The Ectoplasmic Man (12 page)

Though my suspicions were not entirely lulled, I found my concern returning to the case. “Who is the criminal, then?”

“You musn’t expect miracles from me, Watson,” he replied, a trifle hurt. “Houdini is the magician, not I. The villain’s name is as yet unknown to me. But my net is drawing tight about him, and soon...” He curled his bony fingers and held them aloft. “But enough of that. Tell me what you have learned from the countess.”

He listened eagerly as I gave a brief account of my visit to the Cleland and of the incident which followed.

“Ah,” said Holmes when I had finished, “our friend with the red muffler has attached himself to you, has he? You should be flattered, Watson!”

“What? Do you mean you know him?”

“Well, let us say I’ve seen him about. He followed us home from the Diogenes the other night, and he caught up with us again after our trip to Gairstowe House. When you and I separated I managed to shake him off by jumping out of a moving four-wheeler.”

“But who is he? What does he want?”

“What an inquisitive fellow you are, Watson! It’s a pity you weren’t quite so persistent with the countess or we might be a good deal closer to our solution.”

“What do you mean, Holmes? I learned as much as could be hoped under the circumstances. I thought I did rather well.”

“No, Watson, I’m afraid you are too easily intoxicated by feminine allure. It is perhaps your greatest failing. You are more concerned with the cut of a gown than with the poisoning of a husband. True, your narrative holds one or two points of interest, but on the whole you are too chivalrous to be of any real use.”

“See here, Holmes, this was a situation which called for the greatest delicacy. Had I been any more direct in my questioning I would have been ejected even sooner. I’m certain you wouldn’t have fared any better.”

“Perhaps not, but at any rate we’ll know soon enough, for I intend to pay a visit to the Cleland at the earliest opportunity. But as it is now rather late to go calling, I suggest we leave the countess until morning. For the present, I have a rather different social outing in mind.”

“That suits me perfectly well,” I said. “I have been sitting about here for more than a day.”

“And I’m afraid you shall have to stagnate here a while longer,” Holmes said. “Tonight’s expedition is another in which you will not be participating. It is a rather—”

“Holmes, if I am not going along then you shall not go yourself.”

“My dear fellow—!”

“I shall not sit by any longer while Houdini remains locked up at Scotland Yard. I cannot bear it.” I went on to describe the dreadful circumstances of Houdini’s imprisonment.

“Dear me!” Holmes said, “That’s bad. Very bad. Well, it shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Not if I have any part in it,” said I. “Now, what is our errand this evening?”

“Watson,” Holmes began, his face quite grave, “this business tonight may involve, well, burglary. Though our cause is just, we shall nonetheless place ourselves on the wrong side of the law. Are you still inclined to join me?”

“I stand firm.”

“Good fellow!” he cried, clapping my shoulder. “Still, I find your eagerness a bit worrisome. Perhaps I have been looking too far afield for the Gairstowe thief.”

Though Holmes attempted to make light of the situation, he was plainly uneasy over involving me in any wrongdoing. Rather than argue the point with him I simply kept quiet and waited, knowing that my willingness would soon out-weigh his concerns. In any event, I had no intention of letting him out of my sight until I was certain that he had not resumed his use of narcotics.

At length Holmes appeared to reach a decision, and with a shrug of resignation he leaned forward to confide his plan.

“Do you recall the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study which so engaged our attention?”

“Yes, I do.”

“We know that those prints were made by Houdini’s shoes. If we accept that Houdini’s feet were not in them—”

“Then someone else got hold of a pair of his shoes. Where have we run across that before, eh, Holmes?”
^*

“Precisely. Now, I have already ascertained that the shoes could not have been taken from Houdini’s hotel room. Therefore we must attempt to steal a pair from his dressing-room at the Savoy.”

“Why not simply ask Mrs Houdini for the shoes?”

“Because it will be much more informative to steal them. If we cannot contrive to do so, we will have learned that the shoes were taken by someone with a more ready access to the theatre. This would suggest an employee of the Savoy, or a member of Houdini’s own company.”

“And if we are successful?”

