Harry Houdini Mysteries Page 10

  Craig’s hands fluttered to his lapels. “Very well,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “but first I must ask a favor of young Mr. Houdini.”

  Harry looked up. “A favor?”

  “Indeed,” said Craig, smiling contentedly. “I must ask that you tie me up.”

  “What?” Harry appeared truly shocked. “Tie you up?”

  “Don’t look so surprised, Mr. Houdini. I don’t know what, if any, spirit phenomena we may expect when we resume our experiment, but whatever may happen, I do not want you to accuse me of having manipulated the conditions afterwards. I can think of no other proof against your skepticism than to allow you to bind me to this chair.”

  “Lucius, this seems very irregular,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “If you are tied to the chair, how will we maintain the spirit circle? You must be able to touch the hands of the sitters on either side of you.”

  “That is so,” said the medium, weighing the problem. “Suppose Mr. Houdini were to lash my wrists to the arms of the chair? I should still be able to grasp the hands of my fellow sitters, but I would not be able to move in any other manner. Would that satisfy you, Mr. Houdini?”

  Harry considered the matter. “It would,” he admitted. “It would, indeed.”

  Craig’s mouth pursed with satisfaction. “Brunson? Have we any rope about the place?”

  The butler nodded. “I believe there is some line for the washing, sir.”

  “Please be so good as to fetch it.” The medium turned to my brother as Brunson departed on his errand. “Now, then, Mr. Houdini, I must once again emphasize that I do not know what will happen when we make our foray into the spirit realms, but I want there to be no doubt about my ability to perpetrate any type of fraud. You must tie me securely. Do you happen to know anything about ropes and knots? If not, perhaps one of the other gentlemen might—”

  “I believe I am equal to the task,” Harry said carefully. “I know a bit about ropes and knots.”

  “Excellent! Well, then, I await the outcome with great interest!” Craig linked his hands behind his back and drifted over toward the sideboard, helping himself to a small brandy from one of the decanters.

  After a moment Brunson returned with a length of thin but sturdy braided hemp. Harry fell on the rope and examined it with careful attention, pulling to test its strength and examining the length for signs of wear. When he had satisfied himself, he asked that Mr. Craig be seated in the chair. The medium drained the last of his brandy and then settled himself with an air of amiable resignation. He placed his arms upon the rests, and there began the most thorough job of binding and trussing I have ever beheld. Harry did not so much tie the man’s arms as seal them within a cocoon of hemp. The rope was cut into several lengths, and each of these was wrapped and knotted with a tidy precision that would have brought credit to a surgeon closing a wound.

  “My goodness, Mr. Houdini!” cried Craig when the operation was complete. “I do hope you will be able to untie all of these knots once we’ve finished!”

  “We shall have to cut you out,” Harry said firmly. “When Harry Houdini ties a man up, he stays tied.”

  “So I gather,” said Craig with a rueful smile. “In the circumstances, then, I must ask that each of you assist me in restoring the proper conditions for the continuation of our experiment. Mr. Grange, lock the door, if you would. We must not be disturbed at the crucial moment. Dr. Wells, put the lights down. Illumination is painful to the spirit presence. Kenneth, please take the chalk slate and replace it at the center of the table. Thank you, gentlemen. Brunson, please set the music box going once again. Yes, that is most pleasant. Good. Take your places, please. Let us begin anew. Perhaps we may enter into a realm that will astonish even Mr. Houdini.”

  Once more we joined hands around the octagonal table, with Mrs. Clairmont and Mr. Grange stretching their hands out a bit farther to clasp those of the confined Mr. Craig. The medium said a brief prayer and then closed his eyes for some further moments of silent contemplation. He had left a candle burning at the center of the table so that we might be able to find our places without difficulty. Now, having completed his meditations, he directed Brunson to extinguish the flame, plunging the room into total darkness.

  In the sudden gloom I was aware only of the strains of Mozart rising from the music box and of the sound of Craig’s voice. The medium spoke in his normal fashion, with only a slight measuring of his words to indicate the gravity of the circumstance. He discoursed at some length on the “mystic wonders” to be found in the spirit realm and the “glorious contentment” that awaited all who were ready to embrace this message.

