The Ectoplasmic Man (24 page)

“L
adies and gentlemen, for my next escape attempt, I will require the assistance of a member of tonight’s audience.” Houdini stepped to the edge of the stage and peered out over the footlights. “Ah! I see just the man! My friends, this evening we are graced by the presence of an extraordinary man. A man whose wisdom and spirit guided me through my darkest hour, and whose tenacity and faith are largely responsible for my happy return to the stage. Dr Watson, if Mr Holmes can spare you for this one evening, would you consent to be my assistant, as well?”

Once again my fellow theatre patrons were more than kind in their reception of me, but even their warm enthusiasm moved me far less than the gracious words of Houdini. Making my way to the stage, I found my progress impeded by a sudden mist over my eyes.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Houdini, taking my hand firmly as I climbed to the stage. “It is appropriate that you should be by my side as I introduce to London, and to the world, an escape which defies all reason and yet is firmly grounded in the commonplace.”

The orchestra music swelled to a grand crescendo as the rear curtains
parted, revealing a disappointingly prosaic metal milk canister. The audience had by this point come to expect something on a rather grander scale from Houdini, so that this ordinary object left them decidedly unimpressed. Houdini seemed prepared for this.

“As you may clearly see,” he began, “what we have here is a perfectly plain milk can, a fact which Dr Watson will verify. You will ask yourself, ’What is so remarkable about this? Why should Houdini be afraid of a can of milk?’” The magician walked to the footlights and assumed a confidential tone. “It is true, my friends, that this escape may at first consideration seem to lack the subtle intrigue of my Walking-Through-a-Brick-Wall illusion, or the raw terror of my Water Torture Cell, but I ask you to consider further.” Houdini’s voice fell to a deeper register, which gave it an ominous shading. “A simple metal can. Barely large enough to hold a man. Once inside, even the smallest movement is nearly impossible.” Houdini described the small space with his fingertips. “Now, a metal lid is clamped over the top and locked into place. There is no longer any light to see and precious little room to move. And one last thing, ladies and gentlemen” — Houdini walked upstage and laid a hand on the rim of the canister — “one last thing which seriously complicates my dilemma. The can is filled to the top with water!”

Houdini’s dramatic pronouncement set the audience members to whispering excitedly among themselves. I myself doubted the sanity of such an undertaking as I watched Houdini’s new assistants bring several large buckets of water onto the stage. The magician himself merely smiled at the excitement he had created.

“Think of it!” he cried, raising his arms to quiet the house. “It combines all of man’s worst fears! The fear of confined spaces, the fear of darkness and” — here Houdini achieved the remarkable impression of having met every eye in the house — “failure means a drowning death! Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time on any stage, I give you the Deadly Riddle of the Milk Can!”

By now he had worked the audience into such a state that the very name of the effect produced wild applause, punctuated by several feminine shrieks. From the upper balcony a man shouted for Houdini to desist, which pleased the young American greatly.

“No! No, my friends!” cried the magician, again holding up his arms to be heard. “Though your concerns are justified, and the dangers great, I will not back away from this or any other challenge! This is what it means to face the dark spectre, this is what it means to chart the limits of man! This, ladies and gentlemen, is what it means to be Houdini!”

There then followed such a tumult of wild applause and shouting that it was several moments before the performance could continue.

To say that Houdini’s return to the stage that evening had thus far been a triumph would be to do the great magician a disservice. His performance had been nothing less than miraculous, and his grip upon the imaginations of his audience had been masterful. For many weeks previous, the theatre sections of the London dailies had anticipated his re-emergence with great excitement, while in the forward sections of the newspapers, Houdini’s role in the Gairstowe problem was detailed at some length. Even the ceremonies surrounding the coronation of the Prince of Wales as George V could not entirely eclipse the news and speculation about Houdini. All the while the magician had been content to avoid the public eye, revising and refining his effects and allowing the renewed interest in his doings to feed upon itself. Now, standing there beside him on that remarkable night, his first public appearance since the mistaken arrest and imprisonment, I could only marvel at how he had turned the near disaster to his personal advantage, propelling himself to the very fore of the public’s attention.

