Who Done Houdini (24 page)

 

Chapter 38

D
r. Croydon got up first and started toward the door. “I'll have to ask everyone to leave immediately.”

O'Neal stood. “I'm afraid that isn't possible. Please wait for a moment, sir.”

Sir Arthur and Lady Jean murmured angrily, and I could imagine psychic sparks flying in O'Neal's direction.

O'Neal paid no attention to them. “As much as I dislike what must be done, I need to use your phone, Dr. Croydon.”

“He already knows where it is, LeRoi,” Margery said in an unhappy voice. “If you're calling in other officers, make sure they take off their shoes before they come into the house. I won't allow them to track up my floor.”

O'Neal snorted. “I'll be sure to tell them that. I can't guarantee they won't forget, though.”

“Then I'll be the one to meet them at the door to see that they don't forget. Otherwise, Mayor Nichols will hear about this. I will tell him personally.”

Apparently properly chastised, O'Neal turned on his heel and followed Croydon out of the room without further comment.

Soon after, Margery stood. “Well,” she said with a smile. “It seems as if we're the only ones left. I can put a pot of tea on, and I have cucumber sandwiches in the refrigerator.”

“If I might have a word with you before you do,” Holmes said.

“Just a word then,” she said, eyes narrowing.

Violet and I followed them through the door to the hallway. Sir Arthur and Lady Jean looked bewildered but remained in their chairs.

“There are some things about the kidnapping you probably have not heard,” Holmes said. “Do you know an Isaac Bradford?”

To my surprise, Margery answered without hesitation. “I recognize the name. I think he's a new convert who wanted to contact his wife. She had passed beyond some years ago.”

“Yes. That would be he. Mr. Bradford has a farm in Framingham and currently is in England. The man who calls himself Albert Baker somehow got use of the gentleman's house and automobile. Do you have any idea how that could have happened?”

I expected her expression to change. It didn't, and she replied in a surprisingly matter-of-fact voice. “No. But as I mentioned in my lecture, LeRoi often attempts to find accommodations for visiting church members within our local Spiritualist church. I think Mr. Bradford may have joined our cause after my husband introduced him to a church member who worked at his hospital. I understand they became close, and went to England together. If Mr. Bradford knew he was going to be away for an extended period, it's quite possible he would have left the keys with LeRoi. You'll have to ask him about that.”

She stiffened at the sound of a doorbell. “Who can that be? The police can't be here already. Please excuse me.”

“What do we do now?” Violet asked.

“Examine the room, of course,” Holmes said. “I have to know how Margery did her tricks.”

“Are you sure they were just tricks?”

“Very. I'm convinced her son is involved in some of the effects. The bugle blast, for one. The young gentleman must be quite a trumpeter.”

“That may well be. I don't see how she could make Walter appear, though.”

“Neither can I. At least, not yet. I expect there may be a magic lantern or some other projector such as a
camera obscura
about somewhere.”

He opened the door to the séance room, and we followed him back in. Sir Arthur and Lady Jean were still waiting, looking confused.

“Margery said she'll be right back,” Holmes said. “We have some things to attend to here in the meantime. We were so impressed by her performance, we're very close to joining the movement.”

That brought applause and warms smiles from the Conan Doyles.

“Walter's appearance is indeed a formidable poser,” he said, dropping to his knees and looking beneath the table. When he backed out, Sir Arthur called to him in an angry voice. “Whatever are you doing, Holmes?”

“Merely removing our last reservations. I'm pleased to announce, there is nothing under the table.”

To everyone's amazement, he crawled up on the table top and searched the ceiling on his tiptoes. Then he shook his head. “Quite remarkable. If there's an opening, I don't see it.”

Sir Arthur got to his feet, huffing. “Your actions are reprehensible, Holmes. I'm ashamed to have gotten you invited.”

Before Holmes could respond, the door opened, and Margery stepped in. Catching sight of him, her eyes opened wide. “What in heaven's name are you doing on my table?”

“Looking for Walter's footprints,” Holmes said, dropping to his knees and sliding to the floor. Flashing an innocent grin, he wiped the tabletop with his sleeve.

“You won't find any up there” Margery said, eyes riveted on her unmannerly houseguest.

“I apologize for my friend's actions,” Sir Arthur blustered. “He told me he is very close to converting to the Faith. I swear I didn't know the lengths he would go to remove his remaining doubts.”

