The Floating Lady Murder (7 page)

I heard a tense whisper at my side. “Why doesn’t he just jump?” asked Connell, the theater warden. “Why doesn’t he just leap down into the orchestra pit?”

“The lion would jump in after him,” I answered impatiently. “Harry would be trapped like a Roman gladiator.”

From the stage, Harry kept up his steady stream of patter. “More?” he asked the lion. “Very well, but perhaps you might care to step a bit closer, in order to hear the tale more clearly.” From backstage, I strained to keep track of the lion’s every movement. The creature was not quite in position yet, but each step placed Harry in even greater peril. The merest swipe of the beast’s enormous paw would have scattered my brother’s insides across the stage. “Now, then,” said Harry, mastering the alarm he must have felt, “perhaps it would be best if I demonstrated what happened next. As you’ll recall, the lovely Wilhelmina was preparing to exchange her freedom for that of her husband. A brave young lady, certainly.” Harry teetered a bit on the edge of the stage. “Pardon?” he asked, as if the lion had spoken. “What happened next? Well, perhaps you should step a bit closer. Just a bit more. You see, I wouldn’t want you to miss even a fraction of the wondrous spectacle I am about to present. It is entirely
sui generis
.”

I tied a length of rope around the red handle I had been clutching, then stepped forward onto the stage so that Harry would be able to see me without taking his eyes off of the lion. At last, everyone appeared to be in position. By now, Harry and the lion were all but touching noses, and he would later tell me that he could feel the creature’s breath travel over him from head to toe. I glanced heavenward, wondering if his scheme could possibly work. My brother had the fastest reflexes of any man I have ever known, but could even he move faster than an adult lion, albeit a groggy one? I looked back at Harry. He gave a tight nod. I looked at Boris. He ran an enormous tongue over his lips.

“Now then,” Harry was saying, “I shall clap my hands three times, and at the third and last time I ask you to watch
closely
for— the—
effect.
A little closer, if you would, kitty. Here, kitty-kitty.”

Slowly, as though moving underwater, Harry raised his hands
and brought them together softly. “One,” he said.

The lion, sensing movement from behind, bobbed its head twice in rapid succession. The creature’s muscles tensed, sending a visible ripple across its back. Fixing its attention on the stagehands to the rear, the animal took a step away from Harry.

“He’s out of position,” I whispered. “Come on, Harry...”

“Two,” said Harry. “Come along, kitty-kitty. Look at me now.”

The beast turned its head back toward my brother and stepped forward.

“Three,” my brother said.

“
Go!
” I shouted, tugging frantically at the rope in my hands.

Everything happened at once.

First, from his vantage point at the rear of the stage, Collins released a sandbag cleat, sending the giant Floating Lady device into motion with a sudden grinding of wood and springs. The apparatus may have been ineffective as a means of causing a lady to float in mid-air, but it was a wondrously expedient method of removing my brother from the lion’s clutches. The enormous pendulum cleaved through the air like a mighty scythe, describing a broad arc through the center of the stage at the precise spot where Harry stood. He calmly reached out and snatched at the heavy bag as it sailed past. In the blink of an eye it scooped him up and carried him heavenward into the dome of the theater. The motion, I noted, was decidedly jerky, but sufficient to our purposes.

At the same instant, I yanked hard at the rope I held in my hands, tripping the release lever in the wings. The drop of a fitted trap door—such as might once have been used to produce the ghost of Hamlet’s father—fell open beneath the forepaws of the lion. The creature tumbled forward into a makeshift pen beneath the stage, where a leash-lead and ether-bag were deployed in a smooth coordination by a pair of wranglers. The lion roared once and lashed out with a vicious paw, but the powerful narcotic did its work almost instantly. The entire
operation could not have lasted more than five seconds—about as long as it took for my brother to swing up to the dome of the theater and back again—but they were the longest five seconds I have ever known.

“Dash!” Harry shouted, as the pendulum brought him swooping over the stage like a trapeze artist. “I was marvelous, was I not?” He leapt from the pendulum as it passed over the stage and nimbly trotted to my side.

“Harry!” I cried. “You’re not hurt? You’re all right?”

“Why should I be otherwise?” he called, throwing open the lid of the substitution trunk. “There, there, my dear,” he said, freeing Bess from the tangle of ropes and fabric inside. “I am perfectly all right, as you can see. Yes, the lion has been captured. Yes. No. No, I have not been eaten by the lion. He would have found me a bit stringy in any case. I’m quite all right.”

“You—you’re certain?” Bess stammered. “I couldn’t hear—I couldn’t make out what—” She was as pale as I have ever seen her, and her lips were trembling uncontrollably.

“Bess,” my brother said, gently, “I am fine. Here, let me show you.” He lifted her out of the trunk and carried her to the edge of the open trap door. Peering down, we could see the prostrate form of the lion and hear its labored breathing. “There you are,” Harry said. “He’s sleeping like a kitten. I don’t see why—”

But Bess had thrown her arms about his neck and pressed her lips to his with such ardent force that his face went bright scarlet. At this, the scattered members of the company burst from the wings and swarmed onto the stage to offer Harry their congratulations, and it was some moments before the noisy back-slapping and hand-pumping subsided. At length Mr. McAdow forced himself into the center of the throng and threw his arm around my brother’s shoulders.

“My boy!” he cried, thrusting a panatella between Harry’s lips, “that was quite the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! So long as Dudley McAdow has anything to say about it, there will
always be a home for you here with the Kellar show!”

