The Floating Lady Murder Read online

  “He—he’s in training. He’s been in there an awfully long time.”

  “Oh.” I stood up again. “I’ll just go and make sure he’s still with us.”

  “Yes, run along, Theodore,” Mother said. “Tell your brother his breakfast is getting cold.”

  “Among other things,” Bess said.

  I hurried down the center hall to the water closet and gave a quick rap on the door. Receiving no answer, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

  As Bess had indicated, Harry was having a long bath, as one might have expected from one so fastidious in his personal grooming. What might have struck the casual observer as odd, however, was that my brother was entirely submerged beneath the waterline, and there were large chunks of ice floating on the surface.

  I should perhaps explain that it was not unusual for my brother to bathe in ice water. He had recently hit upon the idea of leaping from bridges, fully tied and manacled, in order to win free publicity for himself. It was his hope that a regimen of cold immersions would inure him to the shock of the frigid river waters. At the same time, these long sessions in the family bathtub gave him an opportunity to build up his lung power.

  I glanced at my Elgin pocket watch and waited as two minutes ticked past. How long would Harry stay down? How long had he been down before I arrived? I perched on the edge of the tub and stared down at my brother. His eyes were closed, his hands were clasped across his stomach and his expression was entirely peaceful. A tiny trickle of air bubbles escaped from the corner of his mouth. I looked again at my watch. Three minutes.

  I took off my jacket and unfastened my shift cuff. Reaching down, I dipped my hand in the water and tapped my brother on the shoulder. Harry opened his eyes and let out a watery cry of delight, sending up a rush of air bubbles. “Dash!” he cried, breaking the surface abruptly. “Did you see me? I believe that may have been a new record!”

  “Harry, you need to be a bit more careful,” I said, noting the bluish tinge of his lips. “How long have you been in there?”

  “Oh, not long,” he said carelessly. “But that was certainly one of my better sessions. I believe I might have stayed down there another minute or two if you hadn’t startled me. It’s a question of mind control, really.” He rose dripping from the tub and reached for a towel. “I’ve been reading the most fascinating little monograph about the fakirs of India. It seems that they can suppress their breathing altogether when the conditions are right. What did they call it? Kakta? Kafta? Never mind. I understood what they were driving at. It has to do with the power of the mind.” He vigorously towelled himself dry and slipped on a robe. “It seems that if one can learn to focus the mind’s energy upon a single—say, Dash, what are you doing in here, anyway?”

  “I’m the only talent agent in New York who makes house calls,” I said, thrusting the Mirror notice at him. “Cast your eyes on that!”

  “A job?” Harry asked. “At last! I was beginning to think I’d never—” He snatched up the paper and scanned the item. “What?” he cried, his features darkening. “Impossible! It won’t do at all!”

  “But—why—?”

  “I wouldn’t even consider such a thing!” He tossed the paper aside. “The very idea is preposterous!”

  “But Harry—?” I picked up the paper and looked again at the Kellar notice, wondering if there had been some mistake.

  “Not at present, in any event. That sort of thing might do for you, Dash, but the Great Houdini must look elsewhere.”

  I followed him down the hall to his bedroom, where he persisted in giving voice to his ill opinion as he dressed in his familiar black suit, starched white shirt and red bow tie. The peroration continued as he led me back along the corridor to the kitchen. We arrived just as mother was serving up a steaming bowl of porridge oats, a dish I have never been able to tolerate. I noted with rising alarm that a place had now been set for me.

  “Sit down, boys,” Mother said, pouring out a fresh pot of tea. “It will be cold soon.”

  “Mama,” I said weakly. “I told you that I’d already had breakfast at Mrs. Arthur’s.”

  “And did Mrs. Arthur give you a nice cup of wheat grass tea?” Mother asked sweetly.

  “No, but—”

  “Was there a slice or two of brown toast?”

  “No, but I—”

  “And does Mrs. Arthur give you fresh cream with your porridge?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “Then you haven’t had breakfast.” Mama touched the back of my chair and beamed at me. It was a smile that would brook no resistance. “Sit, Theodore,” she said.

