clean house and did not much care for this annual intrusion of cigarette-smoking newspapermen from the city. She would show Matthews and the photographer to the parlor with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. A moment later she would return with a tray of tea and Keepa cakes, clucking all the while.

  The old man hurriedly fastened his collar and knotted his filetto silk tie, regarding himself in the hall mirror. He had selected his best coat, merino wool in a crow’s foot pattern, but now he wondered if it might be showing a bit of wear. Were the pockets sagging? Were the shoulders riding a bit high? He ran a hand through his hair and centered his Windsor knot. He knew, at his age, that time spent preening was time wasted. Might as well go downstairs in his robe and slippers. Still, he had standards to maintain. In the old days, they called him “Dash.”

  The old man studied his reflection and wondered if there would be time to go down the hall and splash on a bit of Lendell’s toilet water. No, he thought, probably not. Already he could hear Mrs. Doggett coming to the foot of the stairs, calling up to him about the visitors in the parlor. He frowned over his cuffs and picked at a loose thread on his elbow. Ah, well. The show must go on.

  They came every year, these reporters, on the anniversary of his brother’s death. Just once he wished they might spare a question or two about his own career. Say, Mr. Hardeen, you were quite a celebrated performer yourself in those days, weren’t you? You had a record-breaking run at the London Palladium, isn’t that right? But no, it would be the same old shibboleth: Tell us about your brother, Mr. Hardeen. Tell us about Houdini.

  The old man paused with his hand on the bannister and wondered what he would tell them this year. He had long since exhausted his supply of boyhood anecdotes, though “Enrich of the Air” was always good for half a column or so. My brother would hang upside down from a makeshift trapeze in our yard, and he would pick up needles with his eyelashes! That one was a complete fabrication, but the reporters seemed to like it. Or maybe he could trot out that perennial favorite about the Belle Island Bridge leap in Detroit. The river had frozen over, but my brother refused to cancel the stunt. “But Harry!” I cried. “How are you going to do an underwater escape when the river is frozen over?” “That’s simple,” he replied, “we’ll chop a hole in the ice...”

  No, not this year. That one was beginning to wear a bit thin. Wasn’t true, in any case. Not a word of it. Harry started putting that one about in 1906. Funny how things catch on.

  The Floating Lady, perhaps. That one might be good for a column or two. Incredible story, really, if he decided to tell all of it. Certainly they would be familiar with the illusion. Was there anyone left in the world who hadn’t seen the Floating Lady by now? The
y call it different names—Asrah, Levitation, Lighter Than Air—but the effect is always the same. A female assistant is placed under “hypnosis” and then made to float in mid-air. These days, of course, it’s thought to be a bit old hat. Decades of endless repetition on the stage has robbed the effect of its power. They’ve even started to do it on television, where everything always looks like a cheap sideshow. But it was different back then, back when the Floating Lady was a prize worth having. That one effect in a magician’s repertoire could guarantee years of work on the Orpheum or the Keith circuit. It could make a man’s fortune.

  See how she floats, as though on a gentle zephyr, borne aloft by the hypnotic force of animal magnetism. Please don’t make a sound, ladies and gentlemen, for the slightest disturbance may break the spell...

  The old man stopped outside the parlor door. But would he tell all of it? Would he tell them about Kellar? About the enchanting Francesca Moore? About Servais Le Roy and that astonishing hoop skirt? He hesitated, smoothing his lapels while he tried to arrange the details in his mind. Yes, he told himself, it could work. Besides, who would be harmed if he told the story now, after so many years? All he needed was a hook—a snappy curtain-raiser to catch their attention and hold it. He frowned over the loose thread at his elbow. Ah. Certainly. Very well, then.

  You see, young man, Harry and I were present when that famous illusion was created. Oh, yes. No one has ever heard this story before, because it had a rather tragic outcome, I’m afraid. The first time it was performed—the first lady ever to float in mid-air—well, she died. The trick killed her. How? Well, that’s a very strange thing.

  And here the Great Hardeen would allow himself a dramatic pause. You see, young man, she drowned.

  The old man smiled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to greet his interviewer.

  I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews? Yes, that’s what I said. She drowned. Yes. While doing the trick. While floating. Yes. In mid-air.

  Pardon? You’d like to hear about it? Well, it’s rather a long story, and you seemed so interested in that Belle Island Bridge leap, perhaps you’d prefer if we—no? Very well, but I must warn you that it’s been many years since I’ve thought back on the Floating Lady, and it’s possible that some of the details may have grown a bit muddled. Mr. Kellar made us both promise that we’d keep silent about the matter, out of respect for Miss Moore, so I’ve never had occasion to tell the story before. But it can hardly matter now, can it? They’re all long gone. So far as I know, even Silent Felsden has never—pardon? My apologies. I suppose I’m getting a bit ahead of the story.

  I seem to recall that the newspapers were in high dudgeon over the tragedy of the U.S.S. Maine, so it must have been January, or perhaps February, of 1898. Times had been pretty hard for Harry and myself. We’d had a brief burst of notoriety the previous year when we successfully escaped from Sing Sing prison, but it hadn’t lasted long. Harry had yet to find regular work of any kind, and was a long way from achieving the worldwide fame he so desperately craved. My job in those days was to serve as Harry’s advance man and booking agent. “You will sort through the various offers and opportunities as they present themselves,” Harry had informed me, “and you will inspect each potential venue to determine whether it will be suitable for the Great Houdini.” To be candid, there wasn’t a whole lot of sorting and inspecting required. I don’t recall that a single offer or opportunity ever “presented itself” in the manner that Harry imagined. I had to go out and beat the bushes. Much of my time was spent knocking on the doors of talent scouts, sitting in the waiting rooms of booking agents, and twisting the arms of theatrical managers. I can’t say I was especially good at it. Every so often Harry pulled a week or so at one of the Dime Museums down around Union Square, and sometimes we’d do a month or two with the Welsh Brothers Circus, but on the whole we lived fairly close to the bone.

