Who Done Houdini (21 page)

 

Chapter 32

M
y heart pounded.

I stood frozen in place. Instead of joy, all I could think of was what could go wrong.
What if Neil couldn't find a policeman before Becker returned to the auto and drove away? What if Becker somehow recognized Terry Fields and abducted him from the shop? What if the villain saw me?

The last, at least, was something I could control. I backed into the doorway of the jewelry store behind me and took out my pocket watch.

Seconds ticked by, and nothing changed. Neil was nowhere in sight, and I became more and more certain Becker would reappear at any moment. I was bound and determined he wouldn't get away again.

My suspicions were confirmed. Becker stepped out carrying a newspaper. Just as he was about to get into the auto, I sprang from my hiding place. “Stop! Thief!”

Seeing me flying willy-nilly in his direction, he turned tail and headed toward the ever-growing crowd. The auto was of no use to him. The steady stream of traffic prevented his driving off.

“Stop thief!” I shouted again.

That brought plenty of stares, but no one tried to stop him.

It never even occurred to me he could have had a weapon. I forged onward in hot pursuit.

“Stop that man,” I called as he dodged forward at full speed, elbowing and pushing aside everyone in his path. “He's a wanted criminal.”

I should have known what would happen. Far from offering assistance, frightened-looking people stood aside to make way for him.

A toddler girl suddenly appeared in my path, escaping from the grip of a terrified mother. If I were twenty years younger, I would have hurtled over her, but I had no choice but to put on the brakes. Becker disappeared as the crowd closed. By the time I skirted the terrified tiny obstacle, I'd lost sight of him.

I forged ahead a few more yards, then gave up. As I struggled to catch my breath, I realized Becker had defeated me again. The only consolation was that he had been forced to leave the stolen automobile on the street.

I returned to it. After taking a look around to be sure no one was watching, I casually peered through the passenger side window to see if the scoundrel had left anything behind.

My heart skipped a beat. A hat, coat and briefcase lay invitingly just a few inches away.

I took another look. No one was even looking in my direction.

Heart banging wildly, I opened the door and lifted the briefcase from the seat. It took all of my will power, but I casually nudged the door shut. Everyone from blocks around could hear me and know I was up to no good.

What now?

Terry Fields stood a foot away. “Take this,” I said, thrusting the valise toward him. “Go down the street to the drug store and wait there for me. If anyone asks you, tell them you're waiting for your dad to come and take you to his office. Got that?”

With a dubious look, he nodded and took the briefcase from me. He turned and started to run for his destination.

“Walk. Don't run. I'll be down to pick you up as soon as I can. Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket for a fifty-cent piece. “Buy yourself a chocolate soda while you're waiting.”

Despite my warning, he took off at a trot.

Bare seconds later, Neil showed up, out of breath, with a police officer following. “I'm sorry,” he gasped. “I couldn't find the policeman. He was helping an old lady get to an automobile. She had fallen.”

“It looks like I'm too late,” the officer said. He could have been a stock character from a vaudeville play, with a gargantuan stomach assaulting the buttons on the front of his uniform, and an enormous rose, lovingly nourished by years of strong spirits, hanging between his eyes.

“He—he was getting into the auto,” I stammered. “I didn't want him to escape. I chased him into the crowd.”

“You should have waited,” the officer said. “He wouldn't have gotten very far with the traffic the way it is.”

I felt my face turning red. I hadn't even thought of that. Not knowing he was in danger, Becker would probably have sat waiting until he could find a break in the traffic. “I just wanted to make sure he couldn't just drive off.”

The officer pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, he's on foot now, so he can't get very far. Is this the car he stole?”

“Yes. You can see the dent in the front bumper.”

The officer peered into the auto and spied the hat and coat. “He's going to be plenty chilly. It's supposed to get close to zero this afternoon.”

“Maybe he left something in the overcoat,” I said, envisioning what I would find in the valise.

“That's possible. I'll get someone to tow the auto and bring the clothes into the evidence room. Too bad we couldn't catch him red-handed.”

“It is,” I replied, forcing a sad face. “Maybe we'll have better luck next time.”

