Harry Houdini Mysteries Read online

  “Were you present?” asked Harry.

  “I was.”

  “Describe these minor miracles, please.”

  Clairmont laced his fingers behind his head as he collected his thoughts. “As I recall, it was only through the most persistent pleadings from Mrs. Watkin that Mr. Craig was persuaded to give any sort of demonstration. He made a great show of reluctance, then agreed to make what he called ‘a modest effort to commune with the spirits.’ He asked that each member of the party place some small object into a hat at the center of the table. He was very careful to specify that the objects be personal in nature. The items were gathered while Craig himself stepped out of the room. When he returned—”

  “He was able to identify the owner of each object,” Harry said, “and he was able to reveal some private fact about each person.”

  “Exactly! You’ve seen him perform the feat?”

  “I’ve done it myself,” Harry said. “It is not terribly difficult.”

  “Come now, Houdini,” said Biggs. “How have you been able to bring off such a thing?”

  Harry waved his hand as if batting at an insect. “Later,” he said impatiently.

  “Well, Mr. Houdini,” Clairmont continued, “I can’t vouch for your abilities, but by the reactions of my mother and the other guests, you would have thought that Mr. Craig had parted the Red Sea. My mother happened to be carrying a stickpin that had belonged to my father. When Mr. Craig grasped it, he seemed to know this at once. ‘This belonged to the late husband of the charming Mrs. Clairmont,’ he said. ‘Her husband was obviously a man of great cunning and intelligence, who also had a deep appreciation of life’s bounty.’”

  “A deep appreciation of life’s bounty,” said Biggs with a snort. “Who would disagree with such a thing? He was simply telling your mother something she wanted to hear.”

  “I would have agreed with you, but when it came to be my turn Mr. Craig did something that left me absolutely baffled. I had taken care to provide an object that I felt certain would stymie him. Instead of putting forward my collar stay or something of that nature, I borrowed a fountain pen belonging to Mrs. Watkin’s butler, Lachley.”

  “Very clever,” Harry said, appraising Clairmont with fresh interest.

  “My little deception proved ineffective. Craig puzzled over the fountain pen for some time, then he looked at me and said, ‘Young Kenneth seeks to confuse the matter. This is not the pen of a young student, but that of an older man, a man born to serve others with dignity and grace—though perhaps a bit overly fond of the fruits of the vine.’ And poor Lachley, who had been standing close by with a tray of fruit cups, nearly collapsed from embarrassment. It was a triumph for Mr. Craig, but ever since that day he has been wary of me. This has not prevented him from attaching himself to my mother, however.”

  “How did this come about?”

  “Well, Mr. Houdini, it was clear from the first that my mother had been captivated by the possibility of contacting my father’s spirit through Mr. Craig. That very evening she drew him aside and acquainted him with the unhappy circumstances of my father’s death. She knew that he claimed to have the power to speak with departed souls and wished to know whether it might be possible to reach my father in this manner. Mr. Craig professed to be ambivalent, saying that such communications are not always possible and adding that my father might not yet have completed his ‘translation’ to the other side. But my mother would not be dissuaded, and Mr. Craig eventually agreed to visit us at our home the next day.”

  Harry fingered the rim of his glass. “Did he conduct a séance?”

  “Hardly, Mr. Houdini. That’s what’s so infuriating about this man. He husbands this so-called gift of his as though it were some precious metal that wears away with use. It is only with the greatest reluctance that he will make any sort of demonstration at all, such as the trick of matching the objects with their owners. He continually dangles the promise of a séance before my mother, but there has always been some reason to prevent it. He will say that there is a negative energy permeating the room or that the stars are in an unfortunate alignment. He does just enough to sharpen the edge of my mother’s interest but no more. The result, of course, is that she must continue to entertain him in high style, in the hope that he will become able to use his powers on her behalf.”

  “I take it that he is now a regular visitor at your home?” I asked.