  With a sigh, I shrugged my shoulders and took my seat. Harry was already tucking a napkin under his chin. “Why do you fight it, Dash?” he asked, amused by my evident discomfort. “You can’t possibly expect to do a full day of work without one of Mama’s breakfasts.”

  “I’ve already done a day’s work,” I replied. “You’re just too pig-headed to acknowledge it. You just aren’t—” I broke off as Mother leaned in to fill my tea cup. “Thank you, Mama. You just aren’t prepared to be reasonable, Harry.”

  “What’s this all about, Dash?” asked Bess, who had now taken her place next to Harry. “You never did show me the notice.”

  I passed across the newspaper I had rescued from the floor. “ ‘Staff required,’ ” she read. “Why, that’s wonderful! Harry, whatever is the matter with you? Mr. Kellar’s magic show is the finest in the world! It’s perfect for us! He travels for months at a time, often to exotic foreign countries! Australia! China! Russia! Can you imagine? There might be as much as a full year of steady work for us. Perhaps more!”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him,” I said. “He won’t hear of it.”

  “I just don’t think it’s quite the right opportunity for us,” my brother said, staring down into his tea cup.

  “Harry,” I said with considerable heat, “you and I are only one step removed from taking up our old positions at the tie factory. It’s the only steady work we’ve had in months. Is that what you want? Do you want to be a tie cutter for the rest of your life?”

  “No, Dash, but neither can I throw myself at every job you find in your newspaper. You’ll have me working as a carnival busker next. Besides, I think that Mr. Kellar’s day has passed.”

  “Indeed?” Bess folded back the newspaper and began to read. “ ‘Mr. Kellar has been entertaining in Philadelphia, New York, and Chicago for the past three seasons. He perplexed the natives of Philadelphia for 323 consecutive performances at the Temple Theater; he amused New York for 179 consecutive performances at the Comedy Theater on Broadway; and at the Grand Opera House in Chicago he found it worth his while, last summer, to give 103 consecutive performances before bringing the run to a close over the strenuous objections of the management.’ ”

  “Sounds like a career in trouble,” I said with lifted eyebrows. “The poor man can probably barely keep body and soul together.”

  “Eat your porridge,” said Harry.

  “ ‘Mr. Kellar’s fame is scarcely less luminous upon distant shores,’ ” Bess continued. “ ‘In recent years he has appeared before Queen Victoria at Balmoral Castle, Emperor Napoleon at the Palace of St. Cloud, the Czar of Russia at the Winter Palace of St. Petersburg, and Dom Pedro II of Brazil at the Imperial Palace of Rio de Janeiro.’ ”

  “That’s absurd!” cried Harry. “Napoleon has been dead for more than fifty years!”

  “I believe it may have been a reference to Napoleon III,” I said.

  “Oh. Well, it’s misleading, in any case.”

  “ ‘The principal appeal of Mr. Kellar’s entertainment consists of the rare and startling phenomena to which his own original and collective brain has given existence,’ ” Bess resumed. “ ‘His work seemingly sets at naught all natural laws. It is replete with mysticisms and those occult deeds ordinarily ascribed to the redoubtable Prince of Darkness. Yet everything is simply done, and Mr. Kellar frankly d
isclaims any supernatural agencies. There is no entertainment similar to it in the country, nor is there any word in the English language which can properly describe it. It is entirely sui generis.’ ”

  “What?” asked Harry.

  “Sui generis,” I said. “Means ‘in a class by itself.’ ”

  “Why doesn’t he just say so!” Harry reached for a slice of toast. “Sui generis, indeed.”

  “ ‘Mr. Kellar is as entirely different from the work of the commonplace magician as the electric light outshines its coal-oil predecessors,’ ” Bess continued. “ ‘His phenomena are unique, amusing, and full of utter impossibilities developed from his own inner consciousness. The man himself is a marvel. He has traversed every part of the civilized as well as the uncivilized globe. He speaks with ease all the modern languages, and half a dozen besides of Asiatic and African dialects. He charms you by a grace of manner that is bewitching; he entrances by the subtle power which he so greatly possesses, and mystifies and bewilders you by the deftness and dexterity with which he executes his remarkable feats. He is simply a marvel beyond the comprehension of the ordinary mortal.’ ”

  Bess neatly folded the newspaper and placed it beside her plate. “Mr. Kellar would seem to have a very spirited press agent,” she said.

