Nevermore (35 page)

The magician was on his hands and knees, peering under the brass bed. Surrounded by mouse-sized dust clumps, a dented green metal footlocker scraped the springs. He pulled it out into the light and opened the lid. It was filled with scrapbooks and leather-bound photograph albums. “This is most important!” he heard Sir Arthur call from the other room. “You must have a look.”

Houdini bounded to his feet and poked his head through the door. “Turn something up?”

“Have a look.” Conan Doyle pointed to the desk blotter.

Houdini gasped when he read the name delineated by the graphite mist. “Isis…?” The magician traced his finger over the multiple signatures like a blind man reading Braille.

“Rammage has taken great pains learning to forge Mrs. Fletcher’s hand.”

“Why?”

Sir Arthur gave Houdini the strongbox. “Open this. It was in the bottom drawer together with an edition of Poe.”

The magician surveyed the simple lock with a frown of disdain. A half-turn with his pick and the catch released. Houdini swung back the hinged lid, centering the open money box on the desk. Inside, a pint-sized medicinal bottle with a ground-glass stopper rested atop a pair of books. Conan Doyle picked it up and took a cautious sniff.

“Chloroform?” Houdini asked.

Sir Arthur nodded in agreement.

Houdini seized the uppermost volume, a five-and-dime school notebook with marbled cardboard covers. Flipping it open, the magician immediately encountered an extensive entry in what he knew to be Sidney Rammage’s handwriting. Carefully outlined in a neat accountant’s script, Opal Fletcher’s telephone numbers and addresses in both Paris and London, as well as New York, filled an entire page. The names and addresses of her servants followed ground plans of her home on Eighty-fifth Street, precisely sketched and including various illicit access routes via the cellar and a second-floor balcony.

“Curious … ,” Sir Arthur murmured, looking on as Houdini turned the pages. Similar entries detailed the movements and habits of Ingrid Esp, Violette Speers, Mary Rogers, Jim Vickery… . “By Jove! He’s got my tour schedule down exactly,” the knight exclaimed, observing the extensive Conan Doyle section. “The man is certainly methodical.”

“Dirty bastard.” Houdini seethed, reading the scrupulous notes Rammage had compiled on him and Bess. Phone numbers. Itineraries. Floor plans of his house. Finally, sketches of many of his illusions; the Metamorphosis, the Milk Can, Chinese Water Torture, each with an explanatory paragraph.

“Stealing your thunder…?” Sir Arthur queried.

“Most of this I’ve published myself. But, only the Jims knew the secret of the Upside Down.” The magician closed the notebook, a ghastly pallor aging him by a decade. “My God… . He tortured poor Vickery …”

“Dangerous adversary, this Rammage chap.”

“Is that what this is all about? A few cheap tricks…?”

Conan Doyle lifted the second book out of the money box, a small gilt-edged, hand-sewn, red-leather-bound journal with the initials O.C.F. discreetly embossed near the lower left corner. “I believe we’ll find his motives a touch more convoluted,” he said.

The entries were written in purple ink, the cursive Palmer-method script unmistakably the schoolgirl hand of Opal Crosby Fletcher. “Remarkable forgery …” Sir Arthur held the volume so Houdini could read along with him. “Rammage has a deft touch.”

1/1/23

A new year. Clean white pages. The blood-red cover strikes me as entirely appropriate. This is to be a diary of doom, an honest chronicle of the death sentence pronounced on Harry Houdini. He must be punished for his blasphemy. The world must know of the pain he has caused innocent believers.

“He’s setting her up,” Houdini muttered. “Precisely …”

2/17/23

Ingrid Esp is a most obligingly punctual young woman. She puts the Swiss to shame. Every morning, out of the building six-thirty on the dot, brisk march to the subway …

4/2/23

The chloroform works like magic. She was out in an instant. I drove to 38th Street and changed into the ape suit. She looked like a sleeper, slumped on the front seat. I strangled her, and ran and ran and ran, her weight barely noticed, limp in my shaggy arms …

4/3/23

… so easy when they’re unconscious. The razor a difficult tool, cutting flesh easily enough, but had to saw and hack through cartilage and windpipe …

4/29/23

… brought me from the edge of my trance. Incredible! It was Houdini. He fairly leapt upon the stage. So unwary. So fond of himself. Easy prey. Even now, the noose tightens. When they find Mrs. Speers someone will remember Poe. I want H.H. to be terrified when I come for him …

“He must have quite enjoyed this,” Conan Doyle said, momentarily half-closing the book.

