The Floating Lady Murder Page 4

  “And this effect was not achieved?”

  “Not by a long shot. It looks as though she’s strapped to a barn door in a hurricane. The pendulum moves far too quickly, for one thing. And it creaks and groans like a rusty hinge. A child’s rope swing would come closer to achieving the desired impression.”

  “I see.” Harry’s eyes were fixed on the strange-looking device. “You require a slow, steady ascent into the dome of the theater, is that it?”

  “Yes,” said Collins. “But once we manage that, there’s the additional problem of concealing the pendulum from the audience.”

  Harry rubbed his hands together. “Your problem is intriguing.”

  “Have you tried counter-weighting the capstan?” I asked.

  “We have.”

  “Have you tried gear notches in the fulcrum?” Harry wondered.

  Collins looked at us with renewed interest. “We did try notches,” he said, “though it took us two days to think of it. But it didn’t work. The motion was too jerky.”

  Harry shook his head. “Then I don’t see how your Floating Lady can possibly be ready for Albany.”

  Collins sighed. “It won’t be. Mr. Kellar is dead set on having it ready when we return here in four days, but it won’t be ready for Albany. That’s why we’ve brought in Boris.”

  “Boris?” I asked.

  “The lion.” He gestured at the caged beast as it sent up another mighty roar. “Mr. Kellar is going to try something new—an effect called the Lion’s Bride. Quite a fascinating little trick, really, and it gives us a fine opportunity to make use of the skills of Miss Moore. She plays a young bride who is threatened by the lion. The curtain opens on—” He was interrupted by another energetic roar from the lion. “Damn thing is a real nuisance. Anyway, the curtain opens on—”

  “Which one of you is Mr. Houdini?” We turned toward the house seats. Mr. McAdow, having apparently finished up his business, appeared to be ready for us.

  “I am the Great Houdini,” my brother said, stepping forward. “I am the eclipsing sensation of—”

  “Houdini, huh?” asked McAdow, sizing up my brother’s powerful build. “Are you a strongman, Mr. Houdini? We could use a strongman in the ‘Circus of Wonders’ illusion.”

  By way of an answer, Harry stepped over to the wings and returned with three heavy sandbags. “Strong?” he asked, as he began to juggle the sandbags in an overhand passing pattern. “Yes, I believe I am reasonably strong.”

  McAdow’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he agreed. “I should say that you are. And the young lady with you?”

  “My lovely wife, Bess,” Harry said proudly. “She is my capable assistant as well as a talented singer and dancer. You may have noted her performance in—”

  “Very good,” McAdow said. “And the tall fellow?”

  “Dash Hardeen,” I said, tightening my grip on the brim of my hat. “I do a bit of magic, a bit of juggling. A bit of everything, in fact.”

  “That’s fine,” said McAdow. “Leave your details with Collins. We’ll be in touch if we require your services.”

  “Pardon?” said Harry.

  “The girl and the tall one are presentable enough,” McAdow continued. “If we need a strongman, there may be something for all three of you.”

  “A strongman?” Harry’s voice bristled with incredulity. “The Great Houdini is no mere strongman! You insult me, sir! I have come here prepared to show Mr. Kellar a miracle of epic proportions, a sensation of such magnitude that it will—”

  “You’ve brought a magic trick, then?”

  Harry’s head snapped back as though he had scented a foul odor. “A magic trick,” he repeated, as if amused by the impertinence of the question. “Yes, a magic trick.”

  McAdow glanced at his watch. “All right, then,” he said. “Be quick about it.”

  “Now?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the footlights. “Do you mean to say that I will not be performing for Mr. Kellar himself? The Great Houdini is to perform for a mere functionary?”

  “Sir,” came McAdow’s measured response, “as Mr. Kellar’s manager I am responsible for engaging his staff. Carry on, if you would.”