  “Or perhaps an energetic younger brother,” I suggested.

  “His day has passed,” Harry repeated. “The man is still performing the Enchanted Fishery! I ask you!”

  “Harry,” said Bess, placing her hands flat on the table. “Out with it. Opportunities like this one don’t come along every day.”

  Harry picked up his teaspoon and polished it with his napkin. “Bess,” he said to the spoon, “you must defer to my experience in these matters. My long years upon the boards have given me a certain amount of expertise when it comes to—”

  “Harry,” Bess said again. “Out with it.”

  My brother stirred his tea, carefully avoiding her eye.

  Bess simply folded her arms and waited him out. It didn’t take long. Harry stirred his tea for another minute or so, whistling a carefree tune and trying to appear unconcerned. Still avoiding Bess’s eye, he began to hum and rap his fingers on the table. Then he gave a heavy sigh and his resolve crumpled. The truth was that my brother could withstand a long submersion in icy bathwater far better than his wife’s disapprobation.

  “You don’t understand, Bess!” he cried in a sudden rush. “It isn’t fitting! The Great Houdini is no mere stagehand! The Great Houdini is not a simple lackey to be ordered about at the whim of Mr. Harry Kellar! I am an artist! I am an original! I am the man whom the Milwaukee Sentinel called the ‘most captivating entertainer in living memory’! I will not beg for scraps from the table of Mr. Harry Kellar!”

  Bess looked over at me and nodded. At least now the cards were on the table. “Harry,” she said in a much softer voice, “think of the experience. Think of the contacts. It could be the break you’ve been needing.”

  “It is impossible,” he insisted. “Besides, he is a mere magician! I am an escape artist! I am the world’s foremost self-liberator!”

  “Harry,” I said, pushing away my bowl of porridge. “So far as we know, you’re the only self-liberator on the face of the earth. We’ve been over this before. No one knows quite what to make of your act. Sure, you’ve had some good notices, but it’s hard to build a career on a few scattered successes. The Kellar show could give us all some seasoning.”

  “Seasoning!” he snorted. “Mama, do you hear that! Dash thinks I need seasoning!”

  “Is that right, dear?” asked Mother, who had little time for idle chat when there was a goulash on the stove.

  “Seasoning! As though I were a pepper roast!”

  By way of a reply, Mother nudged my porridge bowl back in front of me. “Eat, Theodore,” she commanded.

  “Seasoning!” Harry said again. “Imagine!”

  I lifted my tea cup and watched to see what my sister-in-law would do. She was a woman of many talents—an excellent singer, a graceful dancer, and perhaps the finest magician’s assistant ever to carry a dove pan or clatter box. But of all her gifts, by far the greatest was her remarkable ability to manage my brother’s various moods and tempers. I watched as she carefully assessed her husband’s latest display of pique and considered her options. After a moment, she picked up a slice of brown toast from her plate and nibbled at a corner. “I suppose you’re right, Harry,” she said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin.

  Harry lifted his eyebrows, clearly surprised. “Indeed I am,” he said quietly.

  “He is?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” Bess said. “After all, Harry has a certain reputation to consider. It wouldn’t do for a man of his considerable renown to be seen as a mere assistant. What was it your father used to say? About a man and his reputation?”

  “He said that a man’s reputation is his greatest treasure,” Harry declared.

  “Indeed.” Bess took a sip of tea. “Quite right. We won’t discuss the matter any further.”

  I regarded her with some fascination.

  “Best not to say another word on the matter.” She gazed serenely into her tea cup. “And yet...” she added, as though a new thought had struck her, but then she thought better of it and let her voice trail off.

  “What is it, Bess?” Harry asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. Let’s not speak of it.”

  “No, tell me, Bess,” Harry insisted. “We must have no secrets between us.”