“Then we will have gone a long way towards shaking the conviction of Lestrade’s case against Houdini.”

“Very good. I shall fetch the dark lantern.”

“We’d best put on our rubber-soled shoes as well. And Watson—”

“Yes?”

“Better slip your service revolver into your pocket.” He placed a hand upon my arm. “There may be—”

“I understand. Anything else?”

“Well, yes,” he said, touching the bell, “some cold sandwiches before we depart would not go amiss.”

^*
Watson is probably referring to “The Hound of the Baskervilles”, in which a boot was stolen to put the hound on the scent.

W
E
B
ECOME
C
RIMINALS

W
ithin the hour we had arrived in the Strand and were attempting to gain entrance to the theatre. The front doors were heavily secured and the entire building was dark. This cheerless atmosphere was deepened by the few remaining Houdini posters, which were either torn or patched with cancellation notices.

We made our way down the side alley and found the stage door bolted as well. “How shall we get in?” I whispered, though in truth there could not have been anyone there to hear me.

“Let us try to be as resourceful as our thief, Watson,” said Holmes, extracting from his pocket a leather case which he opened to display a shining row of metal tools.

“Good heavens, Holmes! Those are burglars’ tools! Lock picks!”

“Quite right,” he said, bending over the door lock. “Though I may not cause Houdini to look over his shoulder, I do have a certain facility with the common lock. Hold the lantern just there, Watson. This shouldn’t take but a moment.”

Holmes could not be accused of false modesty in assessing his own
locksmithing skills, for the detective spent nearly a quarter of an hour working at that lock, grunting all the while, until at long last we heard a sharp click and the door swung inward.

“The lock was stiff,” Holmes said testily, as we stepped into the darkened theatre.

Playing the lantern across the backstage area we could see many large crates and other, more irregular shapes, all covered with oilcloth against the theatre dust. Moving cautiously past the battens and counterweights, we soon came upon the broken remains of the Water Torture Cell, glinting ominously in the lantern light, and beyond that stood the imposing solid brick wall.

“Nothing’s been moved since Houdini’s arrest,” I whispered. “The wall is just where he left it.”

“Yes,” came the low reply, “but if you’ve no objection we’ll just walk around it rather than through. It’s simpler that way.”

“But why do you suppose — good heavens! What is that?” I aimed the light at a sudden movement by the rear curtains.

“Rats,” answered Holmes. “Come this way.” We crossed the dark stage and made our way into a short corridor of rooms off the far wings. “Houdini’s dressing-room is the first on the left. See what you can find.”

“Where are you going?” I asked, but Holmes placed a cautionary finger to his lips and turned away. Alone, I crept into the room he had indicated and began my examination.

Houdini’s dressing-room was small and conspicuously free of the vanities of his profession. A rack in the corner held a blue greatcoat and a modest straw hat. In the closet were four black suit jackets, three with detachable sleeves, and eight pairs of matching trousers which showed considerable wear at the knee. There were two swimming costumes and a dressing-gown, all neatly hung and carefully arranged, and on the floor of the closet sat the objects of our visit — five identical pairs of shoes. I
selected the oldest of these and slipped them under my arm.

Turning my attention away from the closet, I noted that Houdini’s fastidiousness extended to his dressing-table, where he kept only those personal articles which were strictly necessary, and far fewer of those than I myself was accustomed to using. Where one might have expected to see a vanity case or a make-up kit, Houdini’s table held instead a portrait of a venerable old woman, whom I took to be his mother; and crowded about the gold frame were bits of metal coils and springs, a padlock or two, pieces of a broken manacle, and a pair of medieval thumbscrews.

Taking a seat before this peculiar collection, I could not help but ponder the inconsistencies apparent in the character of Harry Houdini. Whereas he had at first seemed unrelievedly brash and pompous, in moments of crisis I had observed concern not for his own safety or comfort, but for the well-being of the craft which he had struggled so tenaciously to perfect. Here in his dressing-room, his personal effects bore no trace of theatrical affectation. Rather, Houdini’s private tastes were simple to the point of asceticism, and his only embellishments were those which contributed to his stage persona. Where between the flamboyant performer and the disciplined craftsman did the real Houdini lie?