  Bess laid a restraining hand on Harry’s forearm, but he would not be humored. “Are you a magician yourself, Mr. McAdow?” he called over the footlights. “I only ask because it requires a certain degree of refinement to appreciate the miracle you are about to see. It is said that only a true musician can appreciate the genius of Paderewski. So it is with Houdini. Houdini is entirely sui generis. So I must ask again—”

  “I am in charge of the payroll, Mr. Houdini,” came the blunt answer. “Carry on, please.”

  Harry sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Very well.” He turned upstage and helped me wrestle the trunk into position, frowning over the tumult of banging hammers behind us. “Harry,” Bess whispered. “Remember what we discussed earlier. Perform. Don’t talk.” She slipped out of her overcoat to reveal her stage costume, a wispy confection of bows and puffs that I had come to regard as her “sugarplum fairy” outfit. It allowed her a free range of movement and also showed her legs to great advantage, a fact which was not entirely lost on Mr. McAdow, who made a side-of-mouth comment to the gentleman beside him. The younger man nodded, and made a note on his writing pad.

  Much has been said and written of the Substitution Trunk Mystery, which is what we called it in those days. Soon enough the effect would be known throughout the world as “The Metamorphosis.” The basic effect was simple: Harry, tied in a sack and locked in a trunk, changed places in the blink of an eye with Bess, who had been standing outside. Bess was then revealed to be locked inside the trunk and tied in the sack. It’s quite likely that you have seen the Metamorphosis done by other, lesser performers. I’ll promise you this—you’ve never seen it done better. To this day I carry a newspaper article I wrote at that time in which I tried to convey the novelty and excitement of this incredible transposition:

  The clever Mr. Houdini and his lovely wife first submit their travel-worn trunk to a careful inspection by volunteers from the audience. The four sides of the trunk are sounded to demonstrate their solidity and to prove the absence of trickery. Next, a six-foot black flannel bag, a length of heavy tape, and some sealing wax are passed for examination.

  Mr. Houdini then asks his volunteers to encase him securely in the previously examined sack, and tightly bind the mouth of the sack with the heavy tape. To ensure fair play, the knots are then sealed with wax. Thus bound and trammelled, Mr. Houdini is lifted into the trunk, which in turn is padlocked and trussed with stout ropes. The sounds of knocking from within the trunk give proof that Mr. Houdini is still imprisoned within. A small curtained enclosure is wheeled before the trunk. Mrs. Houdini, standing at the open curtain, offers a brief announcement: “Now, then, I shall clap my hands three times, and at the third and last time I ask you to watch closely for—the—effect!” At this, she swiftly draws the curtain closed and vanishes from view. Instantaneously the curtain is reopened to show Mr. Houdini himself standing before the trunk.

  The volunteers are immediately called forward to unlock and untie the trunk. Inside, Mrs. Houdini, her loveliness undiminished, is found imprisoned within the same sack which a moment earlier held her husband. The exchange occurs with such lightning rapidity that it leaves the audience almost too astonished to applaud

  I had been Harry’s original partner in this effect, and I know from first-hand experience what a forceful impression this instantaneous transposition had upon our audiences. When Bess took my place following her marriage to Harry, the switch became even faster. The spectators literally could not believe their eyes.

  This was to be the bedrock upon which my brother’s remarkable career was built. In those earliest days, however, there was one slight hitch. For all his skill, Harry had not yet learned the golden rule of the stage magician. He had not yet learned to shut up and do the trick.

  Facing Mr. McAdow
across the footlights, Harry cleared his throat and pulled at the points of his bow tie, a gesture he invariably made before launching into a monologue. My heart sank. If my brother followed his usual pattern, we were in for a five-minute peroration on the genius of Harry Houdini. And if Mr. McAdow adhered to the example set by his brethren in theatrical management, the audition would be over before we ever saw the effect.

  “My dear friends,” said Harry, in that lulling drone of his, “this evening I am privileged to present a miracle of my own devising, an effect so stunning and original that there is only one man in the entire world capable of performing it. I ask you to steel your nerves against the frightful shock this effect may present, and do not look away even for an instant, or you are liable to miss the miracle that is the Substitution Trunk Mystery!” Harry threw one hand up toward the heavens, a gesture that traditionally invited applause. From his seat, McAdow coughed discreetly into a pocket square.