“Of course, Sir Arthur,” Margery said in a patronizing voice. “I understand. Rose Mackenburg is at the door. She asked for Mr. Holmes. I didn't know we had a Mr. Holmes among us. Until now, anyway. Now I understand why you seem to be the most curious of my guests.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Curious? Yes. I expect some people do consider me odd.”

That brought a glimmer of a smile. “I meant inquisitive.”

“Once again I must apologize,” Sir Arthur broke in, his face now the color of port wine. “Mr. Holmes asked me to conceal his identity because he was involved in an investigation. Please forgive me.”

“There's nothing to forgive,” Margery said with a laugh. “Having to reveal Mr. Holmes as a real person would have been an unnecessary chore that could easily be avoided by changing his name. Come along, everyone. I'm locking the séance room now.”

 

Full dark had fallen
. At
the entryway, Holmes slipped into his shoes without tying the laces. Opening the door, he stepped outside. Violet and I peered out from behind him.

“I'm sorry Margery didn't invite you in,” Holmes said to Rose. “I hope you didn't get too cold.”

“I'm fine.” Coming forward to stand close to his ear, she spoke in a barely audible voice. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything important, but your young spy named Sam just called. He said he wanted to try to make some more money by keeping watch on the Croydons' house. He was right across the street when Albert Becker showed up. Someone let him in.”

My heart skipped a beat. I expect Holmes's and Violet's did, too.

“What time was that?” Holmes demanded.

“It must be a bit more than half an hour ago. Sam had to run home to use the phone, and it took me ten minutes to get here from the hotel.”

“That'd be about when Walter appeared,” I said. “He created such a stir we could have easily missed hearing the doorbell ringing.”

“Yes, and I don't believe in coincidences,” Holmes replied. “Did the young man observe how the miscreant gained entry into the house?”

“He says a woman opened the door for him.”

“That must be the housekeeper,” Holmes mumbled. “I'm sure Margery must have a policy for Lucille to answer the door when she's in séance. I'm equally certain she's found him a place to hide at his request. Our roast pig is nearly ready to be carved, my friends. We want to be on hand when it is.”

 

Margery appeared to lock the door. I had to ask myself how she knew we were done talking to Rose.

Wretched, he returned to the kitchen. “What now?” I asked.

Holmes threw me a withering look. “Once again, you amaze me, Wiggins. We find the housekeeper and ask her.”

Once again, I was left with rosy cheeks not caused by the cold. “Of course,” I mumbled, catching myself before hanging my head. “The three of us are the only ones who know about her complicity. If the police ask her about Becker, she undoubtedly would deny it.”

Five non-uniformed police officers waited outside. The doorbell rang, and Margery reappeared to unlock it. From my knowledge of police procedures they would have wanted to avoid attracting undue attention, and had come from two different autos parked at opposite directions from the Croydon residence.

Margery let them in after demanding they remove their shoes. I had never met a sterner schoolmaster in the years I went to lower forms. Soon the hallway was filled with shoes. Sorting them out when they left would be an interesting matching puzzle. Once unshod, the five officers headed for the stairway with guns drawn as Margery relocked the door. After they were out of sight, Margery opened the door to the dining room.

Glancing out through a window, I noticed the cab across the street and wondered why it was still parked there. Could Becker have arrived by taxi and asked the driver to wait? If so, the police would have to act quickly to catch him.

Forcing a smile, Margery asked, “Is everyone ready for tea and cucumber sandwiches?”

“Perhaps we should be getting back to our hotel room,” Lady Jean said. “We've imposed on you enough for one evening.”

“Don't be silly. You haven't done anything to make yourselves unwelcome.”

Violet reacted quickly, so quickly I couldn't stop her. “I'll help you in the kitchen. You have a wonderful house, and I want to find out more about it. I expect the bedrooms are on the third floor.”

“They are. We have five,” Margery said.

“I remember you have a housekeeper. Are there are any other help?”

“No. I enjoy doing housework. It keeps me busy between séances.”

Sir Arthur and Lady Jean sat at the dining room table. I could feel their anger towards Holmes, who had returned to the table and sat opposite them with a placid smile.

My attention wandered between the silent drama at the table, and the events taking place in the kitchen. Violet ran water into a tea pot and put it on the range while Margery retrieved a tray of sandwiches from the refrigerator.

“How do you start the stove?”

“Turn the white handle and light a match from the box on the shelf.”

I caught a whiff of gas, then an explosion as flames flared wildly. Violet had never lit a stove before.

Margery rushed to her side. I was sure she could smell singed hair as easily as I could. “Are you all right?”

