Harry Houdini Mysteries (27 page)

It proved to be a costly decision. As Foster bent down, snatching at his glass tube, a crackle of flame from the floor spurted up to meet the kerosene spilling from the beaker in his hand. In an instant, a brilliant orange flare shot upward, engulfing him in a cocoon of fire. Shrieking madly, he staggered backward and slapped at the spreading flames. Instinctively, I made to help him, forgetting the ropes and the chair that held me fast. A spike of pain pinned me to the ground. I watched helplessly as Foster dropped to his knees. The smell of burning flesh reached my nostrils as his screams grew louder. The acrid bite of smoke and chemicals forced my eyes closed for an instant. When I opened them, a blackened face stared back, motionless on the floor beside me.

I had little time to register this gruesome vision. Streaks of flame surrounded me, and I could do little to avoid them. A curtain of fire separated me from the opening on the other side of the room. Turning away from the spreading blaze, I pushed myself along on my side to get away from the flames. Each breath brought a searing heat into my lungs. I huddled in a far corner as best I could, my cheek pressed against the floor, my eyes swimming in the stinging heat.

I closed my eyes, knowing that it would not be long now.

* * *

That’s when I felt myself lifted into the air like a sack of potatoes.

“Easy, Dash,” came my brother’s voice. “We’ll be safe in a minute.”

Cool air rushed against my face.

“How—?” But my voice failed, ravaged by smoke. I opened my eyes. Harry’s hands, blackened with soot, were pulling at my bonds.

“How did we find you?”

I nodded.

“That device. Whatever it was. It came on suddenly. We could see you. Only for an instant, but it was enough.”

Suddenly my hands were free, and Dr. Wells bent forward with a cooling cloth. Lieutenant Murray hovered behind him, his face white with concern.

“But—how—” my throat seemed to be embedded with shards of glass. “How did you find me in time?”

Harry’s mouth tightened in a grim smile. “You have Mr. Brunson to thank for that,” he said.

I turned my head to look at the elderly butler, who stood beside the lieutenant with an air of quiet pride.

“With your permission, sir, it was that chair. That chair strapped to your back. It has been missing from the dining room for some time. I’ve asked Mr. Foster to return it several times...”

My eyes closed under the press of a cool cloth. I could hear my brother’s laughter, and then nothing at all.

12

“I
T IS SO GOOD OF YOU TO JOIN US,
M
R.
H
ARDEEN,” SAID
M
RS
. Clairmont. “I trust your injuries are nearly mended?”

I raised the plaster cast on my arm. “The doctor assures me I’ll be rid of this in another week or so. Otherwise, I’m perfectly sound.”

“He’ll be right as rain,” agreed Dr. Wells. “Quite a hardy constitution on this lad.”

“I’m so pleased,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “How lovely to see you again, as well, Mr. Houdini.”

“The pleasure is ours,” my brother replied. “May I present my wife, Bess Houdini? I don’t believe the two of you were properly introduced the other evening.”

“No, indeed,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Houdini, and may I say that I greatly prefer your present attire to the glowing sheet in which I first saw you. Ah, Lieutenant Murray! How pleasant!”

“I’m pleased to see you looking so well, Mrs. Clairmont,” said the lieutenant, stepping forward to take her hand. “The commissioner sends his regards.”

“My health is still a bit fragile,” she admitted, indicating the rolling basket chair in which she sat, “but I am grateful for the opportunity to take the air.”

Several weeks had passed since the strange conclusion of the
events at Gramercy Park. Much had occurred in the intervening time. Sterling Foster had been quietly interred in the family plot at Hyde Park, next to his late brother-in-law. The investigation into the murder of Edgar Grange had been quietly brought to a close by Lieutenant Murray, acting on direct orders from the commissioner.

The exact particulars had been concealed from Mrs. Clairmont, who was not present to witness the bizarre climax on that fateful evening. Her health had been thrown into a precarious state by the shock of the ghostly manifestations that night, and it was feared that the full truth would cause her permanent harm. Under the watchful eye of Richardson Wells, the matter had been entirely hushed up. To spare her the anguish of her brother’s perfidy, Mrs. Clairmont had been given to understand that Sterling Foster had fallen asleep amid his test tubes and beakers on the night in question, suffering a fatal heart attack when an untended experiment caught fire. In this more palatable version of the events, Lucius Craig had been cast as the sole villain, fleeing in such haste that he had been forced to leave his daughter behind.

In fact, Sterling Foster had set the police on a false trail that evening, to allow him time to put his plan into effect. The confusion had allowed Lucius Craig to avoid capture and vanish without so much as a hint of his whereabouts, though the police had been relentless in their efforts to track him. There were scattered reports that he had been sighted in such far-flung places as California and Nova Scotia, but in each instance the local authorities came away empty-handed.

Once again, to my brother’s distress, he had been denied any public credit for his part in the resolution of a murder investigation. “It’s just not fair,” he had groused, “I do all the detecting, and the world is denied the tale of my genius.”

For my part, I had been content to emerge with my life. Only later, while relating the tale to my friend Biggs from my hospital bed, did I realize how very close I had come to sharing
Sterling Foster’s fate. “I thought I’d had it,” I told him. “Harry literally walked through fire to pull me to safety.”

“Funny,” Biggs had answered. “In his version, he’s walking on water.”

Biggs, too, had been bound by the conspiracy of silence, though he had borne it with better humor than my brother. It pained him to miss out on breaking a good story, but his friendship for Kenneth left him sympathetic to the motives of Dr. Wells and the commissioner of police.