Having overseen the placement of several large pails of water, a black folding screen and the large clock used with his Water Torture Cell, Houdini turned to me and whispered, “I have to leave the stage for
a minute, John. Keep them entertained while I’m gone, all right?” He slapped me on the shoulder and stepped behind the black screen.

Happily, the audience was still so wrought up in the wonder of the coming escape attempt that Houdini’s absence was scarcely noticed. It was not until he reappeared a moment later, garbed in his bathing costume, that the house fell silent once more.

“All is ready,” the magician announced. “As you see, my assistants are filling the milk can with liquid.
^*
But before I undertake the challenge, let us try a different sort of test — one in which each member of the audience may participate. I will now enter the milk can and duck down below the surface of the water, but without locking the top into place. I invite each one of you to hold your breath along with me for as long as you possibly can. In this way, we’ll see how each one of you might have fared against the milk can.” Houdini stepped up to his waist into the mouth of the canister, splashing a quantity of water onto the stage as he did so. “Dr Watson, that electrical switch at the base of the clock will start the hands. And remember, Doctor, I expect you to hold your breath, too! Now, if you are all ready, ladies and gentlemen... Begin!” Houdini slipped below the surface of the water as I started the huge clock. From the other side of the footlights I heard an enormous intake of breath as hundreds of the audience members endeavoured to outlast the young magician. I was something of an athlete at university, and I was always quite proud of the power of my lungs when swimming, but before even one minute had passed I was gasping for air along with most of the audience. In my case, I attribute my shortened endurance at least partially to my nervousness at appearing onstage before so many people. Houdini, evidently, suffered no such stage fright.

Before ninety seconds were shown to have elapsed on the large clock,
many loud gasps from the house indicated that even the hardiest of the patrons had been forced to take air; and before two full minutes had passed it was clear from the excited chattering all about the theatre that no one had managed to outlast Houdini. All eyes were now fixed to the milk can, but still the magician stayed below the surface of the water. As the hands of the clock reached three minutes, Houdini splashed upward out of the mouth of the can, his hands held high in triumph.

This feat of stamina won him a tremendous round of applause, which Houdini acknowledged by bowing deeply over the edge of the milk can. “Thank you!” he cried, struggling to regain his wind. “Thank you very much, you are very kind! And now — if you will allow me — the real test will begin! My assistant will now bring the lid to be locked over the mouth of the milk can. Incidentally, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to take this moment to introduce my assistant to all of you. She is my wife, Bess Houdini!” Mrs Houdini came forward from the wings, wearing a fetching costume of violet silk. She was plainly delighted to have been reinstated as her husband’s assistant, and she smiled warmly at me as she took her place by his side. “Thank you, Bess,” said Houdini as he took the milk-can lid from her and held it aloft. “And now, once more I shall curl myself up inside the milk can. My assistants will then fill the can up to overflowing, replacing any water which has spilled out. Then my wife and Dr Watson will fasten the lid onto the can, sealing me inside without any air at all. You have seen that I can last for three minutes underwater, but will I be able to escape from the milk can in that time? We shall see.” Houdini paused here, standing waist-deep in the milk can, and gazed searchingly into the distance. “This ancient Celtic mystery was learned from a holy council of Druids who—” Houdini paused again, seeming to reconsider his words. I saw him glance up at the royal box, where the newly crowned George V sat smiling benignly. By His Majesty’s side, in a chair generally reserved for members of the royal family, sat Sherlock Holmes. To the
rear of them, in a position denoting what amounted to royal indifference, was seated the detective’s older brother, Mycroft. As Houdini looked up at them now, his eyes seemed to frame a question, a question to which Sherlock Holmes responded with a slight inclination of his head.