  Please, Harry, I muttered to myself. Just get on with it.

  “From time immemorial, wizards and sorcerers have been captivated by the riddle of magically transposing one solid object with another. This afternoon, on this very stage, the Great Houdini will attempt this seemingly impossible feat with nothing more than a humble packing crate and a simple flannel sack. Is it possible, you ask? I assure you that it is.”

  Now, Harry. I pleaded under my breath. Do the trick. And whatever you do, don’t mention ancient Mesopotamia.

  “Long ago,” Harry continued, “in ancient Mesopotamia, there was a plucky young wizard by the name of Ari Ardeeni. It was said that young Ari had the power to transport himself from one place to the next in the twinkling of an eye! One moment he might be frolicking in a stream, and at the next instant he could be seen dancing atop the highest mountain! Stranger still, it was believed that this handsome conjuror possessed the ability to change places with any being of his choosing, at the merest snap of his fingers! With such a skill at his command, it was thought that young Ari might even be able to switch places with the king himself!”

  From my vantage, I could see Mr. McAdow consulting his watch—never a good sign. I caught Bess’s eye and tapped the face of my own watch, a signal to hurry along. She raised her eyebrows and gave a barely perceptible shrug, indicating that matters were out of her control.

  Please, Harry, I muttered. Skip the part about the beauteous Wilhelmina.

  “Now this young wizard had a bride by the name of Wilhelmina,” Harry continued, “and she was said to be—” he broke off momentarily at the sound of a collapsing sawhorse, followed closely by a mighty roar from the caged lion. He gathered himself and continued. “She was said to be the most pulchritudinous young woman in all the land. Her beauty was so great that even King Yar, with all his wealth and power, was known to be jealous of young Ari and his bride.”

  From his seat in the audience, McAdow began coughing more loudly, attempting to catch my brother’s attention with a finger-twirling “hurry up” motion. Harry affected not to notice. “One day a dark passion seized the evil King Yar, and he ordered that young Ari be brought to him in chains. To keep his bride from harm, the wizard allowed himself to be bound tightly and placed within a sturdy box, which was carried back to King Yar’s castle. When Wilhelmina learned of this, she hurried at once to—”

  “Uh, Mr. Houdini,” McAdow called over the footlights, “I wonder if—”

  Harry took a step forward. “You are worried that I am being distracted by all the noise, are you not? The pounding hammers? The roaring lion? It is no matter, I assure you. I have wondrous powers of concentration.”

  “Actually, Mr. Houdini—”

  Harry put a finger to his lips. “Do not trouble yourself. I will carry on. As I was saying, when Wilhelmina learned of her husband’s imprisonment, she hurried at once into the presence of the king, and—”

  “Mr. Houdini—” McAdow had risen from his seat now, and was standing at the edge of the orchestra pit. “Mr. Houdini, I really believe we’ve heard enough. I do thank you for coming to see us this afternoon.”

  “You have heard enough? But I haven’t even reached the part about the mystical incantation! It is positively gripping!”

  “I’m quite certain that is so, Mr. Houdini, but I’m afraid that Mr. Kellar will not be requiring your services after all. However, if Mrs. Houdini and Mr. Hardeen might wish to—”

  “Will not be requiring my services? What can you mean?” I watched as a slow tide of comprehension washed over his features. For a moment he seemed to hover between anger and disbelief, with a rising note of tearfulness contending for the mastery. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he regained his composure. “Mr. McAdow,” he said in a voice heavy with injured pride, “I have just one thing to say to you.”

  As things turned out, we never got a chance to hear that one thing. At that precise moment, a carpenter at the back of the stage accidentally broke through the flimsy side-railing of a high scaffold. As he fell, he reached out and clawed at the rear curtain to slow his descent, knocking down a series of scenery flats like so many dominoes. Screams and cries of alarm filled the air as people jumped out of the way of the falling lumber, and for a moment the entire stage was engulfed in chaos.