  After a time Craig began to address himself to the spirits themselves, calling out as if beckoning a reluctant friend to join in a dance. “Will you give us a sign?” he asked. “Will you manifest in some way? There are friends here who would be most grateful.”

  There was a sound near the bookcases. I strained my eyes against the gloom but could see nothing. Mr. Craig kept up his invocation, making it difficult to focus on any stray noises. “Are you there?” the medium continued. “Is that you? You are most welcome in this circle. We greet you with open hearts.”

  There was a soft clanking noise and then a strange glow was visible, a streak of greenish light against the sheer cloth of the medium’s spirit cabinet. I heard a gasp from Mrs. Clairmont as several of the others shifted for a better view.

  “Have a care, my friends!” Craig warned in an urgent tone. “Do not break the circle!”

  “But what is it?” came Kenneth Clairmont’s voice.

  The medium gave him no response. “Come forward, if you can,” said Craig, calling out to the glowing shape. “Do not be timid. We rejoice in your presence.”

  What I saw next thoroughly unnerved me. As the greenish illumination moved closer, growing brighter as it advanced, we heard another metallic sound, like a chain dragging across stone. Suddenly, and quite startlingly, we could make out the dim outline of a human form hovering in the air. Its back was turned toward us and the arms appeared to be folded. As we watched, it seemed to pulse and flicker like a dancing candle flame.

  “My God!” came a gasp from Mrs. Clairmont. “Jasper? Is it—can it be you? Do you hear me?”

  And then, uncannily, the figure whirled round, and we were confronted with the most ungodly sight I have ever beheld. The memory of it chills me even now. It was a face, human in form but demonic in aspect, with a sharp chin and nose, angled brows, and a pair of bright embers where the eyes should have been. One hand gestured wildly in the air, slashing at the empty space with a long-bladed knife, while the face contorted with malevolent glee.

  Mrs. Clairmont gave a cry that seemed to shake the house to its foundation.

  “Augusta!” cried Dr. Wells. “Are you all right?”

  “Lights!” shouted Kenneth Clairmont. “Brunson, get the lights back up!”

  All of this I registered only later, for at the sound of Mrs. Clairmont’s scream I leapt from my chair and raced toward the strange apparition. As I neared it, however, I collided with a heavy, grunting figure, and both of us tumbled to the ground, our limbs tangled in a useless mass. At that moment, the lights were restored.

  “Harry,” I cried, pushing my brother away. “Get off! I was trying to see what that thing was!”

  “As was I,” he answered ruefully, rubbing at his head. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

  Harry pointed to the spot near the bookcases where the strange vision had appeared. Nothing seemed out of place. Meanwhile, Dr. Wells and Kenneth were hovering beside Mrs. Clairmont, who had fallen into a swoon.

  “Kenneth,” Dr. Wells was saying, “fetch my bag from the front hall! Some smelling salts should do the trick.”

  “I—I’m all right, really I am,” said Mrs. Clairmont in a feeble voice, as her eyes fluttered open. “What must you gentlemen think of me? I feel such a fool.”

  “Don’t speak, Augusta,” said Dr. Wells. “You’ll be yourself s
hortly.”

  “You needn’t fuss over me, Richardson. I assure you I’ll be fine.” She raised herself to an upright position. “Mr. Craig? Could that have been my husband?”

  The medium was still bound securely to the chair, his face pale and anxious. “I could not say, I’m afraid. This was unlike anything I have ever experienced. The energies in this room are really quite unfathomable.” He shuddered visibly, as though sensing a malign presence. “Perhaps someone might help me out of these ropes. Mr. Grange, would you—? Mr. Grange. Are you unwell, sir?”

  Mr. Grange sat stiffly in his chair, his eyes wide with alarm. “Jasper,” he said in a stricken voice.