  “It is more than that, Mr. Hardeen. He has taken up residence. My mother insisted on it. At first he would simply call in for an hour or two. In time he began to accept small gifts and he would occasionally pass the night in one of the guest rooms. Soon enough, however, we had reached our present circumstance, which finds him installed in a suite of rooms and given the run of the house. As if that wasn’t sufficient imposition, we must also give lodging to his young daughter, Lila.”

  “His daughter travels with him?” I asked.

  “He claims that she is a catalyst for his psychic energies, so of course nothing will do but that she is entertained in the same high style as he. She is an odd little girl. Quiet and watchful. She makes me uncomfortable.”

  “How long have the Craigs been living at your house?” Harry asked.

  “Nearly two weeks. It seems an eternity.”

  “Two weeks?” Harry was obviously surprised.

  “Yes, and it is only just recently that he has condescended to favor us with a séance. He has spent a great deal of time converting Father’s study to suit his needs, with my mother consenting to his every whim.”

  “Your father’s study? The room in which he died?”

  “Precisely. My mother has allowed it to be transformed into a séance room. She has even ordered an absurd table built to Mr. Craig’s exacting standards.”

  “Octagonal,” said Harry. “With a round pedestal base.”

  Clairmont nodded. “Yes, exactly. You seem to know a great deal about these matters, Mr. Houdini.”

  “I hope to know more presently. I take it that Mr. Craig made his first attempt to contact your father’s spirit last night?”

  “Yes. He had postponed long enough, to my way of thinking. After much agonizing he intimated that he would be ready to make an attempt to ‘cross the eternal divide,’ as he phrased it. That’s why I invited Biggs. I wanted an independent observer, and I thought that the presence of a newspaper reporter might have a moderating effect on Mr. Craig. In the end, Biggs was just as baffled as I was.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Harry. “Tell us what you saw. Or what you believe you saw, in any case. Start at the beginning. What time did the evening commence?”

  “At seven. Mother arranged that we should all have a light meal beforehand. Mr. Craig did not join us. He claimed that he required an hour of absolute isolation in order to summon his reserves of psychic energy.”

  “But there were others present?”

  “Yes. We needed to fill out the numbers for the séance. Eight people were required, according to Mr. Craig. One for each side of the octagonal table. There was Dr. Richardson Wells, whom I mentioned earlier. He was my father’s closest friend. Also Mr. Edgar Grange, our lawyer, who seemed in a foul mood over Mr. Craig’s increasing influence over my mother.”

  “Who else?”

  “My uncle, Sterling Foster.”

  “Your mother’s brother?”

  “What possible difference can all of this make, Houdini?” asked Biggs impatiently.

  Harry fixed Biggs with an expression of mild reproach, as though correcting a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Unless Mr. Craig is a genuine psychic, he will require a confederate of some sort. I must learn all I can about everyone who was present.”

  “But he has a confederate,” I said. “Lila. His daughter.”

  “She wasn’t in the séance room last night,” Clairmont told me. “In fact, the cook tells me she was down in the kitchen the whole time, eating her dinner.”

  “The girl wouldn’t be the confederate during the séan
ce, in any case,” Harry said. “He would turn to someone who seemed above suspicion. Tell me, where did the various guests sit during the séance?”

  “Well,” Clairmont said, gazing up at the ceiling as he pictured the scene in his mind, “Mr. Craig sat nearest the door, and my mother was seated to his right. Next to her was Dr. Wells, and I sat on his right. Next there was Mr. Grange, and then Uncle Sterling, and finally Biggs. That’s right, isn’t it, Biggs?”

  “That is only seven,” said Harry. “Surely Mr. Craig would not have allowed the séance to proceed with an empty place.”

  “No,” Clairmont agreed, “he was most insistent that the so-called psychic circle be completed. At the last moment our butler Brunson was summoned to fill the remaining place. He did not seem terribly pleased by this added duty. He indicated to my mother that his services might be of more practical use in seeing to the coffee and port.”