It had come as something of a surprise, then, when Mrs. Clairmont wrote to ask us to meet her in Central Park on that crisp Saturday afternoon. We had found her in the shadow of the stately Belvedere Castle, busily working at a needlepoint sampler. She looked appropriately regal in a tied bonnet and high collar, with a red travelling blanket neatly tucked about her legs. Dr. Wells stood behind the wicker chair, anxiously adjusting the blanket to ward off the effects of a chill breeze sweeping across the meadow.

“I’ve had a letter from Kenneth this morning,” Mrs. Clairmont said, waving away the doctor’s ministrations. “I’m certain that he would want me to send his warmest regards to the both of you. You’ve heard that he has resumed his medical studies?”

I nodded. “We were delighted to hear it.”

“Dr. Wells assures me that he has a promising career ahead of him.”

“What about your husband’s business concerns?” Harry asked. “We were given to understand that Kenneth was expected to take them up as soon as he was able.”

Mrs. Clairmont smiled airily. “There are others outside of the family who may be able to carry on. I find that I am no longer so eager to retain control.” She tightened her grip on the shawl about her shoulders. “I never had the chance to thank you properly for all that you’ve done,” she said, raising her chin.

“That’s not necessary,” said Harry.

“I feel that it is. My brother’s passing has left me quite
distraught, and I’m afraid I have become quite lax in certain matters. I could not let another day go by without expressing my gratitude. The two of you are in my thoughts every day. I can scarcely forgive myself for being so hoodwinked by Lucius Craig. If the two of you had not intervened, I might never have come to my senses.”

Harry smiled and stole a glance at Lieutenant Murray. “You are exaggerating the role we played.”

“I think not. And I had rather hoped that I might find some way of repaying the debt I owe you.”

“It has been our pleasure,” my brother said. “No other reward is needed.”

“How very gallant,” said Mrs. Clairmont, “but I had thought of something more tangible. It will be some time before I am able to move about in society again, but I have a number of friends who do considerable entertaining. Might I recommend your talents to some of my friends?”

“As entertainers, you mean?”

“Precisely. Kenneth tells me that you are working on a very interesting form of diversion, Mr. Houdini. What did he call you? A gustatory marvel?”

I tried to imagine a Park Avenue gathering that featured my brother dining on cutlery and burning cigars. “That act may not be quite appropriate,” I said.

“Don’t be so hasty, Dash,” Harry said. “I have made a few refinements to the routine, to make it more agreeable to a general audience. Allow me to demonstrate.”

“Harry,” said Bess, “this is hardly the time or place for stone-eating.”

“Perhaps not, but what I intend to do is no mere stone-eating effect. Mrs. Clairmont, I wonder if you would do me the honor of lending your assistance.”

“My assistance? Of course, Mr. Houdini.”

My brother stepped to her side and knelt beside the chair. “I notice that you have brought your sewing basket. If you
are anything like my mother, you will have several packets of needles in there. Is this so?”

“Yes. I always keep a good supply on hand.”

“Might I borrow one of those packets?”

Mrs. Clairmont appeared baffled by the request but readily agreed. After a moment’s rummaging in her basket, she produced a packet of Clarkson sewing needles.

“These look ideal for my purpose,” Harry said, tearing open the paper packet. He sprinkled the loose needles into his open hand and held them out for examination. “Does everyone see the needles?” he asked. “Is there anything suspicious about them?”

“Of course not,” said Lieutenant Murray. “Why should there be anything suspicious about needles?”

“Why, indeed?” Without another word, Harry popped the loose needles into his mouth. Dr. Wells and Mrs. Clairmont looked on with alarm as Harry made an exaggerated chewing motion, rubbing his stomach as though he found the metal diet to be especially appetizing. Snapping and grinding noises could be plainly heard. After a moment, Harry made a large gulp of satisfaction, indicating that the needles had been swallowed.

“How very delectable—” he began.

“What have you done, lad?” cried the doctor. “Those needles will play havoc with your digestive tract!”

“Do you think so? Well, I guess we had better do something about that. First, may I ask you to take a quick look inside my mouth? As a medical man, you can offer your assurance that I have not concealed the needles beneath my tongue or something of that sort.”

“Houdini, this is most irregular.”

“Indulge me,” my brother said with a smile.

With a sigh, Dr. Wells stepped forward and peered inside Harry’s mouth. “Open wider,” he said, closing one eye for a better look. “Lift your tongue. All right.” He stepped back. “There’s nothing hidden in there,” he said firmly.

“Thank you,” said Harry. “Mrs. Clairmont, if you would open your sewing basket once more, I shall trouble you for a length of cotton thread. Three feet or so should do nicely. I would also like to ask you to knot the thread in some distinctive way. You may wish to put a series of knots at regular or irregular intervals, or perhaps you might wish to tie a single knot that is doubled or tripled. I only wish to insure that you will recognize this piece of thread when you see it at the conclusion of my effect.” Harry nodded approvingly as Mrs. Clairmont deftly tied off a series of six knots.

Taking the thread from Mrs. Clairmont, Harry placed one end in his mouth and began sucking it into his mouth as if it were a long noodle of some kind. Again he made exaggerated swallowing sounds and patted his stomach to indicate that he found the thread to be especially tasty. After a moment or so, he had drawn in all but the tail end of the thread, which was left dangling from his lips.