The Ectoplasmic Man (4 page)

The magician stepped back and gazed searchingly into the distance. “This ancient Hindu mystery has not been performed on any stage for more than two centuries. It was originally part of a sacred rite of passage. The village fakir would prove himself worthy by allowing himself to be sealed inside a deep cave from which he would miraculously emerge. I have brought the effect to England directly from Calcutta, where I was admitted to a holy council of elders—”

“Come, come now,” said Holmes.

“What is it?” Houdini snapped, his face darkening.

“Surely if you had come directly from Calcutta you would show some effects of the tropical climate? Instead you are as pale as we are! No, I observe that while your clothing is of an American cut, your collar and bootlaces are German. It seems likely that you have just spent some time in that country, as you were there recently enough to require a new collar, and long enough to have need of new bootlaces.”

Houdini paused for a moment and then opened his mouth as if to continue the oration, but immediately he thought better of it. Instead he shouted across to his assistant. “Franz! The screens!” The bald giant reappeared carrying two sections of black screen, each hinged vertically at its centre. These were placed on either side of the wall to create an enclosure which shielded a small portion from view.

“Dr Watson, if you will stand here... Lestrade there... and Mr Holmes over here... thank you very much.” He had positioned us so that the wall was seen from every angle. “Please remember, gentlemen, that I cannot travel over, under or around the wall. I am stepping behind the screen on this side of the wall. If I appear on the far side, it can only be because I travelled through the wall to get there.”

He stopped to let us absorb his words. “Now then, if you are ready, gentlemen. I shall count three. When I am finished counting, a miracle will have occurred. One... two... are you ready?...
three!”

From the other side of the barrier I heard Lestrade give a cry. “He’s done it! He’s done it again!” He rushed from behind the wall, dragging Houdini by the arm. The young magician was slightly ruffled, but otherwise no worse for his efforts. I confess that I was thoroughly baffled by the feat, and by the speed and apparent ease with which it was effected.

Holmes must have read my expression, for he asked, “What do you make of it, old fellow?”

“I fear I can make nothing of it,” I replied.

“Nothing, Watson? You know my methods, apply them!”

I looked carefully at the American. “His hair is disordered, but I daresay mine would be as well if I passed through a solid wall!”

Houdini smiled broadly and attempted to smooth his unruly hair. “Well, Mr Holmes?”

The detective took his cherry-wood pipe from his pocket and carefully began to fill it. “Watson, you and Lestrade have often heard me assert that when one has eliminated all that is impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

“Exactly, Holmes,” Lestrade said eagerly. “Houdini has shown that he could not get around the wall in any way. Therefore, he must have passed directly through it!”

“I’m afraid that, too, must be eliminated as impossible.” Holmes lit his pipe and sent up a cloud of white smoke. “And if Houdini had travelled over, or to either side of the wall, we would have seen him.”

“Well, he can’t very well have gone under it, Holmes. Even if there were some sort of opening in the platform, there are only three inches between the wall and the stage!”

“And,” Houdini could not help but remind us, “I can’t have used a trapdoor because this carpet is covering the stage!”

Holmes smiled benignly at him. “Indeed,” he said, “you are quite right. Any trapdoor would be covered by the carpet. And yet, I am reminded of a most instructive musical phenomenon, that of the common drum.” As he spoke, Holmes stepped down into the orchestra pit where a large set of drums stood. “In effect, every drum is but a hollow cylinder tightly covered by a flexible membrane.” Holmes reached up through one of the smaller drums and placed his hand beneath the drumhead. “Observe: If a solid plane is placed below the membrane, the drum makes no sound.” With his free hand he struck the drum, producing only a dull thud. “But when there is nothing below the surface, the membrane is allowed its natural flexibility.” He withdrew his hand and struck the drum again. A loud beat echoed through the theatre. “In the drum, sound is produced. However, the principle has other applications.”

Houdini and Lestrade stood transfixed by this singular discourse. While my companion lacked the resonance and peacockery of Houdini, his narration was made all the more compelling by its quiet logic and absolute self-assurance. I could see Houdini growing restless as Holmes continued.

“Now let us turn our attentions to Houdini himself.” Holmes, still in the orchestra pit, walked to the edge of the stage and found himself level with our feet. “I note a long scuff along the inside of the left shoe. This mark was not there a moment ago. Perhaps the shoes dislike transforming
into ectoplasm?” He stepped back onto the stage and took Houdini’s arm as if it were a laboratory specimen. “What do we see here? In Houdini’s cuff buttons we find strands of red carpeting. This is extremely significant. From this we may—”

“Enough, Holmes!” Houdini snatched his arm away, his face dark purple. “You are mocking me! You are mocking the Great Houdini! You — you —” Houdini then said something in German which had a distinctly unsavoury sound. By Holmes’s expression it was clear that the meaning was not lost on him.

“I see that diplomacy is not among your talents, Mr Houdini,” said Holmes. “Perhaps you had best concentrate on those abilities which you do possess, for ill-temper is often overlooked in an accomplished performer.
“Est quadam prodire tenus, si non datur ultra.”
^*

With this rather obscure quote from Horace, Sherlock Holmes turned and was gone.

^*
“A Scandal In Bohemia”, which begins, “To Sherlock Holmes she is always
the
woman.”