 

With the parade
less than
half an hour away, nearly all street traffic had come to a standstill. Neil Tully and I waited for Holmes beside the Essex. I could hardly wait for the great detective to appear. In our friendly but intense game of one-upmanship, I had pulled ahead by a mile.

He arrived ten minutes later, immediately catching my expression. “What makes you look so smug, Wiggins? Did you capture Mr. Becker?”

“No. But he did show up. I tried to chase him, but he got away in the crowd.”

“That hardly sounds like a victory to me.”

Vowing not to be offended, I patted the Essex's fender. “Does this look familiar to you?”

He gave the auto a cursory sidelong glance. “No, but judging from the dent in the fender and the fact that Becker appeared here, I assume it's the carriage used in the abduction last night.”

Once again his attitude annoyed me. “Indeed. Our foe knew he couldn't drive away, so he left the auto behind. Some of his belongings as well.”

This time Holmes couldn't hide his interest. I didn't wait for a response.

“He left his hat and coat on the seat
. . .”

Holmes glared at me. “Stop being silly, Wiggins. We don't have time for nonsense. Get to the crux of the matter.”

Damn! “He left his briefcase. One of the Irregulars is waiting for us down the street with it.”

 

Terry Fields sat
at the
drug store's counter with the foamy remains of an ice cream soda before him. When he saw us, he took a noisy last slurp, snatched up his change and slid off the stool to his feet. With a big smile, he lofted the valise. “Here's your briefcase, Dad.”

Luckily, no one else but the soda jerk, a morose male teen who obviously wasn't listening, was around to hear.

“Thanks—son,” I mumbled.

Remaining in character, Terry took my hand as we left the pharmacy. Wraithlike, Neil followed without a word. I had to believe the poor fellow was low-man on the neighborhood totem pole.

“Where to now?” Holmes asked. “We certainly aren't going to find a cab anywhere around here, and we have the rest of the Irregulars to retrieve.”

“Do you have a nickel?” Terry chirped.

“I just gave you half a dollar ten minutes ago.”

“All I have is dimes.”

Grumbling, I handed him a nickel. “What do you want it for?”

“I'll call my dad and have him pick us up.”

 

After paying
our young charges
their wages at the Parker House, and giving Michael Fields a dollar for his assistance, we still had forty-five minutes until the end of the parade when we could pick up the rest of the Irregulars.

In our room, Holmes, Rose, and Violet hovered over me like vultures as I pried open the valise with a sturdy table knife. As suspected, it was stuffed full of papers of all sizes and shapes. I dumped the contents on our table and divvied them up.

My pile included used train tickets from Detroit to New York, and New York to Boston. “Interesting. Becker bought a return ticket to Detroit for tomorrow. I'll tell O'Neal. Our foe may still be planning to leave on that train.”

Violet opened a bulging file of newspaper clippings showing drawings and diagrams.

“I know what they are,” Rose said. “Mr. Houdini published articles for months explaining the tricks the mediums used to gull their clients. Whenever one of us discovered a new one, we drew it or photographed it and sent it to the newspapers. Mr. Becker must have been collecting them for years.”

“He probably was looking for new material,” Holmes said in a laconic tone. He laid a similar folder in front of him. “Apparently Hitler has been recruiting heavily from the veterans groups for his private militia. In fact, that's where much of his money's being used.”

I shook my head.

“Hitler's Brownshirts patrol the streets beating people up and looking for ways to extort money. The local police forces can't control them. Weimar doesn't even try. I suspect President Hindenburg may even sympathize with them.”

“Our Mr. Becker must be quite a scholar,” I said. “He's been tracking Mr. H's movements for years.”

I flipped through the clippings again. This time I noticed a
Detroit News
cut with a circle around the date of Houdini's visit in May of 1923.

My heart beat faster. “This may be important,” I said, dealing out four piles. “See if any of the other clippings have circled dates.”

After a quick search, Violet found two. Rose and Holmes, one each. All were announcements of Houdini's upcoming performances.

We arranged them by date on the tabletop. The earliest was a December 1924 blurb in the
Minneapolis Times,
and the latest, October 15, 1926, in the Schenectady
Daily Gazette.
The date was circled in red.

I looked at Rose. “You said Mr. H. played in Schenectady just before he went to Montreal, didn't you?”