“I-I'm fine,” Violet stammered. “Really I am. Just a little frightened.”

“You're supposed to light the match first.”

“Of course. How silly of me. No harm done.”

Holmes got up and moved to stand in the kitchen door. “Does the chauffeur live in the house with you as well as the housekeeper?”

“Yes. He lives in the basement.”

“Is he around now? There were some questions I wanted to ask him about the kidnapping.”

“No. He took his sweetheart to see ‘What Price Glory.' It's supposed to be a smash hit, if I have the expression right. I know he was looking for sympathy for his injuries.”

“I love the movies and read
Variety
all the time, but I haven't heard anything about it,” said Violet. “If you'll tell me where you keep the napkins, I'll set the dining room table for you.”

“They're in the pantry to the left. The silverware is in the drawer behind you.”

As the domestic scenario played itself out, Holmes and I traded admiring glances at Violet's masterful wheedling of information from Margery.

Even Margery seemed impressed. “How did you know the bedrooms were on the third floor?”

“The housekeepers usually live on the second floor to be close to the kitchen and living room on the floor below, and the bedrooms on the floor above. Where do you keep your tea?”

“I'll get it. You have your choice of Darjeeling or Jasmine.”

“Whichever Sir Arthur and Lady Jean prefer,” Violet said. “Either one is fine with me, I don't expect the men will want to join us, anyway.”

“Regrettably not,” Holmes said, pushing away from the table. “If you will excuse us, we'll find Officer O'Neal and your husband. We're both anxious to join in the search.”

 

Chapter 39

I
felt a thrill of excitement as I got to my feet. The path to the end game now lay open. And all because of Violet. I was sure Margery wasn't happy about having two additional unaccompanied strangers joining the posse already tramping about in her house, but she had no choice. The biggest hurdle had been cleared, and mostly because of my amazing spouse.

Holmes read my mind.

“She indeed is a wonder, Wiggins. The only woman I know who even came close was our beloved Mrs. Hudson.”

“Except Violet isn't a saint. Mrs. Hudson must have been one to put up with you for so many years.”

Holmes snorted. I thought in humor. It wasn't. “Certainly you could have come up with a better line than that, Wiggins. You're a professional writer.”

“And you are a professional snob.”

“Heh heh,” he said.

My heart beat faster as we climbed the spiraling marble stairs, our pathway shining brightly from the medieval sconces dangling high on the wall beside the stairway. Once lit by candles, then by gas, they now furnished steady, unflickering electrical light. Too much light, to my taste. For all the years I stood on the sidelines and reported the battles of the Detroit police, I was now a warrior myself, albeit unarmed. This was a castle, and I wanted shadows.

We reached the second floor landing. Halting, we listened for voices. All I heard was the drip of a faucet somewhere in the expanse. We stood at the edge of an enormous Persian rug that covered the heating vent and led to the Croydons' version of an attic. It could have been a library or an art gallery, with glass-fronted bookcases, furniture, statuary and piles of oil paintings neatly arranged to form aisles. This was no medieval castle, it was a damned antiques shop!

I stopped in my tracks. “We may have some difficulties. Lucille may remember seeing us at Margery's lecture at the Bell in Hand.”

“No matter. If she does, she still has to account for being seen by Sam. The threat of exposure may be enough to prise loose what we want to know.”

“I don't understand why we're working alone. Why don't we just find O'Neal and have him take over? I'm sure he's more than capable of nabbing Becker without our help.”

“Of course he is, but he'll have Dr. Croydon with him. I want to find Herr Becker alone and hear the whole story from him without others present. Especially Dr. Croydon, for obvious reasons. Over the years I've developed some highly effective interrogation tactics of oriental design the police may not find acceptable.”

“We won't have time for the Chinese water torture.”

“That's merely the technique everyone knows about by the penny press. There are others at least as effective that take far less time. Unfortunately, they would make a polite western European cringe.”

I had to smile. “I see. Then you better let me do the talking. Lucille will know you're not a Boston cop the minute you open your mouth.”

“Fair enough. I know I can trust you to ask the right questions.”

There was only one door in view. And it was straight ahead.

I rapped.

“Who is it?” a woman's voice asked.

“Police. We have a few more questions to ask you.”

“Come in. The door's open.”

“Not open, silly goose!” Holmes whispered with a roll of his eyes. “Unlocked.”

I ignored his linguistic jingoism and turned the door handle.