“I’m going to enjoy it plenty if I ever get my hands on him.”

“Easy, old man.” Sir Arthur gave the magician’s shoulder a paternal pat. “Best to let the law follow its own course.”

“Let me have a look at that thing.” Houdini grabbed the forged diary from his friend’s grasp and thumbed quickly through, reading bits and snatches at random.

4/20/23

… headlines full of Poe mystery. Mr. Runyon is my partner in vengeance …

4/25/23

How divinely inspired! Mary Rogers, a speakeasy cigarette girl, worked for a brief time in H.H.’s troupe. Here is a sure sign my plan is the sacred sword of justice …

5/7/23

… the Village is such a tranquil neighborhood despite its boisterous bohemian reputation. Strangled M.R. in her Bleecker St. apt. Waited until after midnight to bring her body down to the sedan. Not a soul in sight …

6/16/23

… to the Biltmore Hotel on 43rd St. Watched H.H. as he was submerged in a coffin in the swimming pool. How provident for him to supply the equipment I require for my next Poe stunt …

“My God!” Houdini exclaimed. “He was there that day observing her, not me.”

“A most thoroughgoing and persistent fellow, indeed.”

6/28/23

… Vickery quite strong and agile, but, as always, chloroform effortlessly did the trick. There’s a chance he’ll be found before dying. Either way, the Poe fits. They already know about the chloroform. Thanks to Mr. Runyon, I know they know …

10/31/23

All Hallows’ Eve. The trap in place: bricks, mortar, a nice bottle of amontillado. A.C.D. costumed as a clown! More Divine Intervention. My Red Death proved an enticing bait. With the wine to slake his thirst, he might last a month.

Sir Arthur allowed a grim grin as he read of his immurement. “Cold-blooded rascal. Intriguing to read his thoughts in her hand.”

“Still a couple more entries,” Houdini said, turning a page.

11/2/23

Another successful trap. The magician fooled by a bit of clever misdirection. My sweetest success enhanced by his desperate terror. I can die happily with the sound of Houdini’s final scream enshrined in memory. My revenge is complete. How I wish I still were sitting in that dark theater. The train ride home from Chicago proves to be a terrible bore.

“He wrote this before leaving New York.” For the second time in his life, Houdini’s expression contained the same look of wonder he had so often induced on the upturned faces of his audience.

“All part of the master plan.”

“Last one’s got tomorrow’s date.”

11/4/23

Ennui. Utter boredom. The Poe Killer retires and I slide safely into his legend. Is this all the world is to know? What purpose is served by my revenge if no one understands that Houdini was punished for the shame he inflicted upon the realm of the spirits? How dull life seems bearing this secret to the grave. What better exit than to make death a proclaimer of the truth? My passing to join the shades is a final act of faith. Let this diary serve as an eloquent suicide letter. Chloroform should prove most appropriate.

“He means to kill her.” Conan Doyle took the volume from Houdini, rereading the passage.

“Master plan’s kaput now.”

The knight pulled his watch from his vest pocket. “What time did you say the Chicago train arrives?”

“Eight forty-five.”

“He got in fifteen minutes ago.” Closing the watch case, Conan Doyle frowned. “I believe Mrs. Fletcher may be in serious jeopardy. Rammage already made up his mind to kill her. Make her look like the murderess. His plan has altered, but the impulse remains.”

”If he caught a cab at Penn Station or Grand Central, he could possibly be there already. He’d be here by now. It’s a five-minute walk either way.”

When Houdini tried to phone a warning to Isis, central informed him that her line was inexplicably dead.

“We must hurry!” Conan Doyle shoved the forged diary into the Gladstone bag and the two men quickly gathered up the remaining evidence. They were out the door in less than a minute.

A
N OMINOUS DARKNESS FESTERED WITHIN
the Fletcher mansion as Conan Doyle and Houdini rushed from a Yellow cab. They had been lucky, spotting a taxi discharging passengers outside the Hotel Martinique. Traffic was sparse and the cabby got them up to Eighty-fifth and Fifth in ten minutes flat.

“I don’t like the looks of this at all,” the knight muttered, glancing at the blackened windows.

“Maybe she went out?” Houdini slipped the bent-wire pick into the front door lock.

“Some lights would have been left burning. And surely, there are servants within.”