“Yes. It was a stop I wished we hadn't made. I told you Mrs. H. got sick and had to go the hospital, and Mr. H. broke an ankle on stage.”

“Bess was hospitalized?” Holmes asked in excitement. “I forgot about that. Do you know why?”

“Severe nausea and stomach pain. The doctors thought it was food poisoning and pumped out her stomach. She was still sick when we arrived in Montreal.”

Violet gasped.

“Yes, dear lady,” Holmes said in a serious tone. “I was thinking the same thing. But Mrs. Houdini and Rose had different meals as Mr. H. Nonetheless, Becker's newspaper articles provide a strong chain of circumstances that suggest he was the force behind Harry Houdini's poisoning, and the fatal dose was administered in Schenectady. The circled dates may indicate other, unsuccessful attempts. It's quite possible the magician developed something of an immunity from insufficient doses. I wish we could find out if Bess became sick at the same time.”

“She was often in poor health,” Rose said. “Poor Mr. H. was always tending to her needs and trying to console her.”

Once again, the words and tone made me wonder about Rose's feelings for her employer. My musings ended with a look at my pocket watch. “This is all very exciting, but we have to collect the rest of our Irregulars. I suggest you pick up the ones in Cambridge, Holmes. I'll get the ones downtown. If you ladies will order dinner from room service and have them deliver in an hour, we'll all get something to eat.”

 

Chapter 33

R
ose had splurged and ordered lobster for us, paying for it from her own pocket. It was our first real meal of the day, and a bit rich for my taste, but it certainly couldn't have been more delicious. Unfortunately, my wife's efforts to force temperance on our nation had been all too successful. A nice chilled sauterne would have been the perfect complement, immoral and illegal as it may have been.

“One thing bothers me,” I said, picking at the bread pudding that came for dessert. “I simply can't imagine Albert Becker would use thallium to poison Houdini. I doubt he even heard of it. Why didn't he use something more common, like arsenic?”

“Too easy to detect, Wiggins,” Mr. Holmes mumbled. “Houdini could have suspected its use himself. Thallium's far rarer and, therefore, more insidious. But you bring up an important point. There must be another, even higher, echelon at work. A Moriarty to Colonel Moran, as it were.”

The telephone rang. I put down my spoon and got to my feet.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wiggins,” said a cheery voice. “Conan Doyle speaking. Officer O'Neal will be interviewing me in my room at the hotel, and I thought you and Mr. Holmes might want to be present. Your wife is welcome, too.”

“What time is he coming?”

“Two o'clock.”

“That's only twenty minutes from now. Thank you for the invitation. We'll see you then.”

 

After Violet freshened
up a
bit and I changed my clothes, we met Holmes and took the elevator to the lobby. To our delight, we stepped out into bright sunshine. I caught Holmes looking wistfully in the direction of the Park Hotel. My turn to play mind reader. “It is sad, isn't it?”

To my dismay, Holmes paid no attention to my newfound skill. “Quite. My calves are castigating me for lack of use.”

“Do you get the feeling Becker's still watching us?”

“No. He's been dealt another serious blow. He's definitely on the defensive. He no longer has his henchmen, and he'll have to buy himself another chesterfield, but I can assure you, we haven't seen the last of him. He would love nothing better than to catch us in an unguarded moment. Ah well . . .” With a pensive look, Holmes opened the back door of the waiting taxicab and gestured for Violet and me to get in.

“To the Park Hotel, please,” he said, climbing in after us.

I settled into the plush seat. “Do you think Lady Jean'll be there?”

“I'm sure Sir Arthur would insist on it. She'd be quite furious if she isn't allowed to stay.” With a mischievous chuckle he said, “Do you know Sir Arthur's pet name for her?”

“I can't even imagine.”

“Lady Sunshine.”

 

By chance, we met
Officer
O'Neal in the lobby of the Park Hotel, and the four of us took the elevator to the Eighteenth Floor. Sir Arthur stood waiting outside his door with an expression that reminded me of a worried walrus. I smiled as he greeted Holmes with an unwelcome hug, whilst Lady Jean stood by, pretending to be a statue.

When Sir Arthur turned his affections to Violet, his enthusiasm aroused the lady's attention, and she became Pygmalion with a loud clearing of her throat.