Lucille Dougherty, who was sitting on a sofa reading, swung her bare feet to the floor and stood. Though she was wrapped in a flannel robe, the top of a pink negligee peeked out as she laid her book on the coffee table before her. “Who are you? You aren't the ones who were here before.”

“We just arrived from headquarters with some disturbing new information. You said you haven't even seen Albert Baker. We know otherwise. He's a desperate man and we need to find him before he hurts someone.”

She blanched at the words. “I can't help you.”

It was time for a bluff, one that even would impress Holmes. “You obviously didn't know it, but we've had the house under surveillance.” I took out a scrap of paper—a receipt from buying razorblades at the hotel sundries shop—and pretended to read.

“At approximately seventeen thirty-eight hours, suspect Albert Becker, wanted on charges of kidnapping and attempted murder, approached the house at 10 Lime Street and rang the doorbell. A young female answered and let him in. Suspect has not yet come out at this time. Report signed Officer Liam Reilly, and called in at seventeen fifty-one. Received by the dispatch sergeant, Felix Barnes.”

Dead silence. After all my years working with the Detroit police as a reporter, I had the script down to a fare-thee-well. If it worked with hardened criminals in the Purple Gang, I was sure a naïve young flapper had no chance whatsoever.

Holmes added an exclamation point to my statement by opening the bathroom door and peering inside. Lucille's eyes flitted nervously towards him and widened.

After letting her stew in her own juices for a few seconds, I said in a kindlier voice, “We know Mr. Baker has visited here many times, and he is a good friend of the Croydons. I'm sure he's been nice to you, but he isn't at all what he seems to be. For one thing, his real name is Becker. You know about the kidnapping and what happened to Simon. He could easily have been killed when Becker's accomplices threw him out of a speeding auto. Don't make it necessary to arrest you for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

A look of panic came to her face. “I'm sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I . . . I didn't know, believe me.” Breaking into actual tears, she said. “I was only doing what Dr. Croydon told me to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“He said there's been a terrible mistake, and that the police think Mr. Baker has done something illegal. He told me Mr. Baker might appear at the door during the séance. He did, and I let him in. He said he wouldn't be staying very long, just long enough to borrow one of the doctor's coats and get some money for a train ticket. He told me to say I hadn't seen him if anyone asked, and said I wouldn't get in any trouble. I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have lied.”

“Where is he now?”

“I swear I don't know. I showed him to Dr. Croydon's room and he took a black leather jacket, a scarf, and a derby hat from the closet. When he started to go through drawers, I made him leave. I told him I couldn't give him the money he needed because I only had a few dollars and the Croydons keep their money in a wall safe. I even told him I had a friend who might have enough money to buy the ticket, if he wanted to come with me, but he refused to leave. He said he would wait until the séance was over.”

“Where did you last see him?”

“On the stairway down to the first floor. I didn't like the idea of him wandering around in the house, so I told him he could wait in my room, but he was worried someone might find him there. I watched him until he disappeared around the bend.”

Holmes glanced at me, and I shrugged. “There's nowhere to hide on first floor,” he said. “Did you have any idea where he was going?”

“No.”

“Where are the stairs to the basement?”

“Behind the kitchen. Simon has his room in the basement. The Croydons never let me go there.” She paused, then continued with a thin smile. “I think they're afraid we might get involved in scandalous behavior, and it would affect their social standing.”

“I'm glad you told the truth. We'll do what we can to see you don't get into serious trouble. When we leave, lock your door, and don't let anyone else come in. Not even if they say they're police.”

“Okay,” she said with a final sniffle. Tears had made her mascara run down in twin streaks through her rouge. Her appearance reminded me of the time Violet dragged me to see Pagliacci.

Holmes wasn't ready to leave. “Do you have to go through the front door to enter the house?”

“No. There's a fire escape outside of my window. I never use it, though. Why do you ask?”

“The element of surprise is more valuable than the purest gold. Where does the fire exit go?”

“To the back yard. There's a fence with a gate that has to be opened with a key when coming or going. Simon uses it.”

“Do you have a key to the back door of the house?”

“No,” Lucille replied with a trace of suspicion in her voice. “I told you, the Croydons don't want me back there.”

“No matter. I think we'll use the fire escape, if you don't mind.”

Lucille moved forward to take a closer look at Mr. Holmes. Then, eyes flashing, she said, “You're not with the police. I remember you. You were with the Conan Doyles at the lecture last night.”