  Harry smiled. “A wise man. What time was it when the séance began?”

  “Nearly nine o’clock. Mr. Craig was already seated at the table when my mother led the guests upstairs. Each of us took a place at the table—”

  “Pardon me,” Harry said, leaning forward suddenly. “Did Mr. Craig himself indicate where each of you was to sit?”

  “No,” Clairmont answered. “My mother did, but I believe that the seating arrangement was made in accordance with Mr. Craig’s wishes.”

  “Very good,” said Harry, closing his eyes. “Proceed.”

  “As you will appreciate, after so many delays and evasions, I was on fire with curiosity to see what Mr. Craig was going to do. For all my skepticism, I could not help but wonder if he might succeed in some fashion. Was it possible, I wondered, that I might feel some faint glimmer of my father’s presence here in the very room where he died? My mother, for her part, took her place by Mr. Craig’s side as reverently as if taking Holy Communion. It pained me to see her so completely in his thrall. I felt embarrassed in front of my friends.”

  “You had no cause,” said Biggs quietly.

  Clairmont did not appear to have heard. “The lights had been dimmed as we entered the room, but there was a sufficient number of candles lit so that it was possible to make out what Mr. Craig was doing. There was an arrangement of cloth screens forming a sort of tent over his chair. The fabric was so sheer as to be translucent. The screens offered no concealment of any kind, but Mr. Craig claimed that they helped to focus his powers.”

  “The spirit screens are a common feature of the séance room,” Harry said. “Did Mr. Craig also play music of some kind?”

  “He did. He produced a most unusual music box and set it going as we entered the room. The melody was quite soothing. When we had taken our places, Mr. Craig spent a few moments with his head lowered in prayer, then told us that we would begin with a small experiment designed to bring our energies into balance. He called this the ‘invocational.’ He passed a block of paper around the table and instructed each of us to take a sheet. We were told to write down a single word—a name or place or thing—that held some private significance. These slips of paper were folded into small squares and dropped into a hat at the center of the table. Mr. Craig then reached in and drew out the folded slips one by one. I expected that he would open each paper and read it, but instead he simply pressed the folded squares to his forehead. After a moment or two, he was able to divine the word that was printed on each slip of paper.”

  A change came over my brother during Clairmont’s narrative. At the outset he had been content merely to ask questions; now, at the mention of the folded squares of paper, he grew increasingly agitated. “But that’s a simple billet—”

  “Harry,” I said, “let Mr. Clairmont tell his story in his own way. We don’t want to color his account.”

  “First rule of journalism,” Biggs agreed.

  Harry leaned back, obviously annoyed.

  Clairmont took a swallow of his drink before continuing. “Upon concluding this feat, Mr. Craig announced that he would undertake a tentative contact with the spirit realm. This contact, he went on to explain, was intended merely to gauge whether the spirits might look upon our gathering with favor. He brought forth a small chalk slate, such as one might find in an ordinary schoolroom. He explained that on occasion it was possible for a spirit presence to manifest a message upon a slate of this kind. If we were to receive such a message, he claimed, we would know that the spirits were with us, and we might continue with our experiment.”

  Once again, Harry’s emotions got the better of him. “Slates!” he cried. “Dash, do you hear? Spirit slates! I’ve never heard such—”

  “Quiet, Harry,” I said. “Let him finish.”

  Momentarily disconcerted by Harry’s outburst, Clairmont soon collected himself. “Now that our energies were in balance, Mr. Craig told us, it was necessary to establish a ‘circle of psychic force.’ We were instructed to place our hands upon the table so that the tips of our fingers would be touching those of our neighbors. We were also told to position our feet so that they would touch those of the person on either side. Mr. Craig explained that this was necessary to form a conduit of energy, though it was tacitly understood that we were establishing control over the hands and feet of everyone in the circle—and Mr. Craig in particular—so as to preclude any suggestion of trickery. From that point forward, Mr. Craig would not have been able to move about without alerting the person on either side.”