I was not long in these reflections before the silence of the theatre was broken by a sharp, strident cry which could only have come from Sherlock Holmes.

“Good Lord!” I shouted, rushing from the room. “Are you all right? What has happened?” I weaved my way urgently among the covered crates and backstage curtains, sweeping my lantern frantically across the black space. “Can you hear me? Where are—?”

From out of the darkness a powerful arm encircled my throat and held me fast. The attack came so suddenly that I had no chance to resist, and, as I was pinned from behind, I could not even see my foe.

“Who are you?” snarled a menacing voice, well above my ear. I felt the
grip tighten about my throat. “Why are you here?” My lantern clattered to the floor. “Talk! Talk or I’ll snap your neck!”

Even in my distress I was able to recognise the clipped accent of my assailant. “Franz!” my voice came out in a choked gasp. “It is Dr Watson! Release me!”

“Dr Watson?” He eased his hold and spun me about as though I were a rag doll. “Oh no! Then that must have been Sherlock Holmes that I pushed down the stairs!”

“What? Holmes!” I bolted forward to the edge of the stage, “Are you all right? Can you hear me? Turn on the light, Franz, I cannot see him!”

Franz dashed to the wings as I called out desperately, straining my eyes against the gloom. “Holmes! Can you hear me? Are you down there?”

“Please do not shout, Watson,” came the familiar voice. “My head is not yet recovered from the first onslaught.”

“You’re all right? You are not injured?”

“I am quite well,” he said, “though this has not been my finest hour.” At last the lights came up to reveal Holmes seated in the aisle, gingerly touching the back of his head. Franz, greatly relieved that he had not done away with the world’s greatest detective, lifted Holmes up and deposited him in the nearest theatre seat.

“Please forgive me, Mr Holmes,” he said anxiously, “I could not see that it was you. You should have telephoned before coming down.”

“Yes well, think nothing of it,” Holmes said, wincing as I probed a swelling on the back of his head. “It is no more than I deserved. I trust your reasons for being here are more creditable than our own?”

“Do I need a reason to be here, Mr Holmes? Where else would I be? In a stuffy hotel room? No, thank you.”

“But surely you don’t sleep here?” I asked, having satisfied myself that Holmes had suffered no great injury. “Even Houdini does not go so far.”

“Only because his wife would not permit it, Doctor,” Franz answered.
“So the job falls to me. I would not have it any other way. It is the very least that I can do for the Houdinis.”

“The very least?” asked Holmes. “It seems to me that Houdini expects rather a lot from you.”

“Not at all,” Franz returned. “You see, I am far more than just an assistant to Mr Houdini. Far more. I am his confidant, his... his” — Franz thought for a moment — “his Dr Watson, if you will. Both he and Mrs Houdini have treated me as family since fate brought us together in Stuttgart.”

“Fate brought you together?” Holmes asked. “Fate is not usually so accommodating.”

Franz smiled. “Yes, it may seem odd to you, Mr Holmes, but I am a great believer in fate. I have had... I have had an odd life, and if the Houdinis had not found me when they did I would be dead or worse by now.”

“Dead or worse?”

Franz nodded. “I make no secret of my past,” he began, “but it is not a pleasant story.

“I was born in Stuttgart to an old, established family, and I was bred to a life of idle comfort. But my father died when I was still young, and he left a number of debts behind. My mother tried her best, but she could not save us from ruin. All of our property was taken from us and we were reduced to poverty and disgrace. Within three years my mother, too, was gone.” Franz folded his large hands and then unfolded them again. “I was then twenty years old. I had no money, no skills, and only that education which befits a young toff. I was ill-prepared for what lay ahead. The next six years... well, suffice it to say that at the end of six years I had sunk very low in the world. I lived from hand to mouth, and worse, I had developed a powerful and consuming addiction to cocaine. The drug made me a madman! I would do anything to satisfy my cravings. Can you understand this? The depravity? Can you imagine the absolute degradation of one’s soul?”