“You're mistaken, young lady. And even if that were true, you would still be in serious trouble for lying about not seeing Albert Baker. We're only trying to spare you the consequences of your actions. Now if you will kindly open your window for us, we will take our leave.”

That brought a laugh. “You're going outside without shoes?”

Holmes's singularity of purpose had run away with him, but he remained unflappable. “Unless you have American size twelve extra narrow shoes I could borrow, that's quite true. No matter though, it's just a minor inconvenience.”

Minor inconvenience? Speak for yourself, Mr. Holmes.

She opened a window. Hell-bent on carrying through with his scheme, Holmes climbed through it. “Are you simply going to stand rooted in place, Wiggins, or are you going to join me?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Very well. I'll not wait any longer. My feet are already starting to get cold.”

Lucille loosed another laugh, this one more of a giggle. She opened a door and squatted. “You may be able to get your toes and half of your foot into these. I don't like to admit it, but I do have big feet for a woman. I have another pair your friend can use.”

Happily, both pairs were flats. I set them on the floor and wiggled inside them as far as halfway up the insteps.

I felt like an idiot walking on tip toes, but the shoes stayed on. When I got to the fire escape railing, I dropped the other pair down to Holmes. “See how these fit.”

I could hardly wait to see him wearing them. Of all the disguises he used in his investigations, women's shoes too small for his feet certainly would be among the most humiliating. It was a scene not to be missed.

Luckily, the metal steps weren't icy. I clung to the railing for dear life as I lowered one foot followed by the other on each step. Having to go down stairs leaning forward scared me silly.

Holmes was waiting; in stockinged feet. “It took you long enough, Wiggins. Can you unlock the door?

“I certainly hope so,” I mumbled.

Without much hope of success, I pushed the lever and gave the door a nudge. The door didn't move. The ancient hunk of oak was a true piece of art, a remnant of the days when the back of the house was expected to be as decorative as the front. More than half was taken up by a decorative leaded-glass window. Its enormous keyhole would require an equally sizable key to unlock the door. I could only pray that the picks in Houdini's extra finger could find the mechanisms in the dim light because I couldn't feel them as I should have. Right off, I seemed to have trouble aligning them.

I fumbled stiffly until my fingers were numb, then gave up. Houdini himself might have done the same thing. “It looks as though we may have to go back to Lucille's room.”

“Absolutely not. We're not going to give up that easily, my friend. There must be another way in.”

There was: a window eight feet above my head. Even if standing on Mr. Holmes's shoulders, I could never reach it. And even if I could, I would end up in the Croydon's kitchen.

“Maybe this will work better,” Holmes said, gesturing toward a wide metal flange imbedded in the stone wall of the house.

“A coal chute?”

Holmes seized me by my shoulders. “Precisely. Mrs. Croydon said they don't use coal anymore. The opening is more than large enough for us to crawl through.”

I didn't share his optimism. “There may not be anything on the other side but a ten-foot drop. It would have taken a lot of coal to heat a house this size.”

“Without doubt. Unfortunately, the chute door seems to be locked.”

I fondled the lock in my hand. It was small, old, and relatively fragile. Not a Yale, by any means. Probably even unnecessary if they kept the gate locked. “That's not a problem.”

My heart tripped happily as I readied the picks. A child could handle this one.

My excitement lasted mere seconds. “Blast! The keyhole's plugged.”

Holmes sighed. “Then I guess we'll have to admit defeat and go back the way we came.”

It was my turn to be enthusiastic. “Not at all, sir. We have another, even better, string for our bow.”

Prying the false finger open with a fingernail, I shook the gigli saw into my hand.

Even at rest, the blades seemed as fearsomely sharp as they had when embracing Schultz's neck. I could imagine Houdini smiling as he used it. Cutting through metal would be slightly more difficult than cutting through flesh, but it could handle either job equally well.

Mr. Holmes held the lock for me as I wrapped the flexible saw around its hasp and pulled. I didn't expect a miracle, but the blade merely slipped on the metal. On the second try, the teeth dug in. Soon it was spewing filings with every stroke.

Even so, my face was damp with perspiration and fingers cramping from the effort when the lock finally swung meekly into my hand.

“Well done, Wiggins,” Holmes said as he pulled on the now unlocked coal chute cover.

Though rusty and groaning, the flange swung upward to reveal a darkness even deeper than that which surrounded us. And, instead of a metal chute, there was only an impenetrable, inky abyss. We had only one way to get inside—feet first and on our bellies, and the hope we wouldn't break our necks when he hit the floor.