  “Or so he would have you believe,” said Harry. “In fact—”

  “Harry.” I held up a finger in warning.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “Please carry on, Mr. Clairmont.”

  “Prior to our joining hands Mr. Craig had extinguished the candles and placed the chalk slate beneath the table. We now sat in darkness for some moments, with our hands spread upon the table, listening to the strange melody coming from the music box. After a time Mr. Craig began to call to the spirits. I can’t remember all of what he said, but he repeatedly urged the spirits to use his being as the instrument of their communication, so that the others might know of their presence. His entreaties seemed to go on for quite a long time.”

  “Did you hear any other sounds while this was going on?” Harry asked. “Apart from the music and the sound of Mr. Craig’s voice?”

  “At one point I thought I heard a distant whistle—or perhaps a clanging noise from the kitchen—but I can’t be certain.”

  “How long did Mr. Craig continue to speak?”

  “It can’t have been more than fifteen minutes. Then he went quiet, and though I could not be certain in the darkness, I had the impression that his head had slumped forward, as though he had been exhausted by his labors. When he spoke again—to ask that a candle be lit—his voice sounded weak and strained. By the candle’s light we could see that Mr. Craig appeared pale and shaken by his efforts. He told us that he had sensed a powerful spirit presence. He reached under the table and drew forth the slate. We could see that a single word had been scrawled upon its surface.”

  Harry and I leaned forward. “What was the word?” I asked.

  “Petal.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Petal?”

  “Yes. It was a pet name that my father had for my mother. You can imagine the effect that this had upon her. She was fairly thunderstruck.”

  “Indeed she was,” Biggs confirmed. “I thought she might faint dead away.”

  “Petal,” I repeated. “And you say that Craig’s hands and feet were under control at the time?”

  “His hands and feet were touching those of the people on either side of him. That is absolutely certain.”

  “Very interesting.” I glanced at my brother, who did not seem to be paying attention. “Harry, how do you suppose he managed that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I was asking how Craig managed to produce a message on the spirit slate without using his hands or feet.”

  Harry did not appear to hear me. “Dash, do you recall Mr. Bithworth from Fat
her’s congregation?”

  “The cobbler? Of course, but what—?”

  “A nice man, Mr. Bithworth. I must remember to pay him a visit.”

  Biggs shot an exasperated look at my brother. “Houdini, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, Kenneth was trying to give us his impressions of last night’s séance.”

  “Of course. My apologies. Please continue, Mr. Clairmont.”

  “Well, there’s not much more to tell, actually. Mr. Craig declared that the spirits were no longer cooperative and brought the evening to a close. However, we extracted a promise that there would be a further experiment as soon as possible. Mr. Craig claimed that he would need a day or so to allow his energies to refresh themselves. At length it was agreed that we would conduct another séance tomorrow evening.”

  “How interesting,” Harry said. “And no doubt he promised that there would be a physical manifestation of your late father—assuming the conditions were favorable.”

  Clairmont’s eyes widened. “He did say something to that effect, Houdini. How did you know?”

  Harry grinned. “It is the way of these things.”

  “Do you mean to say you’ve seen this sort of thing before?” Clairmont’s expression brightened. “Do you think you might be able to expose these tricks?”

  Biggs shook his head. “Houdini is a clever magician, I’ll grant you. So is Dash, if it comes to that. But what we saw last night was an entirely—”

  “It is not so very difficult,” Harry said.

  “You think you could do as much, Houdini?” asked Biggs.

  “I believe I could.”

  “What utter codswallop!”

  A smile played at Harry’s lips. “Perhaps a small demonstration would be in order.” He placed his hands on the table and fixed Clairmont with a level gaze. “Mr. Clairmont, you and I have never met before this evening, is that correct?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Houdini. I—”

  “Then would it surprise you greatly to know that I have already managed to establish a close psychic rapport? Would you be alarmed to know that I am able to read your mind as easily as I might read a book?”