Nevermore (36 page)

“Stop it or I swear I’ll shoot!” Sir Arthur braced his shooting arm with his other hand.

“No, you won’t.” Rammage dropped the can and dug deep into his pocket. “You won’t dare. Because you don’t know if you can kill me before I strike a spark on my lighter.” Sidney Rammage held the regulation R.E.F. trench cigarette lighter triumphantly in his hand.

“He’s bluffing,” Houdini sneered.

“No. I don’t believe he is.” Sir Arthur squinted along the revolver’s barrel. “Hop Frog, the dwarf, took revenge by costuming the king and his ministers as orangutans and setting them on fire.”

“A most exquisite tale,” Rammage raved. “The master at his finest… . So, back away! Or watch them burn!”

“Shoot him,” hissed Houdini. “Now!”

The magician switched off the flashlight. The shadow form of Rammage made an easy target. In the sudden dark, Conan Doyle felt his hand tremble. His aim was unsure.

“Do it!” Houdini’s insistent whisper rent the night.

“Shall I count to ten,” Rammage teased.

Conan Doyle knew what had to be done. He glanced away for a second, thinking to fire on impulse when he looked back, and to his amazement, he saw the phosphorescent specter of Poe standing on the adjoining parapet.

Rammage gasped. “Poe … !” Astonished, he wobbled on the railing, fighting for balance.

“Shoot!”
Houdini howled, hurling his Gladstone bag at Rammage.

The leather satchel caught the killer square in the face, spinning him around. Rammage lost his footing, plummeting backwards into the night. With a sharp jerk, the other end of the chain cinched tight around the iron rail.

Houdini leaned out over the edge, shining the flashlight down the taut, swaying chain. “Rammage…?”

Fifteen feet below the catwalk, Sidney Rammage swung on the chain, hanging on with one hand. His other hand defiantly gripped the cigarette lighter. Caught in the beam, he grinned up at Houdini through a volatile drizzle of dripping gasoline. He thumbed a flame alight. It flickered like a tiny firefly on his fingertips. Rammage stared ruefully at the feeble, wavering flame. “You win, Harry,” he said, letting go of the chain.

Rammage fell backwards without a sound, hurtling toward the ground in the flashlight’s widening shaft of illumination. He hit the paving stones with blunt finality and lay still. Houdini stared down at him.

“Mrs. Fletcher…?” Conan Doyle knelt beside the recumbent women, slipping the rubber ape masks off their faces. Houdini was suddenly at his side with the light. Isis and Martha were gagged, their eyes wide, alert with fear. The magician unknotted the handkerchief bound across Opal’s open mouth. “Did you see it?” Sir Arthur asked, working on Martha’s gag.

“See what?”

Conan Doyle glanced at the darkened turret. “Nothing.”

“Here is a future I could not foresee.” Isis smiled when Houdini removed her gag. “God bless you both.”

“I thought for certain we are dead,” Martha sobbed, her brittle accent cracking from the strain.

The two men set about freeing them, unwrapping the other end of the chain. Both women were bound hand and foot with strips of canvas webbing. The moment Isis felt her wrists untied, she bent to release her feet unassisted. Houdini watched her toss the military strap aside. “Recognize this…?” She handed him a square of damp cloth: the handkerchief that had gagged her.

The magician noted familiar hem-stitching; a torn corner and the monogram: H.H. “This is mine.”

“He also had your penknife. Planned on leaving it behind.”

“Make me the fall guy?”

“Last trick up his sleeve.” Conan Doyle helped the trembling Martha to her feet.

“How’d you know about the knife?” Houdini asked Isis, as she accepted his proffered arm.

“He told us. Bragged really. Took his time, organizing things. The ether, or whatever it was, soon wore off. Martha and I came to tied and gagged in the library. Mr. Rammage boasted of his clever scheme to ‘frame’ you.”

“Wait! You know his name.” Houdini grabbed her other wrist. “What do you have to do with Sidney Rammage?”

She twisted free from his grasp. “As little as possible, I assure you.”

Sir Arthur coughed in an obvious, throat-clearing sort of way and glanced over the railing at the shadowy courtyard five stories below. “Well, best thing now is to notify the authorities.”

“No. You can’t.” A note of panic edged her musical voice. “That’s impossible.”

“I know your telephone is out of order. There must be another somewhere nearby.”

“If you make that call, I’ll be ruined.”

“My dear lady …” Sir Arthur glanced significantly at the maid. “Perhaps it would be best to retire inside where this might be discussed privately?”