  “Is everyone all right?” shouted Collins, racing from the wings. “Is anyone hurt?”

  His cries went unheeded. Everyone in the theater was transfixed by the sight of the dazed figure at the center of the stage, struggling to extricate himself from a tangle of debris.

  Unfortunately, it was the lion.

  3

  THE LION’S BRIDE

  DANGER, IT MUST BE SAID, ALWAYS BROUGHT OUT THE BEST IN MY brother.

  Many times I watched him dangle at the end of a burning rope, high above a crowded city street. More than once he allowed himself to be tied to a set of railroad tracks in the path of a speeding locomotive. And on one occasion I saw him sealed up in a galvanized coffin and submerged in water for ninety minutes. But all of those stunts were carefully controlled and well rehearsed. There had been no rehearsals that day at the Belasco Theater. In the blink of an eye, my brother was suddenly standing nose to nose with an angry lion. The danger had never been so real.

  Strange to say, this made my brother extremely happy.

  Only seconds earlier, the entire theater had been alive with sound. Now, a silent chorus of stagehands, musicians and assistants stood at the edges of the scene, transfixed by the sight of the powerful lion ranging free at the center of the stage. It was clear that one of the falling scenery flats had crashed down on top of the lion’s cage, shearing off the heavy locking handle. The beast, suddenly liberated, moved slowly forward, swinging its huge head from side to side as it surveyed the terrain. In its path were Harry and Bess. Bess, who had been standing inside the substitution trunk as she waited to be introduced, would not be able to take flight easily. Harry, standing next to the trunk, calmly stood his ground. He appeared relaxed and confident, perhaps forgetting that he was wearing a pair of shoes that had been smeared with beef fat.

  I was still waiting in the wings, about ten yards away. An urgent conference was taking place behind me. Jim Collins, taking command of the situation, dispatched the animal wrangler to fetch a ball of ether-soaked rags at the end of a pole. Boris, it emerged, was rousing himself from the effects of a powerful sedative, which not only accounted for his slow and measured movements, but also for his extremely bellicose disposition. “For God’s sake,” Collins was saying in a frantic whisper, “it’ll be five minutes before we’re ready with that ether! Do you have any idea how much damage Boris can do in five minutes? He may be groggy, but he’s just as vicious!”

  I stepped forward into my brother’s line of sight and touched my forehead to signal that I was working on the problem. Harry nodded and returned the gesture. Then he placed his hand behind his wife’s head and firmly pushed her down into the trunk, as though guiding her through a low doorway. This done, he closed the trunk lid over her head.
Whatever happened, Bess would be safe.

  Turning away from the trunk, Harry moved cautiously forward, closing the distance between himself and the lion with short, measured strides, his hands open at his sides. Every eye in the theater—including those of Boris—was fixed upon this prim little man in the red bow tie who appeared to be inviting death. Taking another step forward, Harry cleared his throat and pulled at the points of his tie, the familiar pre-performance gesture. Then he opened his mouth and broke the ghastly pall that had settled over the theater.

  “Here, kitty-kitty,” he said.

  I could not be certain whether to laugh or cry out. It seemed apparent that my brother had failed to grasp the seriousness of his situation.

  “Here, kitty-kitty,” he repeated. “I must commend you on your dramatic escape from that cage. I am a man who appreciates such things, and I must say that you did it very neatly. My compliments.”

  Harry inched closer, and even managed to smile pleasantly at the enormous creature. “I am reminded of a story,” Harry said. “Long ago, in ancient Mesopotamia, there was a plucky young wizard by the name of Ari Ardeeni. It was said that young Ari had the power to transport himself from one place to the next in the twinkling of an eye!”

  As Harry spoke, he continued to inch forward, almost imperceptibly. “At one moment,” he continued, “young Ari might be frolicking in a stream, and at the next instant he could be seen dancing atop the highest mountain! Stranger still, it was believed that this handsome conjuror possessed the ability to change places with any being of his choosing—at the merest snap of his fingers! With such a skill at his command, it was thought that young Ari might even be able to switch places with the king himself!”