The Ectoplasmic Man (3 page)

“Lestrade, this crime—”

The inspector held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I’ve told you all I can. You are not an official detective, Mr Holmes, and this matter is absolutely confidential.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“What!”

Holmes threw another lump of coal onto the fire. “I am clearly out of my depth, Lestrade. Men made of ectoplasm, thefts of such high confidentiality.” He shook his head. “No, no. It’s too much for me. Watson, would you care to take a stroll in the botanical gardens?”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open. “But — but you don’t understand! All I’m asking is that you come down to the theatre with me and see this Houdini for yourself! Now where’s the harm in that? It’s not so much to ask, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is, Inspector,” Holmes said evenly. “You are asking me to enter into a criminal investigation with no knowledge of the actual crime. You are asking me to entertain a theory which accommodates men who walk through walls. I am not an official detective, as you have so conscientiously reminded me, but neither am I a haruspex. Should you need my services in matters pertaining to the corporeal, my door will be open. Until then, good day.”

Lestrade let out a long sigh and moved towards the door. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” he said, taking down his hat and ulster. “We were given specific orders not to consult you on this case. I just thought—”

“Orders?” Holmes whirled about, his features drawn tight. “Orders from whom?”

“Why, the government, of course!”

Holmes stiffened. “What branch?”

“The message came from Whitehall. It was unsigned.”

A high colour crept into the gaunt cheeks of Sherlock Holmes. “Lestrade,” he said, his voice rigid with emotion, “either you are the most devious man at the Yard or you are an unpardonable lummox.”

“What—?” The inspector stammered, but Holmes was already gone, running down the steps to Baker Street, blowing two shrill blasts on his cab-whistle.

^*
For some reason Watson is referring to “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons,” a case which occurred years earlier.

T
HE
E
CTOPLASMIC
M
AN

H
olmes was silent as our four-wheeler sped towards the Savoy, and Lestrade, to his credit, knew better than to probe for the source of the detective’s sudden agitation. For my part, I had observed these fits of pique on several previous occasions, and I knew them to be grounded in a personal, rather than professional, vexation. As Holmes now seemed to have regained his composure, I thought it best not to remark upon the matter, for I knew that if my suspicions were accurate, all would be revealed presently.

And so I passed the journey wondering what sort of man it was who could so readily divest himself of canvas strait-jackets and pass through solid brick walls. In my long association with Holmes we had been concerned in a score of mysteries which, at their outsets, seemed to involve spirit beings. Crime aficionados still remark upon the macabre affair of the earl, the ascot and the heavy feather, which had been the despair of several well-trained investigators. Only Holmes had been able to prove that flesh-and-blood murderers were responsible, rather than the vengeful revenants originally suspected by Scotland Yard.

Would Holmes be as successful in penetrating the mysteries of Houdini, or had Lestrade at last presented him with a problem which had no logical solution? This was the challenge my companion had unwillingly undertaken that afternoon. In Lestrade’s defence I must say I rather doubt that he ever truly believed all this spiritualist commotion about Houdini. He was, rather, a man who dearly loved to have a key for every lock, no matter how unwieldy the keys became.

I had not been to the Savoy Theatre since the passing of my beloved wife, Mary. Together we had attended many of the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan there, and though she had been gone many years, the association was still a painful one. My mood was certainly not lightened by the appearance of the theatre itself, which was dark and grim. The plush lobby, which I was so accustomed to seeing brightly lit and filled with cheery theatre patrons, now appeared shadowy and hollow. Through the far doors I could see rows of empty seats which seemed to stretch forever, creating an impression of eerie expectation. I am not ordinarily given to flights of fancy, but I imagined that I could feel my wife’s presence in that opulent crypt, and I acknowledged to myself that if I were ever to see a spirit, it would very likely be in this place.

“Do you see this?” Lestrade was saying. “Do you see this, Holmes?” He pointed to one of the dozens of theatrical posters which covered the walls of the lobby. “Houdini claims to have no interest in spiritualism, and yet he draws attention to himself with a poster like this! There’s more here than meets the eye, I tell you!”

The poster showed an ordinary wooden barrel secured with chains and heavy padlocks. Above it hovered a likeness of Houdini, who had evidently just wafted from the barrel as smoke rises from a chimney. His legs, the illustration plainly showed, were still vaporous. To strengthen this supernatural impression, the young man was shown receiving counsel from a small band of red demons who scurried about his form, while in
the background a number of befuddled-looking officials stood scratching their heads. Below the illustration was printed the legend: “Houdini!!! The World’s Foremost Escape King!!!”

“You are absolutely right, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “This is conclusive evidence of the man’s spirit capacities. What a fool I have been ever to have doubted you! Now as to the details of this crime you mentioned—”

“Enough of that, Mr Holmes. You’ll be able to see for yourself in just a moment. Remember, though, Houdini doesn’t yet know that he’s a suspect in the crime, so you musn’t let on!”

Holmes turned and walked towards the empty theatre. “As of yet I have nothing to let on,” he said.

As we gained a view of the stage I could see a group of four workers carrying large packing crates back and forth across the stage. By his resemblance to the poster illustration, I gathered that the man directing the activity was none other than Houdini himself.

Houdini was a small but powerfully built young man. His black, wiry hair was combed out from the centre into two pointed tufts, which combined with the black slashes of his eyebrows to give him a satanic aspect. His every movement was precise and forceful, yet so fluid and full of grace that I was put in mind of the sleek jungle cats I encountered during my Afghan campaigns. He wore a coal-black suit, which contributed to his dramatic appearance, and though he was smaller than any of his workers, he nevertheless insisted on carrying the largest load.

