The Floating Lady Murder (29 page)

THERE WERE FIVE OF US STANDING ON THE ROOF OF THE BELASCO
Theater at dawn, watching the sun come up over a snow-covered New York City. Le Roy, Kellar, Lyman, and I had passed most of the night working our way through a final bottle of brandy as we huddled on the slate ledge near the ventilator opening. Harry, abstemious even in these circumstances, was perched on the angled point of the pediment, gazing out over the city.

“For God’s sake, be careful, Harry,” I called down to him. “It’s still slippery up here.”

“But the view is beautiful,” he called in reply. “Come and see, Dash!”

“I’m fine here,” I said. “One broken neck ought to be enough in a single evening.”

Kellar watched as Harry swung his legs over the edge of the roof, straining for a better view. “He’s really not afraid of anything, is he?”

“No, sir, he’s not. It can be a bit trying at times.”

“Well, it was a godsend for me,” he said. “Between your brains and his courage, the pair of you managed to save me from ruin.”

“Hmm,” said Lyman. “Brains. Courage.” He made a note on his shirt cuff.

Kellar ignored him. “Even now I can’t quite comprehend it. How could they have hated me so much? I didn’t kill
Hermione. I didn’t cause their father’s deterioration. I tried to prevent it. Certainly I could have done more, but McGregor wouldn’t accept my help. He was proud.”

“I doubt if it would have made two cents’ worth of difference,” I said. “The pair of them lost their mother and then watched their father slide into dissolution. It takes a toll. They needed someone to blame—someone besides their father.”

Kellar reached for the brandy bottle. “Eva said the same thing. She said there was no one to blame but McGregor himself—he just didn’t have the heart to go on. I still feel I might have done more for him.”

“Heart,” said Lyman, making another note on his shirt cuff. “No heart.”

“Lyman,” said Kellar, “what are you doing? I already told you, our little collaboration is finished. I’ll pay you, of course, but I’ve decided I must do this thing on my own.”

“Collaboration?” I asked.

Kellar took a swallow and handed the brandy bottle to Le Roy. “It’s a little embarrassing. I’ve reached the stage of my life where I feel it might be worthwhile to set down my memoirs. I am vain enough to suppose that they will be of interest to posterity. But my education was rather limited, having run away from home at the age of ten, and life on the road does not allow much time for the refinements of learning. I decided that I would hire Lyman to assist.”

“A ghostwriter?”

“I preferred to think of it as a collaboration. In any case, I was embarrassed and didn’t want the company to know about it. But I’ve thought better of it now. I shall try to set my memoirs down without any assistance from my learned friend. Again, Lyman, I apologize for wasting your time.”

“Think nothing of it, sir,” he answered cordially. “The time I’ve spent with you has been a wonderful education for me. I’ve been writing home to my wife about it, of course, and she says that our children are most eager to know more about Mr.
Kellar’s adventures. I find myself inspired to try my hand at a children’s tale of some sort. The idea came to me only yesterday. You’ll be in it, Hardeen, and your brother, too. And even the poor unfortunate Mr. McGregor. But of course Mr. Kellar shall be the featured player. Every child’s fable must have a great and powerful wizard.”

“A child’s tale,” Kellar said. “I wish you every success, Lyman.”

“As do I, Mr. Lyman.”

“Please, dear boy, I tried to tell you earlier. Most of my friends call me by my middle name, Frank. Mr. Kellar is referring to me by my given name, Lyman. But my surname is Baum. Lyman Frank Baum. Never cared for the name Lyman, though. Can’t quite see it on the spine of a book, either.” He paused to consider the matter. “L. Frank Baum. That should do nicely.” He made another note on his cuff.

Le Roy passed over the remains of the brandy bottle. “The tour will continue, Henry?”

“Of course, but I’m rather short-handed just now. Collins will be rejoining us, of course, but there are a pair of vacancies I may not be able to fill any time soon. Hardeen, may I count on you and your brother, and the charming Mrs. Houdini?”

Harry, who had been making his way up the angled slate roof, gave a vigorous assent. “We shall be very happy to remain with the troupe,” he said. “Bess will be overjoyed at the prospect of travel.”

“I hope that it may become something of a longer term arrangement,” Kellar said, as Harry joined us on the ledge. “I may not be ready to retire just yet, but the day is not far off. I shall be looking for a successor, Houdini, and he would have to be a gifted young man. I had rather fancied Valletin for the job, but...” His voice trailed off.

I looked at Harry. This was the opportunity of which he had dreamed when we joined the company scarcely one week earlier. Now, strangely, he appeared unmoved. “I suppose that your successor would be stepping directly into your shoes,” he
said, “performing your act exactly as it has been done these many years.”

“At first, certainly. It’s a tried and true formula, Houdini. I have no doubt that you could learn to handle the illusions, and your sleight of hand is excellent. We might tour for a year or two together, to establish you in the role of my heir, and then I could hand over the entire show to you. Of course I would retain the rights to the illusions, and the show would be billed as the Kellar Show starring Harry Houdini. Dudley would work out an acceptable fee schedule, but a large share of the receipts would be yours. You’d be very comfortable, Houdini. Very comfortable, indeed.”