“Please come in. I've set chairs for everyone,” Sir Arthur said.

I felt a tingle of expectation as I did.

O'Neal remained on his feet, and was the first to speak. “When I called you last night, Sir Arthur, I was hoping to get information about where the kidnappers had taken their victims. Fortunately, that's no longer an issue. Thanks to Mr. Wiggins, everyone is safe and sound.”

Sir Arthur applauded. “Thank heavens for that. I barely slept all night.”

“Nor did I,” Lady Jean grumbled.

“I can understand why. Actually, because of Mr. Wiggins's heroics, I only have a few questions,” O'Neal took a notebook from his pocket. “Two of the kidnappers have been captured. The third, Albert Becker, also known as Baker, is still at large. What do you know about him?”

Sir Arthur's smile faded. “I've never met the man, but I do know he's a close associate with Dr. Croydon, and important to the Spiritualist movement. Our religion is barely known in Germany, and Mr. Baker has been working very hard to promote it there. I contributed more than a thousand pounds to the cause, and I know the Croydons and others in this country have made similar donations.”

O'Neal jotted a note. “Do you know why Mrs. Croydon invited him to the lecture last night?”

“She told me she invited him so he could announce a fund-raiser he would be holding in Boston next month. Dr. Croydon thought we could raise at least twenty-five thousand dollars. I planned to donate a thousand pounds myself.”

A good start. That amounted to nearly twenty-five hundred dollars. O'Neal jotted another note. “Go on.”

“Margery told me she was surprised Mr. Baker left before she could introduce him. She was absolutely dumbfounded to learn of his alleged involvement in the kidnapping.”

O'Neal responded. “The kidnappers took the victims to a house in Framinghamn that belongs to an Isaac Bradford. Mr. Bradford is in England. Do you have any idea how they got use of his house?”

Sir Arthur smiled wistfully. “The Spiritualists
I
know are happy to share food and lodging with other members. In that way, we are a lot like the Masons. I don't know if Mr. Bradford is a participant, but if he is, he may have given Mr. Becker the keys as a gesture of his trust and respect.”

O'Neal's lips pursed. “Do you have any other information that might help us find Becker?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Mrs. Croydon offered to put on a séance to help us. Would you mind arranging it?”

Sir Arthur beamed. “Not at all. In fact I'd be delighted to show off her abilities. Walter undoubtedly will have many interesting things to say. From what I've heard, he and Mr. Baker were very friendly.”

I responded to O'Neal's puzzled look. “Walter is Margery's familiar. He's her dead brother.”

“I see,” the officer said with a shrug. I could tell he was having a hard time keeping from smiling. “If tonight isn't too short a time to prepare, I'd really like to meet them. The Wigginses and Mr. Holmes would be welcome, too.”

I scarcely could believe my ears.

“Thank you,” O'Neal said. “I have an appointment and will have to leave shortly. I'll be happy to give you a call when I'm finished and meet you at her house. I've heard a great deal about Mina Croydon. Do you know where she got her medium name?”

“I heard she was told to take the name of one of her great aunts who had spiritualist talents. You'll have to ask her yourself.”

“I certainly will. I don't have any more questions at this time, so I'll be leaving. We'll meet again shortly.”

Sir Arthur followed the officer to the door. When the rest of us remained in place, Lady Jean seemed surprised, but remained silent.

“That was a quick interview,” Sir Arthur said as he returned. “Now that the constabulary is gone, can I offer anyone some sherry?”

His smile faded when there were no takers.

“Thanks for the offer,” Holmes said, “but I have a few questions for you that aren't directly connected with Becker or the kidnapping. I understand Dr. William Crookes visited the Croydons. Do you know when this was?”

Sir Arthur looked thoughtful. “Sometime in 1919, just a few months before he died. Why do you ask?”

“His meeting with the Croydons is the only direct connection to our investigation of Mr. Houdini's death by thallium poisoning.”

“Investigation?” Lady Jean said. “Why should you be investigating? He died of appendicitis.”

“Is that what Pheneas told you?”

Her eyes widened. “I-I don't think I ever asked him. It never occurred to me it was anything other than what the daily journals said.”