“I have no secrets from Martha,” Isis said, giving the older woman an affectionate hug. “She is my right arm.”

“This have something to do with that bastard Rammage?” Houdini bullied. Sir Arthur cocked an eyebrow at such un-gallant behavior.

“I met Sidney Rammage in Paris the year after my husband died. I had a flat in the Sixteenth, just off the Bois du Boulogne. Mr. Rammage advertised manuscripts for sale. Alchemical texts on parchment. I arranged for a showing and paid a good price. I believe it was on that first visit when Mr. Rammage conceived a passion for my skull.”

“Skull…?” Conan Doyle looked utterly nonplussed. “Most bizarre, what?”

“A pre-Columbian skull, cut from quartz crystal. Mr. Houdini is familiar with the object. I sometimes use it to communicate. There was no need during our session today.”

“I imagine it contains great power.” Sir Arthur nodded.

Houdini was not interested in any discussion of the occult. “Rammage try to steal the gizmo?” he demanded, glancing over the railing into the shadows below.

“He was far too subtle to try something like that. It’s my fault, really. I was guilty of… an indiscretion, that year in Paris. Foolish, I know, but I am young and foolish. Mr. Rammage came into possession of certain letters and photographs. I think you get the picture. He threatened to make this material public in New York. It would mean my social ruin.”

“Blackmail.” Houdini seemed bursting with compressed energy.

“Of the most insidious variety. I can survive anything except scandal.”

“Rammage wanted the skull as payment?” Sir Arthur tamped tobacco into his briar pipe.

“Exactly. We engaged in a delicate diplomacy. The skull is important to me. I felt time was on my side. The longer I held out, the more likely Mr. Rammage would accept a cash settlement.”

“You can save your money now.” The magician poked a thumb at the dark void behind him. “He don’t need it where he’s going. His murdering, blackmailing days are over.”

“Wrong. Mr. Rammage placed the documents in question in the care of his attorney. A sealed envelope. He left instructions that it was not to be opened except in the event of his death. Said it was his life insurance policy.”

Conan Doyle leaned on the railing. “And if you surrendered the crystal skull?”

“The attorney has instructions to give me the papers upon delivery.”

“No problem then!” Houdini clapped his hands like a wizard dispelling demons.

“No problem…?” Sir Arthur frowned. “Damnit man, of course there’s a problem.” The knight pointed down at the courtyard. “What about him?”

“Him! To hell with him. He tried to kill the three of us.” Houdini paced on the catwalk. “Why should he get away with destroying her life?”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“First, we better drag our friend inside. Get him out of sight.” Houdini led the way back to the stairs. “Can Martha help?”

“She will do what you ask of her.”

“Good. I have a plan. Sir Arthur? Were you not trained as a surgeon?”

They started down the darkened steps. “I am ever a doctor,” Conan Doyle said with pride.

“You travel with your medical bag?”

“It’s at the hotel.”

“Get it. I have errands to run as well. We’ll meet back here in an hour.” The magician’s swaggering authority proved a welcome reassurance. “It’ll be a busy night. If I’m gonna catch the Twentieth Century to Chicago, we’ll have to work overtime.”

P
OLICE
C
APTAIN
F
RANCIS
X
AVIER
Boyle was furious. Although he appeared outwardly calm, flushed splotches on his cheeks gave away his rage. Sergeant Heegan had learned to recognize these signs of the captain’s displeasure way back in the winter of ‘99 when he walked a rookie’s beat out of the Twenty-ninth and Boyle had been precinct sergeant.

“… As I was saying, Jimmy, any situation reaching my desk automatically becomes a problem.” Captain Boyle’s bottled-in-bond murmur crooned softly in the wood-paneled office. “And when my good friend Captain Conny Willemse of homicide complains to me of a Judas Iscariot in his department, his problem becomes my problem.”

“Judas Iscariot, Captain…?” Heegan didn’t like the way things were going. When told to report back to his old precinct, the sergeant had assumed it meant a return to active duty. The red danger signals on Boyle’s cheeks warned of the unexpected.

“A stool-pigeon, Sergeant, in the parlance of those we are sworn to guard the citizenry against.” Captain Boyle waved a copy of the morning
New York American,
flourishing the headline
TELL-TALE MURDER: POE KILLER CLAIMS NEW VICTIM.
“Let me read you several lurid highlights. ‘Magician Found Dismembered … head, arms, and legs bundled around the torso inside a dented green footlocker lodged between the floor joists… . Right eye gouged free and replaced with a milky-blue marble… . A curious clockwork mechanism wedged inside the chest cavity produced a steady metronome beating. This is the sound, overheard by neighbors, which resulted in the police being summoned …’ Why is it, do you suppose, the press seems to know the details of this case even before our reports are filed?”