  At that moment, Kenneth Clairmont returned with Dr. Wells’s medical bag. “Mother,” he called, “are you feeling any better? I’ve brought—What’s wrong with Edgar?”

  Dr. Wells moved toward the lawyer. “Shock, I expect.”

  Grange gave a soft groan and appeared to be trying to shake off his indisposition. “Jasper,” he repeated.

  “Come on, now, Edgar,” said Dr. Wells. “Here’s a nice brandy for you. You’ll get your strength back presently.”

  Then the lawyer slumped forward. It was evident—from the knife protruding from between his shoulder blades—that his strength would not be returning any time soon. A ragged gasp escaped from the dying man’s lips. His left arm snaked forward across the surface of the table.

  “Jasper,” he groaned, as his eyes turned glassy. A spasm shook his body as his fingers strained to touch the spirit slate lying at the center of the table. It was only then, as Grange’s eyes closed for the final time, that I noticed the message written in a faint, scrawling hand. I snatched up the slate, scarcely able to believe my eyes.

  “Dash?” My brother looked up from Mr. Grange’s side. “What does it say?”

  I flipped the slate toward him and listened as he read aloud:

  “Judgement is at hand.”

  6

  A FLESH AND BLOOD KILLING

  “EVENING, HARDEEN,” SAID LIEUTENANT MURRAY, TAPPING THE brim of his hat. “You’re looking fit.”

  “You don’t seem all that surprised to find me here, Lieutenant.”

  “Why should I be? Your brother sent me a wire. At home, I might add. I was off duty.”

  “Harry sent a wire?”

  “Sure. It arrived as I was sitting down to a lamb stew. ‘Man stabbed by ghost,’ he says. ‘Come at once. Great Houdini investigating.’”

  “And yet you came,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I came. I mean, I could have stayed home, I suppose, knowing that the investigation was proceeding with the Great Houdini at the helm, but I thought an official presence might be of some use.” He sighed and took off his hat.

  I had been acquainted with Lieutenant Patrick Murray for more than a year at that time, and if I had not known better, I would have attributed his disheveled appearance to the haste with which he answered the summons. Tall and beefy, Lieutenant Murray always managed to give the impression of having shaved and dressed in total darkness. His rumpled brown suit had acquired a few more gravy stains since our previous meeting, and he appeared to be wearing his collar inside out. His eyes, by contrast, were sharp and piercing, in spite of the drooping lids and watery edges, giving him the aspect of a fierce, if bedraggled terrier.

  Less than one hour had passed since the discovery of Edgar Grange’s murder, and in the intervening time the circumstances surrounding his death had only grown more mysterious. Kenneth Clairmont confirmed that the door to the room had been securely bolted when he went to fetch Dr. Wells’s medical bag, and a brief examination turned up no indication that the lock had been forced. The only other access to the room was through the windows, and these were also firmly secured from within.

  Immediately following the unhappy discovery, several things had happened in rapid succession. First, Mrs. Clairmont had collapsed in a demure and elegant heap on the floor, requiring the application of lilac water to her pulse points. Next, the police were summoned to begin the process of examining, measuring, and recording every aspect of the scene. While awaiting their arrival, Dr. Wells and I had fetched a carving knife from the kitchen and used it to cut Lucius Craig free from his bonds. After Lieutenant Murray’s appearance, as the others were shown downstairs, Harry and I were asked to remain behind to answer questions.

  No sooner had the others left the room than my brother threw himself down on his hands and knees and began an energetic examination of the plum-colored carpet beneath the séance table. The police noted his strange behavior with a respectful interest but did nothing to disturb him, as though he might be a wealthy, if unbalanced, relation of the hostess.

  Lieutenant Murray surveyed the scene for a few moments with his hands shoved in his pockets, then listened to a preliminary report from the leatherhead who had been the first on the scene. After a moment, he sidled up to me and jerked his thumb at the floor, where my brother had progressed to rubbing his fingers along the base of the séance table.

  “What’s he doing?” the lieutenant asked.