A loud cheer went up from the multitude.

Harry removed the cigar from his lips with obvious distaste. “Thank you,” he said. “That is most kind. But I am afraid I cannot possibly accept that generous offer.”

“Pardon?” cried Mr. McAdow, as dissenting noises were heard from the throng. “What are you saying, young man? You came here looking for work, didn’t you?”

“Of course, but—”

“Well, then, that’s all there is to it! You’ll come with us to Albany on tomorrow’s train!”

“But I—”

“If it’s money, young man, I’m afraid I can’t help you there. Mr. Kellar has very strict rules about salaries and compensations, and there’s no room for negotiation. But if it’s any further inducement, I can offer you a guarantee for the entire run of the current tour!”

“That’s terribly kind, sir—” Harry began, but his remarks were drowned out by shouts of “Come on, Harry!” and “There’s a good fellow!” from Collins and his band of stagehands. Harry held up his hands for silence. “You have all made entirely too much of the small role I played in subduing our lion friend,” Harry said with a modesty that surprised me. “Please be assured that I would like nothing more than to join your company, along with my wife and brother. However, there is one condition that must be satisfied before I can possibly accept.”

McAdow frowned and took his cigar from his mouth. “Condition? Mr. Houdini, I’ve already told you that Mr. Kellar’s fees are set in advance. We can’t possibly agree to any new conditions.”

“This one is easily met, sir,” Harry assured him.

“And what would that be?”

Harry smoothed his hair. “I must be allowed to complete my audition.”

A wave of laughter swept through the assembly. Mr. McAdow gave a cry of disbelief. “But you’ve already got the job, man! Why on God’s green earth would we need to see your audition?”

Harry folded his arms. “I am resolute on this point. Otherwise I would be accepting the job under false pretenses.”

McAdow stared at my brother with frank incredulity. “That beats all, Mr. Houdini,” he said as a wide grin broke across his face. He held up his hands for silence. “My friends, if I could ask that we all have a seat in the first row or two of seats, it seems that our friend Mr. Houdini here is going to show us his little magic trick after all.”

“Thank you again, Mr. McAdow,” said Harry, as a long line of stagehands, carpenters, dancing girls, lighting men and curtain-pullers made their way out into the front rows, “and may I thank you all once again for your kindness. Seeing you all here this afternoon, I am reminded of a story I once heard.”

He tugged at the points of his bow tie. “Long ago, it seems, in ancient Mesopotamia, there was a plucky young wizard by the name of Ari Ardeeni...”

4

“
SO YOU
’
RE THE ONES WHO CORRALLED BORIS, ARE YOU
?”
SAID
our host, extending a firm hand. “You must be Houdini, is that right? I’m very glad to know you.”

“I am the Great Houdini,” said Harry, shaking hands. “Allow me to present my charming wife, Bess, and my younger brother, Dash Hardeen.”

“I’m delighted to meet all of you,” he said, bringing his heels together as he bent to kiss Bess’s hand. “I am Harry Kellar.”

“We know who you are, sir,” I said. “It’s a great honor.”

We were riding in the private compartment of Mr. Kellar’s personal six-car train, which had departed moments earlier from New York City to Albany. The three of us had spent a hectic twenty-four hours preparing to join the tour, and had barely settled into the passenger compartment when we received a summons to join Mr. Kellar at the rear of the train.

Mr. Kellar’s private car was furnished with exquisite care. A group of high-backed velvet chairs and a davenport were arranged at the center of the car, so as to command a view of the passing landscape through a leaded picture window. Crook-necked lamps and occasional tables were scattered throughout, and a revolving cherry-wood bookcase stood within easy reach of a worn Morris chair, suggesting that Mr. Kellar spent a great deal of his travel time with a good
book. A heavy burgundy curtain marked off a corner of the compartment that I took to be the sleeping area, and an ormolu clock stood atop a glass display case filled with curios from our host’s lifetime of travel. The effect was one of comfortable opulence, and but for the steady thrum of the train wheels clattering over the track, Mr. Kellar’s parlor car might well have been the smoking room of a New York gentlemen’s club.

Harry Kellar had been a boyhood idol for both Harry and me. We had followed the spectacular progress of his career as a headliner in the pages of
Mahatma
magazine, and whenever he came to New York we did whatever we could to attend as many of his performances as possible, usually from the five-cent gallery of the Lyceum. Mr. Kellar’s splendid illusions and skilled sleight of hand, coupled with his engaging stage manner, had raised the standard for every aspiring magician in the country, and helped to elevate the art of magic from the sideshow to the legitimate theater. There would come a day when my brother Harry was considered a hero and role model for thousands of boys across the country, but at that time it was Mr. Kellar who received sacks of letters from young admirers, and whose photograph adorned the cover of countless magazines and pamphlets. For me, he was something of a cross between Thomas Edison and King Solomon. Even Harry, who acknowledged few equals and no superiors, held a special regard for the man who had come to be known as the Dean of American Magicians.

In person, Mr. Kellar was taller and perhaps not quite as slender as he appeared from the stage. His large, egg-shaped head was nearly bald now, with a fringe of white hair at the back. His pale green eyes and pinkish features gave an impression of fatherly benevolence, while his thick upper lip lent a touch of sibilance to his manner of speech.

“Do sit down,” Kellar was saying. “Will you take a cigar? They’re genuine Havanas.”

“Thank you, no,” said Harry. “My personal regimen of bodily conditioning and muscular expansionism forbids the use of tobacco.”