“Comfortable,” Harry said sadly. “I am not certain that I am ready to be comfortable. Your offer is exceptionally generous, Mr. Kellar. and I shall always be flattered that you considered me worthy of consideration as your successor. But the illusions are not for me. I have my own act—my own formula for success, if you will—and I still believe it is the only true path for me.”

“The escapes?” Kellar shook his head. “You’d have to give those up, of course. They’re all right as a novelty, but as an entire evening’s entertainment? No, Houdini. It’ll never work. The illusions are tried and tested. I urge you to reconsider.”

“I’m afraid not,” Harry said.

“I will let you do the escapes,” said Le Roy. “Why not come and work for me?”

“See here, Le Roy—” Kellar began.

“It is a new day,” Le Roy said, sweeping his hand toward the rising sun. “You and I are rivals once again, Henry. What do you say, Houdini? ‘Servais Le Roy presents the escapologist Harry Houdini, exclusively with the Royal Illusionists.’ It has a nice ring.”

“This is really too much, Le Roy—” Kellar declared.

Harry held up his hands. “I must give you the same answer, Mr. Le Roy, though I do hope that one day I shall be fortunate enough to share a stage with you.”

“Good for you, Houdini,” said Mr. Baum. “Courage!”

“How about you, Hardeen?” asked Kellar. “You’re a handsome chap. Skillful on stage. You could hold a big show together, I bet. Don’t tell me you’re set on becoming an escape artist, too.”

“Not exactly, sir,” I said, watching as my brother hopped over the ledge and began swarming up the exterior of the dome, clinging precariously to a copper vein. “But I’m afraid I can’t accept either. Someone has to keep an eye on him.”

“What did I say?” cried Baum. “The fellow has brains!”

“I think you’re both making an enormous mistake,” Kellar said. “But I’ll respect your decision. If you ever need me, you may rely upon Harry Kellar.” He looked out over the city, lying still under the new snow. “God. Was there ever anything more peaceful than New York on a snowy Tuesday morning?”

“It is beautiful,” said Le Roy.

“It’s better from up here,” Harry shouted down to us. “I can see for miles in all directions.”

“Harry—be careful!”

“But it’s gorgeous! Come up, Dash!”

“Not me.”

“I can see the Statue of Liberty from here! Come on, Dash. Don’t be an old lady!”

Kellar lifted his brows, smiling. “As you said, someone has to keep an eye on him.”

I shrugged. “All right, Harry. How do I get up there?”

“Simple! Right foot on the gargoyle, left on the drain-spout. Grab the copper seam and lift yourself up slowly. That’s it. Slowly. Good! You see?”

“Harry, this is crazy.”

“Small steps, Dash,” he said, reaching down for my hand. “Everything in small steps.”

1

MONSTROUS.

The old man shifted on his walking stick and gazed sadly at the vast expanse of stone before him. It was not only vulgar but also profane, a bizarre collision of ego and some misplaced sense of piety. It offended every notion of taste and decency. The sheer ostentation might have brought a blush to the cheek of Croesus. Naturally, Harry had thought it was lovely.

Why couldn’t he have allowed himself to be buried like a normal person? With a small, tasteful marker of some sort? No, not Harry. He had to go out with a flourish. A thousand tons of granite had been spoiled to create this eyesore, along with a considerable amount of Italian marble. What had they called it at the time? A Greek exedra? That presumably described the curved stone bench that invited silent contemplation. But how to explain the stone figure of the kneeling woman sobbing at the graveside? Over the years, the old man had given her the name Beulah. “Hello, Beulah,” he would say, patting her fondly on the shoulder as he passed. “How are the pigeons treating you today?”

His feet were tired from the long walk, and the old man gave out a soft groan as he lowered himself onto the bench, gazing up at the solemn bust of his brother. Here was the crowning touch, he thought to himself. Harry in all his glory, stonefaced
in death as he so often was in life, gazing magisterially over the other, presumably lesser, inhabitants of the Machpelah Cemetery. What would Rabbi Samuel Weiss have made of this display? Thou shalt not worship graven images.

With his eyes fixed on the marble bust, the old man reached into the pocket of his brown tick-weave jacket and withdrew a silver flask.
Well,
he thought, lifting the flask in a brisk salute,
another year gone, Harry. Here’s to you, you pompous old goat.

I miss you.

Mrs. Doggett was waiting on the porch when the old man returned to the house in Flatbush. “Those men are here,” she said in a voice heavy with exasperation. “Again.”

“Those men?” he asked.

“The reporters. From the city.”

“Ah.”

“It’s the same two men,” she continued. “One of them is a photographer. They’re in the parlor, smoking like wet coal. I don’t know why you speak to them every year. It only encourages them.”

“You know why I speak to them,” he answered, tugging at his French cuffs. “He would have wanted it that way.”

“Him,” she answered. “Always him.”

Mrs. Doggett continued to give voice to her displeasure as she led him into the front room. Newspaper reporters ranked just below potted meat and Estes Kefauver in her esteem. Newspaper reporters who smoked were to be especially despised, more so if they also made slurping noises when they drank their tea.