  I watched as Harry plucked a splinter from beneath the table, sniffed it twice, and then carefully wrapped it in his handkerchief. “I believe he is examining the scene with the energy of a bloodhound,” I said.

  The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s something he picked up in a Sherlock Holmes story.”

  “Ah.” Lieutenant Murray led me to the bay window. “All right, Hardeen,” he said. “Let’s hear it. From the beginning. How did this happen and why are you and your brother in the middle of it?”

  I spent the next twenty minutes or so relating the events of the evening for him and detailing the manner in which Harry and I had come to be included in the gathering. Lieutenant Murray interrupted several times to pose a question or seek clarification, and as I spoke he filled several pages of his notepad with dense printing. When I’d finished, the lieutenant closed up his notepad and looked back at the scene with a shake of his head.

  “A ghost, you say?”

  “Well, a glowing figure of some sort. An apparition, say.”

  “And this thing had a knife in its hand?”

  “So it appeared.” I shook my head, hardly able to believe what I was saying. “It was very difficult to see. It couldn’t have been visible for more than a few seconds, and it kept flickering in and out. When I first saw it, I thought it was simply a streak of light. Then it resolved itself into that horrible figure.”

  “With a knife.”

  “Yes. With a knife.”

  “And when the lights came back up, the lawyer had been stabbed.”

  I turned to look at the séance table, where Edgar Grange’s body was still being examined by the police physician. “That’s right, Lieutenant. Incredible as it may sound.”

  The lieutenant flipped a page in his notebook. “It was completely dark before the ghost showed up?”

  “I couldn’t have seen my own hand in front of my face.”

  “And your hand wouldn’t have been there, anyway,” he said. “Not with all of you clutching one another in a circle around the table. That means that if one of you broke away to kill the lawyer—”

  “At least two others sitting at the table would have known it,” I said. “The person sitting on the killer’s right and left would have had to release his hands. And his feet, for that matter.”

  Lieutenant Murray looked again at Harry, who was now fingering the scrollwork on one of the chair legs. “With all due respect, Hardeen, your account has to be taken with a grain of salt. You did just tell me that you and the rest of them saw a ghost in here.”

  “I didn’t say I saw a ghost,” I replied. “I said there was some sort of glowing apparition.”

  “Glowing apparition. Right. Well, whatever it was, there must have been some pretty considerable confusion when it appeared. I don’t imagine everyone was paying the closest attention to what
was going on around them. Somebody could have slipped free.”

  “It’s possible,” I agreed, “but the others are all insisting they kept hold of each other through the whole thing. Lucius Craig insisted on it. He seemed to feel that the minute the psychic circle was broken, the apparition would vanish. It seems our collective energy is what allowed it to manifest itself.”

  The lieutenant appeared bemused. “Your collective energy, you say?”

  “I’m just telling you what was said.”

  Lieutenant Murray studied the table. “You and your brother don’t seem to have been too concerned with collective energy,” he said. “The two of you both broke away to go after this—what did you call it?”

  “Glowing apparition.”

  “You have a real way with words, Hardeen. Anyway, the circle was broken at that stage. That must be when the killer struck.”

  I shook my head. “He couldn’t have known that Harry and I were both going to jump up from the table.”

  “No, but it would have been a pretty safe bet that some sort of commotion would break out once the ghost put in an appearance.”

  I considered it. “The killer would have had to know in advance that there was going to be a manifestation. He’d have had to know about the ghost beforehand.”

  The lieutenant nodded. “Exactly.”

  I lowered my voice. “Lucius Craig,” I said. “But he was wrapped like a mummy, Lieutenant. We had a devil of a time cutting him free afterwards. He couldn’t possibly have stabbed Mr. Grange.”

  Lieutenant Murray did not reply. Instead, he stepped over to the body of Edgar Grange, which was still slumped forward across the séance table. Dr. Peterson, a short, round-faced man with a halo of startlingly white hair, was crouched nearby.

  “Finding anything, Doc?” asked Lieutenant Murray.

  The doctor straightened up and brushed off his knees. “The fatal injury was caused by a single knife thrust between the third and—”