  I was twenty-one years old at the time, and Harry was two years older. We were barely out of short pants in some respects, but when it came to show business, we felt like old hands. Worse, we were beginning to feel washed up. Strange as it may seem, in his youth Harry did far better as a magician and circus performer than he did as an escape artist. The “self-liberation” act had yet to find its audience, and Harry had not yet cultivated his genius for self-promotion. Whatever bookings came our way usually owed something to the bright sparkle of Harry’s wife, Bess. There wasn’t a theatrical manager alive whose icy heart failed to melt at the mere sight of Bess. I suppose you couldn’t have called her a beauty in the conventional sense, but there was something about her that just stopped you right in your tracks. Trust me on this.

  One of my duties as Harry’s manager was to keep an eye on the notice columns of the New York Dramatic Mirror. That’s where I saw Kellar’s posting, and I suppose that’s how all the trouble began. I read the Mirror religiously each morning with my tea and toast, trolling for tips and opportunities, and I would remain a faithful reader for many years, long after I no longer had the need. It was a marvelous paper, filled with column after column of news bits, booking information and “situation wanted” notices. I especially loved the back pages, where the call and response of daily business was played out in tiny snippets. Toupées manufactured, discretion assured. Stage gowns fitted, credit available. Voice culture lessons, the speaking voice thoroughly trained and developed. Stage dancing, positions secured. Over time, one could track the waxing and waning of a career or touring company. Edwin Thanhouser, Light Comedian, At Liberty. Grand Annual Tour of the Brilliant Comedienne Alma Chester, Supported by a Powerful Company of Recognized Artists in a Repertoire of Splendid Scenic Productions. Wanted by Mabel Paige: A Gentleman of Reputation to Work with her in a Sketch for Vaudeville.

  Truth be told, it was seldom that I came across a notice that held any promise for Harry or myself. On that particular morning, however, it appeared that our prospects had suddenly brightened. There, on page 28, beneath a booking call for Proctor’s Leland Opera House, was a thick, blocky headline reading: “Oh, You Wonder!” Beneath it were the words: “Opportunities with the Famous Magician Kellar.” A photograph of the great man stared out at me, with the familiar egg-shaped bald head and clear, searching eyes.

  I need hardly say that the name of Harry Kellar was as familiar to me as my own. Without question he was the most famous magician in America, and perhaps the entire world. Indeed, at that time there were many who ranked Kellar ahead of Bosco and Signor Blitz as the greatest conjuror of all history. His staging of an illusion entitled “The Witch, The Sailor, and The Enchanted Monkey” had been the sensation of the previous season, and the catch phrase “Oh, You Wonder!” had been on the lips of every member of his vast audiences.

  My heart quickened as I read the small print beneath the photograph. “Staff required for ’98–’99 Season,” it read. “Apply Dudley McAdow, Mgr., 131 B’way.” I folded the paper into thirds and reached for my coat and Trilby. Our troubles were over, I told myself. I felt certain Harry would be overjoyed by this news.

  With my heart aglow at the prospect of steady employment, I hurried to my mother’s flat on East 69th Street. In those days, Harry and Bess lodged with Mother as a matter of economy, while I kept a room at Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house seven blocks away. Finances being what they were, it would probably have been better for all concerned if I had stayed at home as well, but I could not bring myself to do so. I felt that a man of twenty-one ought to be cutting the apron strings and making his own way in the world, though my brother held quite a different view. Also, I fancied myself as something of a dashing rake at the time, and I feared that living at home might place unwelcome restrictions on my social life. That particular concern, I regret to say, was unwarranted. Apart from the occasional night of theater with my friend Biggs, and a periodic hand of whist with fellow lodgers at Mrs. Arthur’s, my social calendar was not overburdened. I spent a great deal of time at the library.

  I arrived at East 69th Street to find my mothe
r hovering over the stove as always, preparing the cabbages and carrots for a goulash. The air was heavy with paprika.

  “My darling Theodore!” Mother called as I came through the kitchen door. “Sit! Sit! I will bring you a plate! You could use a little something on your stomach!”

  It was a familiar greeting. In my carnival days I often had occasion to work with a 412-pound man named Hector Armadale. Hector was a delightful fellow and a wonderful storyteller, and it was always my hope that I would find an opportunity to bring him home to my mother, just to see if she would insist that this professional fat man could “use a little something on his stomach.”

  “Good morning, Mama,” I said, setting my hat on the sideboard. “Thank you, but I won’t take anything to eat just now. I have already had my breakfast.” I nodded at my sister-in-law, who was stirring a pot of heavy porridge oats. “Good morning, Bess.”

  “Good morning, Dash,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Why are you so bright and eager this morning?”

  “I come bearing the promise of steady employment,” I replied, brandishing the Mirror. “There might be something here for all three of us!”

  “Thank heaven,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mama and I have been taking in extra sewing, but—”

  “I know, I know,” I said. “But this could be the solution to all our worries, if only he can be made to see it that way. Where is the justly celebrated self-liberator, by the way?”

  “You mean the all-eclipsing sensation of the stage? The man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel described as the ‘most captivating entertainer in living memory’?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “He’s still in the bath.”

  “He’s running a bit late this morning,” I said, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Normally the smell of Mama’s porridge is enough to—”

  “Actually, Dash, you might want to go check on him.”

  “Pardon?”