Sir Arthur quickly stepped in. “Don't be concerned, love. I'm happy to answer Mr. Holmes's question. Dr. Crookes and I were longtime friends. He had an interest in our religion and wanted to visit the people who knew the most about it. I offered to contact the Croydons for him.”

“How did you know Mrs. Croydon at that time?” Holmes asked.

“I became aware of Margery's extraordinary gifts soon after Dr. Croydon married her in 1918. The doctor recognized her talents and quickly helped her put them to use. Overnight, she became one of the most important leaders of our religion.”

“I see.” I could tell from Holmes's expression he was lost in thought. “What happened then?”

“Dr. Crookes was coming to America for a scientific conference in '19, and the Croydons were anxious to meet him. From what Dr. Crookes told me, he was very impressed with Margery, though I'm not certain he converted. It seems Walter was very intrigued and wanted to know all about thallium and its uses. The others at the séance weren't that interested, so Dr. Crookes didn't go into much detail.”

I wasn't surprised to learn it was Walter who had the most interest in the new element. If he had been there, Houdini probably would have been interested in it, too. He might have realized why his hair started to fall out. “Was Albert Becker in attendance when Dr. Crookes was here?”

“He could have been. I never heard.”

Holmes's voice became gentle. “We know Mr. Becker has been raising money to aid Adolf Hitler in building a new political party that intends to restore the German empire by any means possible. Becker and Dr. Croydon also are propagating eugenics and anti-Semitism in the form of Aryan superiority theory. From what you just said, don't you think it's possible some of the money Mr. Becker purportedly collected for the Spiritualist movement may have been given to Hitler and his National Socialist party?”

Sir Arthur didn't respond immediately. “It never occurred to me before, but yes, of course it's possible. I doubt it. No one would even think of questioning the legitimacy of someone Dr. Croydon endorsed.”

“If you don't mind, Lady Jean, I have a question for you.”

Her eyes opened wide. “For me?”

“Yes. Who is Pheneas, please?”

“Why, he's a soul I contacted during a séance in Windlesham, an Arabian seer from ancient Ur who lived before the time of Abraham.”

“I fear he may have misinformed you,” Holmes said quietly. “There weren't any Arabians before the time of Abraham. They were all part of the area we now know as Palestine.”

Sir Arthur cut in. “You misunderstood, my dear. Pheneas was merely trying to describe the area where he lived in terms you would have recognized.”

Obviously anxious to shield Lady Jean from further questions, he quickly continued. “I can tell you about our first encounter with Pheneas. It was in 1912, and our whole family was present at the time. All the children and I got to talk to him. He told us some very bad things were about to happen, but that we shouldn't be afraid because none of us would be hurt. When everything was done, the world would be a better place.”

Sir Arthur paused and took his wife's hand. A faint smile appeared on his face. “I thought the children might be afraid, but they seemed to think he was funny.”

“I see,” Holmes said. “Did you believe him?”

“Of course,” Sir Arthur sputtered.” Why should I have doubted? I hadn't been aware my wife's spiritual gifts were so powerful, but I immediately knew Pheneas was a genuine spirit. Now he's like a member of the family. He's been with us for more than fifteen years.”

“Could you invoke other spirits if you wanted to, Lady Jean?” Holmes asked.

“I don't know,” she said in an offended voice. “I've never tried. Pheneas chose me to be his contact with the spirit world, and I have no reason to even attempt to summon anyone else.”

“Can you call him now?”

“I don't call him, and he never appears. I automatically write what he wants to communicate. He won't visit me in the presence of non-believers.”

“I'm not a non-believer,” Holmes said, “merely an agnostic. I'm not yet convinced, but I certainly haven't made up my mind that he doesn't exist. I expect Wiggins feels the same way.”

He barely had the words out of his mouth when I blurted, “Absolutely. I couldn't have put it better myself.”

“I believe in him, too,” Violet chimed.

Lady Jean still looked suspicious. “What did you want to ask him?”

Holmes paused a moment. “I'd like to know If Harry Houdini died a natural death, or if he had been poisoned. And if he were poisoned, who administered it to him. I think your husband wants to know that, too.”

Lady Jean glanced at her husband with a deadpan expression. “I'll ask Pheneas after you've left.”

“It may not be necessary,” Holmes said. “Walter may tell me in the meantime.”