One of Houdini’s assistants drew his attention to our arrival. Upon seeing Lestrade, Houdini gave a cry of surprise and set down his burden. He then leapt across the orchestra pit and made his way towards us, skimming across the backs and arms of the theatre seats as if using stepping stones to cross a river. This display of coordination and balance was not mere bravado, but rather the natural course of one
whose control over his own body was so complete that such exertions were as natural to him as walking.

“Mr Lestrade!” cried Houdini as he jumped down into the aisle where we stood. “It’s good to see you!” He gave the inspector a jovial slap on the back. “I didn’t expect to see you snooping around until this evening’s performance! You’re not still upset about that gaol break, are you?”

“No, no,” said Lestrade quickly, “I only wished to introduce you to these two gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, allow me to present Mr Harry Houdini.”

Upon hearing my friend’s name, the young magician was scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he said, grasping Holmes by the hand and shoulder. “I’ve admired you for years.”

“The honour is mine,” replied Holmes. “I trust that you have worked out the difficulties with your rope escape?”

“Why yes, I... wait a minute, how did you know I was having trouble with a rope escape?” In his surprise at this observation, Houdini quite forgot to take my hand and slap my shoulder. “I’ve always read about you doing that, but I never thought I’d actually see it! How did you know?”

“Simplicity itself, my dear fellow. There are several chafing wounds on both your wrists. I have seen identical wounds on the wrists of robbery and kidnap victims who had strained against their bonds for many hours. The natural conclusion is that you have spent some hours attempting to free yourself from a similar restraint, and were, perhaps, less successful than you might have hoped.”

“Wonderful!” Houdini cried. “What a trick! But I did get out of that rope tie. I was practising on a new kind of knot. Better to work it out in rehearsal than to have it come at me during a performance.” He led us towards the stage. “I sure wish Bess were here to meet you, Mr Holmes.” He paused and struck a theatrical pose. “To Harry Houdini,” he intoned, “she is always
the
woman.”

This brief reference to one of my early Holmes stories
^*
was clearly intended to flatter the detective. Houdini could not have known that Holmes seldom remembered anything but the titles of my stories, when he bothered to read them at all, so it meant nothing to him. Instead, Holmes proceeded immediately to the business at hand.

“Tell me, Mr Houdini, is it true that you are able to reduce your body to ectoplasm?”

The American laughed. “Is that why you came here? No, Mr Holmes, as I’ve been trying to tell Lestrade here, my magic has nothing to do with any witches or ghosts.”

“Witches and ghosts have nothing to do with it,” Lestrade insisted. “I never said that at all. I merely suggested that if you were a spiritualist you would have to hide your abilities from the public. If it became known that you were able to become immaterial, your escapes would cease to be dramatic. Where’s the excitement in an escape artist who can walk right through his chains?”

“On the contrary,” Houdini replied, “that would be the greatest act ever staged. People would pay ten bucks a head to see a real live ghost. But I am not a ghost, I’m an escape artist.”

Lestrade was not satisfied. “You insist that you are not a psychic, but I still feel that no other explanation is possible for what I have seen on this stage.”

Houdini bowed deeply. “Thank you very much, Mr Lestrade. That is the best compliment a magician could receive.”

Lestrade turned to Holmes in exasperation. “I get no where with him! Do you see why I wanted you to come down here?”

“Actually, I do not,” Holmes answered. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me, Lestrade, but your failure to comprehend Houdini’s mysteries will
not cause me to embrace spiritualism. I submit that some more logical explanation has escaped your notice.”

“Are you saying I’m thick, Holmes? Or gullible? I’d like to point out he’s not merely pulling rabbits out of a hat; he’s walking through solid brick walls!”

“Pray do not grow testy, Lestrade. I did not invite this interview. Nor am I suggesting that you are slow-witted in any way. I merely observe that in this case you are quick to accept the phenomenal where a more strict logician might turn to the somatic. I have no doubt that the same disciplines which govern the science of deduction would lend some insight into the marvels of Mr Houdini.”

“Pardon me, Mr Lestrade,” Houdini broke in with exaggerated formality. “Did I just understand Mr Holmes to say that my little mysteries would give him no trouble at all?”

“That is more or less what he said.”

“Very well,” Houdini said. “Let’s just see about that.” He turned to the stage. “Franz! Come out here!” An enormous bald-headed man appeared from the wings. “Have the boys set up last night’s wall.” With a nod, the large man withdrew. “Now then, Mr Holmes,” Houdini resumed, “I think that even you will have some difficulty explaining this. Please follow me.”

He led us up a small flight of steps which brought us onto the stage. “If this were an ordinary performance, my workmen would construct a wall brick by brick while I did some smaller effects out here. That way the audience can be sure that there’s nothing tricky about the wall itself. It’s absolutely solid.” As he spoke his assistants spread a large red carpet across the back of the stage. Onto it they wheeled a low platform which supported, as Houdini had promised, a brick wall. “Observe: The wall is nine feet high, seven feet across and two feet deep.” He slapped the hard surface with the palm of his hand. “Sturdy. Now please note that the wall is positioned so that the top and sides are visible to the audience. If
I attempted to slip around or over the wall, the audience would see me.”

As he spoke Houdini’s conversational tone vanished and was replaced by a practised, resonant mode of speech in which each syllable was carefully accented. His voice travelled out to the farthest reaches of the theatre and came swelling back in waves. One seemed to hear it not just with the ears, but with all the senses.

“I have spread this carpet across the stage in order to rule out the possibility of a trapdoor. You will also note that the platform which holds the wall is only three inches high, far too low to permit me to slip under.”