Houdini looked back out over the audience. “My friends,” he said, breaking away from his rehearsed patter, “my kind audience … many of you have read of my recent” — he searched for the proper word — “misunderstanding with Scotland Yard. Please be assured, I blame no one for the unhappiness, even though it nearly ruined my career. No, I blame no one.” Inspector Lestrade squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in the first row. “Still,” Houdini continued, “I would be remiss if I did not thank the two men responsible for setting the affair to rights. One of them you have met already, he is standing here beside me. The other man is also here with us this evening. He is Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

I would like to be able to report that Holmes blushed and averted his eyes, but in truth he rather liked public accolades, and most especially this one, led as it was by His Majesty the King, while Mycroft Holmes stared moodily at the floor.

“Without Mr Holmes,” Houdini continued, “my cause would have been lost. But he continued to seek the truth when all others thought me guilty of a terrible crime. The evidence against me was overwhelming, but Mr Holmes was able to unravel it by focusing on what looked like an insignificant detail. Anyone else would have ignored this detail, but he seized on it and did not let go until it led to the answer he sought. This one detail, this seemingly unimportant aspect of a very complicated case, was ordinary milk. The milk which was contained in this very can. And my friends, just as Mr Holmes recognised the importance of this ordinary can of milk and built it into one of the great successes of his career, so too will I. Mr Holmes has shown me that there are great wonders to be found in life’s commonplaces.” Houdini paused and turned to me.
“Dr Watson, if you are ready... Bess... Your Majesty... Mr Holmes... Inspector Lestrade... ladies and gentlemen... I now present the Deadly Riddle of the Milk Can!”

Houdini drew in a deep breath and slipped below the surface of the water. One of his new assistants came forward with a pail and poured water until the can overflowed onto the stage. Mrs Houdini then clamped the lid over the top, fastening one side while I locked the other. Two more assistants placed the black screen around the can, shielding it from view. There now remained nothing to do but wait.

In my own defence, I must say that I began well. I recalled only too clearly my disastrous actions during that earlier performance of Houdini’s, and I was not keen to repeat myself. This resolve enabled me to endure the first minute of Houdini’s watery confinement with scarcely a qualm.

Even as the hands of the clock reached two minutes, and the audience began to grow agitated, I still remained calm, confident of Houdini’s physical and technical skill. Had he not just shown that he could last three minutes underwater with no ill effect? Surely there was no cause for alarm.

But as the clock swept past three minutes I gave in to my building sense of trepidation. By his own admission, Houdini had never performed this escape before an audience. Had it presented unforeseen difficulty? Could Houdini even move in the cramped space of the milk can, far less effect an escape? The audience’s consternation had grown in volume and pitch so that shouts of concern were audible from every corner of the house. The danger was very real, I knew, but I had on that previous occasion seen him last four minutes before I made my dubious rescue. I would not make the same mistake now. And yet, what if my reluctance to embarrass myself cost Houdini his life?

At four minutes I began to pace a frantic line up and down before the black screen. As before, I saw the assistants shift about nervously, as if deciding on a course of action. But did any of them know the real danger?
The man who truly knew Houdini’s limits — the villainous Franz — was now dead. Was there anyone else who would recognise when Houdini’s showmanship had crossed over into genuine peril? I looked about for Mrs Houdini, but I could not see her.

Four and one-half minutes found the audience in a frenzy, the aisles were clogged with rescuers attempting to reach the stage. All about the theatre women swooned while men begged me to take action. More time had now passed than any man, even Houdini, could survive without oxygen. After all that he had undergone in those trying weeks, was my friend now to drown in a can of milk? I searched the royal box for guidance from Holmes, but his chair was empty. Frantically, I looked about in the wings for a sign from Mrs Houdini. A group of assistants were clustered there by the edge of the stage. Surely they would put an end to it, surely they would unlock the hellish trap? I took a few steps towards them and saw, to my extreme horror, that they were gathered about the unconscious form of Bess Houdini.

This was all the impetus I needed. Performance or no, I would get Houdini out of that can before another second passed. Once more I dashed to the wings and seized the heavy fire axe. The din of the audience was now deafening, but I paid no heed as I pushed aside the black screen, showing the can still sealed.