Harry Houdini Mysteries (10 page)

Mrs. Clairmont kept the conversation light and the wine flowing, though her brother partook of neither. A decanter of whiskey had been set at his place, and he spent the duration of the meal steadily draining it, growing more and more truculent with each swallow. Mr. Grange, by contrast, drank nothing but ate ravenously, occasionally glancing at the table and furnishings with a certain proprietary interest, as though contemplating a purchase. Dr. Wells, for his part, spent much of the meal attempting to extract information on the state of European medicine from my brother, whose faltering replies were skillfully embroidered by Kenneth. As Biggs had foreseen, there was an uneasy moment when Harry attempted to address a lobster galantine with a pair of snail tongs, but once again Kenneth Clairmont managed to salvage the situation. “I see,” he declared with a note of admiration, “is that how they do it in Budapest, Doctor?”

I must say that there were no further gaffes from my brother during the meal, largely because he had been stunned into immobility by the sight of a sautéed rabbit, which had been made to stand upright with its paws crossed in a disturbingly
lifelike way, with a sprig of cauliflower tucked in where its tail had been. The greenish tinge behind my brother’s monocle and false moustache told me that his thoughts were with his beloved lop-eared Selma.

Presently, when the remains of a magnificent prune flory had been cleared away, the gathering repaired to the sitting room for port and cigars.

“You must forgive me, Mr. Hardeen,” said Mrs. Clairmont, taking my arm as we walked back down the central corridor, “I haven’t had a chance to say more than two words to you all evening.”

“I’m afraid I would not have been much of a conversationalist,” I replied. “Not while my attention was absorbed by that wondrous saddle of mutton.”

“I do like to see my guests well fed. Now, tell me, Kenneth mentioned that you are a friend from school. Are you a newspaper man, like that young Mr. Biggs who was here the other night?”

“Well, I have studied journalism,” I said, which was, in fact, the truth. “At present, however, I am involved in the theater.”

“The theater! How exciting! In what connection?”

“Management,” I said.

“You must see all the new plays. Tell me, is the latest Sardou as wicked as I’ve heard?”

“Actually, I haven’t—”

“And what about this clever young Harry Houdini?” asked my brother, stroking his moustache. “I hear he is poised to become the toast of New York!”

“Never heard of him,” I said drily.

“No? But I understand he has just completed an engagement at the Belasco.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Can it be? I understand that no less a journal than the
Milwaukee Sentinel
was inspired to remark that—”

“Tell me, Mrs. Clairmont,” I said, turning away from my
brother, “when might we expect to begin our sitting with Mr. Craig?”

“Very shortly, I expect. It is Mr. Craig’s habit to fast prior to his demonstrations, but Brunson informs me that he has ordered a Coquette de Volaille to be ready in one hour’s time.”

“He’s what?” cried Edgar Grange. “Augusta, this man has made himself too much at home. He is too free with your hospitality.” He reached out to take a cigar from the humidor Brunson had offered.

“Not at all, Edgar,” Mrs. Clairmont answered. “Lucius Craig is above material wants and desires.”

Mr. Grange continued to voice his objections as Brunson made his way around the room with the humidor. Harry, listening intently, gave me a withering look as I reached out and selected a belvedere. “Dash,” he whispered, “tobacco is a—”

I cut him short. “A serious obstacle to the proper development of the mental acuities. I know, Harry. But it’s a damned fine cigar.”

“Is it?” He considered the humidor for a moment, then took a fat imperial from the center.

“Harry?” I said. “What are you—?”

“When in Rome,” he murmured, leaning forward to accept a light from Brunson.

“But Harry,” I said, as he began choking violently on the first draw of smoke, “you’ve never so much as—”

“Look, Mr. Hardeen! Is that not an interesting set of books on the mantelpiece?” Leading me away from the others, Harry resumed in a low voice, “Don’t look so shocked, Dash. I just wanted to see if these cigars were as good as you claimed.” With that, Harry turned the cigar over, examined the burning end carefully, and then popped the entire thing into his mouth. He chewed twice, then swallowed.

“Harry!” I cried.

“Nothing to it,” he said happily. “How very delectable!”

“But that was a very expensive cigar! If you were going to
practice your act, you could have done just as well with a penny cheroot!”

“I suppose, but I doubt if Mrs. Clairmont keeps such things about the house. After all—”

“You aren’t quite like the other doctors I’ve met,” came a drink-sodden voice. We turned to see that Sterling Foster, whiskey glass in hand, had crossed the room to join us, having apparently witnessed Harry’s strange display.

“Er, no,” Harry began.

“We, uh—”

He waved aside our attempts to explain ourselves, sloshing a fair measure of whiskey onto the carpet. “I couldn’t help overhearing. You needn’t worry about me, I’ll keep your secret. What are you, some sort of circus performer?”

Harry puffed himself up a bit. “I am no mere circus performer,” he announced. “I am the eclipsing sensation of—”

“Yes,” I put in. “He’s a circus performer.”

“Wonderful! You may be able to expose this man Craig!” He gulped at his whiskey. “I had thought that was what that chap from the
Herald
might have been planning the other night, but he seemed just as flummoxed as the rest of them.” He waved his glass to indicate the others in the room. “Hooked like trout, they were. Me, I think he’s just a circus tout, like you. You might be just the thing to knock him down a peg. Set a thief to catch a thief, I say.”

Harry began to protest the remark, but I restrained him.

“You wouldn’t object to seeing Mr. Craig exposed, then?”

“Object? Far from it. That man is the very worst kind of charlatan. He’s playing on my sister’s bereavement, giving her hope where none exists. Her husband is dead. We all have to accept it. So long as this man dangles the hope of communicating with Jasper, Augusta won’t be able to think of anything else. It’s cruel, I say.”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “You were present at the séance the other night, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you accuse Mr. Craig of being a fraud then and there?”

