The Floating Lady Murder (20 page)

“SHE DROWNED? IN MID-AIR? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?”

“Well, Mr. Houdini, that’s something I’d very much like to know.”

We were seated in a police interview room at the thirteenth precinct station house on Delancy Street. We had driven over from the theater in a horse-drawn calash, and Lieutenant Murray spent the journey quizzing us on our experiences with the Kellar company. I don’t know that we added anything new to what we had already told him the previous night, but by the time we reached the station house he had filled five pages of his note pad.

“It seems to me that we’re wasting valuable time here, Lieutenant,” said Harry, leaning across the interview table. “Shouldn’t you be putting these questions to Jim Collins? After all, he was the one who claimed to have escorted Miss Moore safely up to the dome. I don’t see how that could possibly be true.”

“It can’t,” Murray said. “Not unless the lady somehow slipped from that wire and drowned while falling to her death. She must have been dead before she fell.”

“Which means that Collins was lying,” I said. “Surely you’ve questioned him by now?”

“Extensively.” The lieutenant rubbed his eyes. “He’s in a cell
downstairs. But he insists that Francesca Moore was alive when he helped her into the harness.” The lieutenant riffled through a stack of loose pages on the table in front of him. “Here’s what he told me: ‘It all went like clockwork. We ran up the stairs to the dome, I helped her get strapped in, and I gave her a hand getting onto the ladder. She was all set for the lights to come up for the big finale. When I left, she was absolutely fine.’ ”

Harry drummed his fingers on the table. “He’s describing the sequence of events as it would have been under normal circumstances, but that can’t possibly have been the case last night. If she had slipped—if she had unfastened the harness for some reason and fallen—then certainly it might have happened as Mr. Collins says. But the woman drowned! How does he explain that? How does a woman take water into her lungs while falling to her death?”

“I put that same question to him myself, Houdini. Many times. Some of my colleagues have been a little overly zealous in their questioning, I’m afraid. But he still insists that it happened just that way.”

“Can I have misjudged him so badly?” Harry asked. “He seemed such a solid fellow.”

“It seems clear that he’s lying, or covering for someone else,” the lieutenant said. “Can you think of anything that might help us wear down his story?”

I searched my memory for anything he might have said over the past few days. “Mr. Kellar seems to have placed a great deal of faith in him,” I said. “Apparently he used to work for Professor Herrmann.”

“Who?”

“Another magician.”

“Great. Just what I need. What about Felsden and Valletin? Is there any reason to think he might be covering for either of them?”

“It’s difficult to say. Silent Felsden hasn’t spoken a word to me since we joined the company. Valletin came over from the
Maskelyne troupe, and there was some talk that he—”

“Maskelyne? Would this be yet another magician?”

I nodded. “Valletin worked as a carpenter in his illusion shop.”

“I can tell you another thing about Valletin,” Harry said. “The man is a terrible juggler. Couldn’t keep three balls in the air if his life depended on it.”

“I’m sure that will be very helpful, Houdini. I’ll be certain to confront him with that immediately.”

“I don’t know if this will be any more useful,” I said, “but Valletin may have liberated a few of Maskelyne’s secrets when he came to work for Mr. Kellar.”

“That has to be the reason why he was hired,” said Harry. “It couldn’t have been his juggling.”

“Great. So that’s one more magician who has a reason to want to see Kellar fold his tent. Collins spent half the night telling me about spies working for Serge Le Roy.”

“Servais.”

“Whatever. Collins wanted me to think that Le Roy might have arranged to sabotage the stunt.”

“There is a great deal of money at stake, according to Mr. Kellar,” I allowed. “But it still doesn’t explain how Miss Moore came to drown.”

“No, it doesn’t.” said Lieutenant Murray, making a note in his pad, “but Collins is keeping to his story as though it were cast in iron. I’ll check his background and see if I can find anything to loosen the rivets. You’re sure you don’t have any idea why he might have wished to kill this woman?”

“None,” I said.

“Think carefully, Hardeen. The victim was a surpassingly beautiful woman. Was there anyone in particular who developed a passion for her, and perhaps had his advances spurned?”

“That could be said of nearly every man in the company, myself included.”

“That’s just what Collins said.”

