Harry Houdini Mysteries Page 4

  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.

  3

  A TRICK OF THE HINDU FAKIRS

  WE WERE NEARLY AT THE WALDORF, 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—”