“Oh, the man is very clever. I’ll admit to that straight off. I don’t know how he does the things that he does, but I know perfectly well that he’s not communicating with any spirit presence.”

“I quite agree,” said Harry in a conspiratorial tone. “It may interest you to know that we are not alone in thinking so. I understand that the Great Houdini himself has taken an interest in Mr. Craig.”

“The Great Houdini?” Foster asked. “Who might that be?”

Harry’s cheeks reddened. “Why, he is the justly celebrated star of—”

“You won’t have heard of him,” I said, motioning for Harry to lower his voice.

Foster did not appear to be listening. “Once a man is dead, there’s an end of it,” he declared, with yet another mighty swallow of whiskey. “I know that as well as I know my own name.” His eyelids fluttered for a moment as he struggled to keep hold of his thoughts. “If that Lucius Craig has any ideas about getting his hands on my sister’s money, he’d better think again. I know a thing or two about him. He’d better tread carefully.”

“I hear tell,” said Harry, still lagging a step behind, “that the Great Houdini is highly—”

“You know a thing or two about him?” I asked, silencing Harry with an urgent gesture. “What sorts of things might those be?”

Foster glanced from side to side in an exaggerated show of confidentiality. “About that daughter of his. Not all she seems, is she? The high and mighty Mr. Craig thinks he’s getting one over on us, but I’m not fooled. I know things. Believe me, I know things.”

“His daughter? What about his daughter?”

Foster’s shoulders twitched and he glared at us with sudden
ferocity, as though we had insulted his honor. “Say! Who are you to be asking me questions? Baggy-pants circus touts, that’s what you are! I ought to have you turned out of here!”

“But we were only—”

“Better yet, I’ll see to it myself, you baggy-pants circus touts!” He set his jaw and took a menacing step forward, cocking a fist as he advanced.

“Mr. Foster, there’s no need—”

But it was too late. With a grunt, Foster squared his shoulders and threw a vigorous left hook. It is difficult to say which of us he was attempting to strike, but Harry and I both stepped aside easily, leaving Foster to pitch forward under the momentum of his swing. Harry’s arms darted out but failed to stop our assailant’s forward progress. Foster took three lurching steps and collided with a Hepplewhite side table, upending a bowl of fruit and walnuts as he slumped heavily to the floor.

“Don’t think you’re getting one over on me,” he declared, resting his head against the overturned bowl. “I know things.” His eyes closed, and his breathing subsided into a contented snore.

Harry gazed down at the sleeping form. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“Don’t ask me, Dr. Weiss,” I said. “I’m just a baggy-pants circus tout.”

5

T
HE SUDDEN INDISPOSITION OF
S
TERLING
F
OSTER CAUSED LITTLE
stir. Brunson and a pair of the serving staff converged on the fallen figure with brisk efficiency, bearing him away as though tidying an upended cuspidor. Dr. Wells and Mr. Grange made a point of looking elsewhere as the operation was carried out, while Kenneth Clairmont murmured a quiet word of apology on his uncle’s behalf. Mrs. Clairmont, her hand at her throat, remarked only that her brother had been “most unaccountably run down of late.” I had the impression that such displays were not uncommon in the Clairmont household.

Within moments of Foster’s unceremonious departure, a slight, red-haired girl could be seen hovering tentatively at the entrance to the room. She could not have been much more than thirteen or fourteen years old, with pale features framed by ringlets. Her bright, green eyes swept the room with a level, direct gaze. Mrs. Clairmont rose and moved across to greet her.

“Lila,” she said, “I don’t believe you’ve met everyone.” She led the girl to the center of the room. “Lila is Mr. Craig’s daughter,” she told us.

The girl said nothing but nodded to Harry and me.

“Is your father ready for us upstairs?” Mrs. Clairmont asked.

Lila gave a nod in reply and leaned to whisper something in Mrs. Clairmont’s ear. The older woman smiled. “I am told
that Mr. Craig is pleased with the equipoise of energies,” she announced. “Perhaps this will be the evening that we succeed in reaching my dear husband. Kindly follow me to the séance chamber.” She turned to the butler, who had just returned from overseeing the removal of Sterling Foster. “Brunson?”

“Madam?”

“In light of my brother’s sudden infirmity, I shall require you to occupy the empty chair in tonight’s circle.”

A slight tremor washed over the butler’s features. “How pleasant, madam.”

Harry drew me aside as Mrs. Clairmont led us through to the grand staircase. “At last I am going to meet the famous Lucius Craig,” he whispered, as we climbed past a gallery of oil portraits lining the stairs. “Apparently his psychic powers have not alerted him to the presence of a formidable adversary!”

“Harry, we’re just here to observe. Don’t do anything crazy.”

“Of course not. However, it is only sporting to alert Mr. Craig to the fact that he is being watched by an expert in the arcane arts!”

“Harry, I don’t know what you’re planning, but—”

“Mr. Hardeen? Dr. Weiss? There you are!” Mrs. Clairmont waited for us in the doorway of a room at the top of the stairs. “Come along, gentlemen. I’m eager to introduce you to our honored guest.” She beamed happily as we passed through the doorway.

We found ourselves in a large and comfortably furnished gentleman’s study. Cluttered bookshelves lined three walls, jammed with worn volumes, loose papers, and odd curios such as an African fertility carving, a battered whale harpoon, and an array of brass weather instruments and wind gauges such as might be found on the bridge of a merchant vessel. A fourth wall opened out onto a tall bay window, before which stood a polished maple desk. The surface of the desk was absolutely bare and had been recently polished to a high gloss. I suppressed a shudder as I recalled that this was the spot where
Jasper Clairmont had taken his own life.