“I will grant that Miss Moore was an exceptional woman,”
said Harry, “but I do not believe that whoever hatched this plot harbored any grudge against her. She was merely another unfortunate victim of the curse.”

“Harry,” I said, “the lieutenant doesn’t want to hear about the curse of Kalliffa.”

“The what?”

“The coincidence is far too great,” Harry insisted. “A woman is killed performing the Floating Lady effect. Twenty-five years later—on the same exact date—a second woman dies in the same manner. There must be a connection.”

“A second woman?” said Lieutenant Murray. “The curse of Kalliffa? What’s this about?”

Lieutenant Murray listened closely as Harry gave him a summary of what Mr. Kellar had told us the previous evening. “So you see,” Harry said when he had finished, “these are very deep waters indeed.”

“Perhaps not quite so deep as all that, Houdini. I’m not a great believer in curses. I’ll grant you that it’s a hell of a coincidence, and it certainly explains why Kellar was so keen to push ahead with the trick, but the real victim here is Miss Moore. When I investigate a murder, I look for people who wanted the victim dead. It’s as simple as that.”

“But—”

“Harry, the lieutenant is making a lot of sense.”

“Perhaps so,” Harry said glumly. “Either way, the tragedy may serve to end the career of a great man. This matter must be resolved promptly, and with a minimum of publicity.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.” Lieutenant Murray pushed a copy of the
New York World
across the table. The third column had a bold headline: SHOCKING EVENT AT THE BELASCO. A sub-head continued the theme: TRAGEDY ATTENDS KELLAR PERFORMANCE.

Harry snatched up the paper and scanned the article. “This is really unconscionable,” he said, tossing the paper aside. “How could they do such a thing?”

“Mr. Kellar will be very distressed,” I agreed. “But we could hardly expect the press to ignore the story. The house was full of reporters last—”

“Once again there is no mention of my name!”

Lieutenant Murray looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “Indeed, Houdini,” he said, “the situation is even more grave than I thought.”

“Lieutenant Murray,” I said, “is there any chance that Harry and I might be permitted to question Mr. Collins for a moment or two? After all, we have a more intimate knowledge of the—”

Murray held up his hands. “It’s impossible, Hardeen,” he said, but there was something in his face that I couldn’t read. “As an officer of the New York Police Department, I can’t allow civilians to get in the way of a murder investigation. However, I think you’ll find that we brought in your cousin Chester last night. Had a snootful, Chester did.”

“I see.”

“What?” cried Harry. “We have no cousin Chester! I don’t—”

“You remember him, Houdini. Your cousin Chester. He’s drying out in the lock-up.”

“Very good,” I said. “We’ll look in on him before we go.”

“Just across from Collins, as it turns out.”

“Yes. Come along, Harry.”

“But this is absurd! I am well acquainted with the family tree on both sides, and there is no—”

Exasperated, the lieutenant explained it to him in terms that might have brought a blush to the cheeks of Matilda the mannequin.

“Ah!” said Harry, as recognition slowly dawned. “I see! Our cousin Chester!” He gave a broad wink. “Let us go visit our cousin Chester, Dash!”

Lieutenant Murray rolled his eyes. “Yes, Houdini. I’ll just tag along and listen, if I might.” He led us down a wide central stairway to the dispatcher’s desk. “I’m taking these boys on a tour of the hoosegow, O’Donnell,” he told the desk sergeant.
“Any objections?”

“None,” said O’Donnell, handing over a heavy ring of keys. “Shall I stay here and attend to my desk work?”

“That might be best.”

“We’re visiting our cousin Chester,” said Harry, unable to help himself. “He’s our cousin.”

“Is that right?” asked O’Donnell.

“Come on, Houdini,” said Lieutenant Murray testily. “Let’s see if we can make it down the stairs without you telling the chief all about it.”

“Why are you being so accommodating, lieutenant?” I asked as he led us past the sergeant’s desk.

“Collins hasn’t budged an inch from his story. I figure he might let something slip to you.”

“We are pleased to be of assistance,” Harry said.

“I’ll be happy if you just stay out of my way,” he answered, leading us down a set of dank steel-beam steps. “You can talk to your friend, then I want you to clear off.”