Better cover my ass here, Heegan thought. “You want me to do some snooping around?” he asked. “They trust me down there. Might be able to turn something up.”

The captain’s thin, tight-lipped smile grew ever more taut. “Are you volunteering to go undercover?” Boyle purred softly. “Is that what you have in mind, Sergeant?”

“It is indeed.”

“Ask a few leading questions? Coax the culprit out of the woodwork…?”

“That is my sincere intention.”

“You dumb bastard!” Captain Boyle shouted. “You ignorant, conniving, lying mick! Don’t you think everyone’s noticed that one paper out of all the pack, one paper alone gets the scoop? That paper is the
American.
And is it any coincidence that one reporter there seems always to get the story first?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” Heegan’s tongue felt thick in his mouth.

“Wouldn’t you, Jimmy…?” Boyle whispered. “Wouldn’t you know that Damon Runyon has a little birdie singing in his ear? A little birdie in a blue coat?”

“Surely, Captain, you don’t mean to suggest that—”

“Shut your ignorant yap, you damned idiot!” Captain Boyle pulled a second newspaper out of a desk drawer. “I’m riot one to read a Hearst rag with any pleasure, so I didn’t see Damon Runyon’s column of a week ago until it was brought to my attention yesterday.” Boyle folded this copy of the
American
to the sports section. “The diligent police work of such as Sergeant James Patrick Heegan of homicide,” he read. “ ‘Sergeant Heegan represents the finest tradition of law enforcement!’ “ The captain slammed his desk with the folded newspaper. “Don’t you think I know a payback when I see one? This is your damn vigorish, Jimmy! You always did have a mouth big enough to stable a horse.”

Heegan stared at his scuffed, black brogans. “It was just idle chitchat over coffee,” he whined. “No more than that.”

“Anyone too dumb to appreciate a sinecure doesn’t deserve it.” The captain was no longer smiling. He tossed a police whistle into the sergeant’s lap. “Starting the noon shift, Heegan, you’re back on traffic detail. Better get your white gloves out of mothballs.”

A mile or so from the Twenty-ninth Precinct, Damon Runyon threaded his way past the stevedores and embarking passengers crowding into a baggage wagon logjam on Pier 56. The Cunard liner
Aquitania,
scheduled to sail on the afternoon tide, rode at her moorings: immense, immobile, and yet, for all her stillness and majesty, the embodiment of motion and unimaginable power. Above the dockside confusion, a festive mood prevailed aboard the great ship. Runyon ascended the first-class gangway tilting up against the vast, clifflike expanse of her hull, serenaded by the distant strains of a lively string orchestra.

Uniformed deck stewards wandered among the milling passengers carrying trays heaped with noisemakers, sacks of confetti, paper streamers in colorful, compact rolls. A smiling young man handed Damon Runyon a cardboard party horn as he entered the main salon. The sportswriter attempted an experimental
toot
on the grand staircase beneath the gilt-framed Pannini painting of postcard-perfect Roman ruins.

Entering a reception lounge paneled with authentic Grinling Gibbons carvings, Runyon ditched the gaudy horn in a tall, sand-filled brass ashtray, making his way toward a noisy gathering at the far end of the room. A small crowd of reporters and assorted professional well-wishers surrounded Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his family. “There’s a long, long trail a-winding,” sang the jovial knight in his off-key baritone.

“It’s a long way to Tipperary,” his son Denis joined in at the top of his lungs. “It’s a long way to go …” Together, they made a joyous noise, each singing a different song, their happy cacophony preventing any possible questions.

Runyon hung back a moment to enjoy the spectacle. With his tour at an end, Conan Doyle clearly no longer felt any obligation to cater to the press. His derisively dissonant duet seemed intended as a discreet Bronx cheer, to use the clever catchphrase for a raspberry coined by Runyon’s friend Bugs Baer. And who was on the receiving end of said insult: the assembled members of the Fourth Estate. Dumb bastards just didn’t get it.

“And the pale moon beams …” Catching sight of Damon Runyon, the knight broke off his lusty caroling and pushed through the cluster of reporters to shake the newspaperman’s hand. “Good of you to come.”