  “Well,” she said, with considerable reluctance, “it’s just that I’ve read so much about Mr. Kellar, and I seem to recall—no, let’s not speak of it. I’m sure you know best, Harry.”

  “Bess.” Harry reached across and took her hands. “Please tell me what you are thinking. Although you lack a man’s training and experience, I believe that you possess a certain—a certain naive wisdom that is always refreshing. Please, tell me what troubles you so.”

  My sister-in-law gave a demure sigh. She may have even fluttered her lashes. “Very well,” she said. “When Mr. Kellar was a young man, he served as an assistant to a very well-known magician, did he not?”

  “He did,” Harry confirmed. “The Wizard of Kalliffa.”

  “But it wouldn’t be quite accurate to describe their relationship as that of master and apprentice, would it? They were really more like father and son, were they not?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Harry, warming to the subject. “The Wizard came to regard Kellar as his heir.”

  “I see,” said Bess. “So in many ways, Mr. Kellar’s career has served as the continuation of a great magical pedigree. A form of show business royalty, you could say.”

  “I suppose so,” Harry allowed.

  “Yes. A pedigree. I find myself wondering, could it be that Mr. Kellar has reached the stage of his own life where he finds himself ready to pass the mantle to some worthy newcomer? Is it possible that he is looking about for some eager and talented young man who shows himself willing to work hard and honor the great traditions of the craft?”

  Harry put down his spoon and regarded Bess with narrowed eyes.

  “And wouldn’t it be a shame,” she continued, “if Harry Houdini, who is easily the brightest light of his generation, should miss this opportunity because he was too proud to answer a simple newspaper notice?”

  “Bess—”

  “Tell me, Harry, how did the young Harry Kellar first come to the attention of the Wizard of Kalliffa?”

  Harry turned his head away from us, as though he had caught sight of something fascinating in the wallpaper. “He answered a notice in the newspaper,” he said softly.

  “ ‘Staff required,’ ” said Bess. “That’s all the notice says. It seems foolish that we should not even trouble to see what positions Mr. Kellar is looking to fill. We have no other engagements at present, and no other calls upon our attention. Wouldn’t it be simple enough to present ourselves at the theater and see what opportunity a
waits?”

  Harry turned back toward us. “There may be something in what you say.”

  “A man must keep an open mind in this day and age, Harry. Wasn’t that another of your father’s lessons?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, gathering conviction. “Indeed it was.”

  “Well, then,” said Bess. “It’s decided.”

  As it happens, I can’t recall my father ever having said anything about keeping an open mind, and it must be said that open mindedness was not his greatest strength. At that stage, however, as Harry became caught up in his wife’s reasoning, she could just as easily have convinced him that our father had desired us to colonize the ocean floor.

  “Dash, we shall call at the theater this afternoon!” Harry cried, springing to his feet. “We shall show him the substitution trunk! Mr. Kellar will be positively dazzled! Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if he places us at the head of one of his touring companies! After all, a talent such as mine doesn’t come along every day! Mr. Kellar would be wise to have me as a colleague, rather than a competitor! Come along, Dash, we must get the trunk out of the store room!”

  Bess poured herself another cup of tea, then looked up to find me staring at her with frank admiration. “Dash,” she said with a smile, “you’ve hardly touched your porridge.”

  She may have lacked a man’s training and experience, but— as Harry had suggested—she possessed a certain naive wisdom that was always refreshing.

  2

  THE MAN FROM MESOPOTAMIA

  “HARRY,” I SAID, AS OUR HORSE-CART TURNED ONTO BROADWAY, “would you care to explain why you’re rubbing beef fat onto your shoe?”

  “Uh...” he gave me a sidelong glance. “For luck.”

  “For luck? You’re slathering animal lard onto your shoe for luck?”

  “An old show business custom.”

  We were riding in the back of the neighborhood milk cart, having bribed the delivery man, Bert, into hauling our magic trunk down to the theater district. Along the way Harry had insisted that we stop at a local butcher’s shop, where he had darted inside in a state of high animation. Moments later he had emerged carrying a small brown parcel, which proved to be a strip of moist beef tallow. “Just the thing,” he told us, as he energetically rubbed grease into the leather of his shoe.