Murray stopped in front of a metal-studded door with a heavy iron cross-bar. He lifted the bar and fitted a large key into a reinforced panel-lock, turning it three times clockwise. The door rolled sideways on rusty casters. Murray held it open as we passed through, then slid it shut behind us once we were inside.

The lock-up was comprised of only four cells, two on each side, with a wide corridor running down the center. Four bare light bulbs dangling from ceiling cords provided the only illumination. Collins was sitting in the cell on the far right, leaning forward on the narrow bench, his hands clasped between his knees. A muscular Chinese man lay asleep in the cell opposite, snoring contentedly.

Collins rose from his bench at the sound of our approach, blinking in the dim light. “Hardeen? Is that you? Houdini?” He stepped forward and gripped the bars at the front of the cell. “Good lord, have they arrested you, too?”

“Not just yet,” I said, facing him through the bars. His right
eye was badly swollen and there were dark bruises covering the left half of his face. “The police did this to you?” I asked.

Collins’s eyes darted toward Lieutenant Murray, who was leaning against the sliding entry door. “I slipped,” he said. “Listen, you have to give Mr. Kellar a message for me! I had nothing to do with Miss Moore’s death! I would never do such a thing! I can’t believe that anyone would believe that I’m capable of murder!”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” I said, “but the police don’t see any other explanation. How could she possibly—”

“I know,” Collins said, nodding his head vigorously. “How could she possibly have drowned? How could she be alive when she fell off the wire and dead by drowning when she hit the ground? I’ve been thinking of nothing else since it happened.”

“Collins,” Harry said, “you’re certain she was alive when you left the catwalk?”

“Was she alive? Of course she was alive, Houdini! She waved at me from the platform!”

“How much time passed between the moment you left the catwalk and when she fell?”

“Not more than two minutes, Hardeen. You know that perfectly well. It went exactly according to plan, just like in rehearsal. I left her all set for the final reveal, then I ran down the steps to the backstage area to get ready for my final entrance.”

“Miss Moore gave you no indication that anything was wrong?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Think carefully, Collins. Did you observe anything different from rehearsal?”

“No, Houdini. It was right on the money. Exactly the same.”

“What about the chalk marks?” Harry asked.

“What chalk marks?”

“Harry expected her to make a couple of chalk marks on the wire before she climbed out,” I explained. “It’s something the Kendall Brothers used to do.”

“You did not observe a piece of chalk in her hand?” Harry asked.

“No, Houdini, but I didn’t see her make any marks during rehearsal, either.”

“She wouldn’t have,” Harry said. “It was something they only did for performances.”

I stepped closer to the bars of the cell, studying the bruising on Collins’s face. “Are you quite certain that the woman you helped into the harness was actually Miss Moore? After all, she was wearing heavy Indian robes—even a veil.”

“I’ve been in the magic business for a long time, Hardeen, and I know a great deal about working with doubles. This was no double. Besides, she wasn’t wearing the veil backstage. I saw her face clearly before the curtain went up for the levitation. It was her, I’m absolutely certain.”

“What about afterwards, when you led her up the stairs to the dome?”

“You’re thinking that someone else might have taken her place, wearing an identical costume?” Collins paused to consider it. “I don’t see it, Houdini. We hired that woman because she was a gifted wire-walker. When we got to the dome, I saw her climb out onto that wire as though she’d been born on a trapeze. Anybody else would have crawled out on that rope ladder on hands and knees. Miss Moore skipped across that ladder like it was a set of stepping stones in a river—just like rehearsal. Nobody else could have done it.”

“I could have,” my brother said. “I’m quite adept on the high wire.”

“But I think I might have noticed you in an Indian princess costume, Houdini.” Collins tightened his grip on the bars of the cell. “It was her. It was Francesca Moore. Next thing I knew, I was watching her fall to her death.”

“Or so we thought.”

“Or so we thought,” he repeated. “Only that can’t be what happened because it turns out that somehow she managed to
drown after I left her.” He let his arms dangle through the bars. “Tell me something, Houdini. Do I strike you as an unusually stupid man?”

Harry lifted his head in surprise. “No. No, you do not.”

“I’m actually pretty clever, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would.”

“So don’t you think that if I were responsible for the death of Miss Moore, as the police seem to believe, I would have come up with a better alibi?”