The magician opened the door. The two men whisked inside, stalking into the shadowed foyer. Houdini switched on the flashlight when they reached the stairs, mounting at a silent lope, two steps at a time, to the living quarters. Conan Doyle puffed at his side.

They hurried along the darkened hallway, flicking the light beam into empty rooms. A pungent medicinal reek lingered in the air outside the library.

“Chloroform,” Sir Arthur whispered. Houdini probed the shadow-shrouded library with his flashlight.

Distant metallic clanging resonated from somewhere high above. The magician and the knight stared straight up, straining to hear. Long silent seconds passed. “The roof!” Houdini cried, suddenly recognizing the sound.

No longer concerned about stealth, they ran pell-mell for the service stairs at the far end of the hall. Scrambling up three flights in the dark, footfalls loud on the uncarpeted steps, the two men felt desperation verging on panic.

They paused on the landing below the open door to the roof, instinctively knowing the need for calm and surprise. Loud above their panting silence, a cold birdsong clank rang through the night. Someone dragged a length of chain. Conan Doyle drew the Webley-Green from his pocket, aware of its weight and lethal danger. He pointed the revolver carefully away from Houdini.

The rasping chain chattered like the evil laugh of an incubus. “Houdini will go first,” the magician hissed. “No light. Speed’n silence is the ticket.”

Houdini climbed the final steps and slipped out like a shadow. Conan Doyle was right behind, astonished at the tom-tomming of his heart. A war hero who never saw combat, he thought ruefully.

A narrow balcony fronted by a crenelated parapet ran along the back side of the house. Facing east, it overlooked a tidy row of brownstones. The two men moved along with deliberate silence. Street light from Fifth provided ample illumination in contrast with the mineshaft gloom of the service stairs. Houdini held the inactive flashlight at his side in much the same manner as Conan Doyle handled the revolver.

Turning a corner, they encountered an iron catwalk arching across a narrow courtyard to a conical slate-roofed turret. A hunched silhouette balanced on the stark skeletal railing, hauling tight on a shadowy chain. “Hold!” Houdini cried, switching on the flashlight.

Rammage squinted into the harsh, unexpected gleam. He perched like a gargoyle on the slender railing. “What in hell…?” Blinded by the light, the tiny Englishman tightened his grip on the length of chain wound around the railing. The chain descended at a sharp angle into the beam’s penumbral corona. There, supine on the catwalk, the bodies of two women lay chained together. Cheap rubber novelty monkey masks were secured over both their faces. Neither appeared to move.

Conan Doyle trained his Webley-Green on Rammage’s crouching form. The knight could not stop his extended arm from trembling, although he was an experienced shot with his own private pistol range. “I am armed and will not hesitate to shoot you down.” He cocked the revolver, struggling to control his abhorrence at the notion of taking a human life.

“Show’s over, Rammage,” Houdini taunted.

“Harry…?” The rival magician teetered on the rail, clinging to the length of chain. “Is that you?”

“You always were all washed up. You threw your biggest challenge at me and I’m here to tell you it wasn’t good enough. You’ve never been good enough, have you, Rammage?”

“Good enough to create the mystery of the Poe Murders.” Rammage crouched on the rail. “You brought a policeman with you. Ask him, Harry. A diverting entertainment this past summer, don’t you think, Officer?”

“It is Conan Doyle,” the knight called. “You have twice failed.”

. “Ah… . Life is full of mishaps.” Clinging like a trained monkey, Rammage shied from the light. “Tell me, Sir Arthur… . You are a literary man. Do you recognize the source of my final performance?”

“Poe’s ‘Hop Frog.’ You’re shy six orangutans.”

“I had to work on such short notice. Bought the masks from a news butcher at the railway station.” Reaching between absurdly thrust knees, Rammage groped in the shadows behind the women.

“Mmmmm… . Gnmmm… . Nnnnnnmmm.” Opal Crosby Fletcher’s muffled voice sounded a plea of inarticulate desperation.

“She’s alive!” Houdini cried.

“Take courage, Mrs. Fletcher.” Conan Doyle steadied his wobbling aim. “No harm will befall you.”

Rammage grasped something unseen and drew himself slowly upright by pulling on the chain. “I trust you remember the ending of the tale?” Rammage waved a fuel can above his head. “Righty-o!” He poured a stream of amber liquid out over the recumbent women. “Gasoline… .” His nervous giggle gave way to eerie maniacal cackling.