^*
“Your powers may reach this far, if not beyond.”

A
C
ALLER
A
T
B
AKER
S
TREET

“S
ee what I have become in my old age, Watson,” Holmes said as we climbed the steps to our lodgings, “an exposer of magicians! Sherlock Holmes, scourge of the conjuror! I’m afraid I am nearing the end of my usefulness.”

“You make too much of the matter, Holmes,” I said. “Perhaps this morning’s encounter was a disappointment, but I’m sure Lestrade will return with a more—”

“Lestrade! The poor man is worse off than I! He has abandoned his reason! Soon we shall find him engaged in earnest conversation with the pigeons in St James’s Park.”

“Holmes, you are exaggerating.”

“Possibly, possibly. But it is also possible that I have delayed my retirement for too long. I hear the call of the bees.”
^*

I knew then how truly irritated Holmes had been with the morning’s

He was not long at it, however, before the page brought in a calling card to announce another visitor. “Thank you, Billy,” said Holmes, taking up the card, “show her up. Perhaps this will lead to a more fruitful investigation, Watson. What do you make of this?”

It was an ordinary lady’s calling card, which announced a Miss Beatrice Rahner. “I cannot see that there is anything to be learned, apart from the obvious fact that our caller is an unmarried woman.”

“That is precisely what we do not learn. See how worn the card is, and the reverse side is stained. No self-respecting maiden would present such a card, she would have fresh ones printed. No, I suspect we are dealing with a married woman who carries this card as a keepsake, and who for some reason wishes to conceal her married state from us. Now,” he walked to the bow window and began drumming his fingers on a pane of glass, “let us see. The cardboard stock and the printing are American, so I think we may hazard a guess that our caller is as well. There is something in the name...” He walked to the mantel and took up his black clay pipe. “Beatrice. Watson, didn’t our conjuror friend refer to his wife as ’Bess’? I believe that is a common American contraction of—” He walked over to the door and threw it open. There stood a diminutive dark-haired woman with a timid, almost fearful expression. “Won’t you come in, Mrs Houdini?”

Our visitor gasped and her hand flew to her throat. “How could you possibly—?” she began in a quiet American accent. “Never mind. I have long since given up asking Harry to explain his miracles, why should I expect you to reveal yours? Now I am certain that you are the only man who can help me.”

“Pray have a seat and tell us in what way we may assist you. This is my associate, Dr Watson, before whom you may speak freely.” I took her hat and cloak and showed her to a seat by the fire.

Mrs Houdini looked hesitantly from Holmes to me, as if uncertain of how to begin. “As you have somehow guessed, I am Bess Houdini. You must forgive my trick, Mr Holmes. One of the stage hands told me that you and Harry, well, didn’t hit it off together, and I was afraid you might refuse to see me.”

“You misjudge me.”

“Perhaps, but you see, my problem concerns my husband and he would be very angry if he knew that I came to see you.”

“You wish to escape from your husband.”

A bit of fire appeared in Mrs Houdini’s eyes. “He did not care for you either, Mr Holmes, but you make light of my problem.”

“You wish to do away with him then.”

“Do not trifle with me, Mr Holmes! There is no finer man alive than Harry Houdini! I married him not once but three times over, once before a judge, once before a priest, and once before a rabbi! And I would marry him a dozen more times if it were any measure of my devotion to him!”

Holmes favoured her with one of his rare kindly smiles. “My apologies, Mrs Houdini. Watson will tell you that I am a bit insensitive where the fair sex is concerned. Please tell us why you have come.”

Mrs Houdini took off her gloves, politely accepted my offer of a cup of tea, and began the following remarkable narrative:

“This afternoon you saw how strong-willed my husband can be. I often fear that his... his hardheadedness will be his undoing. He will accept any escape challenge no matter how outrageous. I don’t think you can imagine what it is like for a woman to see her husband dive securely manacled into a freezing river, or hang upside-down over a crowded street while freeing himself from a strait-jacket. He says he has to do things that no other
performer would even attempt. ’Scare ’em off,’ as he says.

“Maybe you can imagine, then, how Harry felt when he received some newspaper clippings about a man named Kleppini who was billing himself as ’The King of All Handcuff Kings’, and who claimed to have defeated Houdini in a public contest. This happened about five years ago. We were appearing in Holland at the time. In those days I performed alongside my husband as his only assistant. He always promised that when he became a success I would no longer have to do so, but in truth I deeply miss the... Are you listening to me, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes had stretched himself out on the sofa and was trailing an arm and a leg upon the floor. His eyes were closed and to all outward appearances he seemed to be asleep, but I, who knew his moods so well, knew that he had assumed an attitude of utmost concentration. “I am following you quite closely, Mrs Houdini,” he said. “How did your husband respond to this other escape artist?”

“He was furious. He raged for days. ’Who is this man Kleppini?’ he shouted. ’I’ve never even met the man!’ Finally he demanded to be released from his contract so that he could confront Kleppini in person. Harry believes if he allows inferior performers to make a quick reputation off of the Houdini name that his own achievements will become meaningless.”

“He travelled to Germany, then?”

“Yes, and he took with him a satchel filled with his very best handcuffs. He calls them his ’Handcuff King Defeaters’.”

“Very good,” Holmes murmured.

“When my husband arrived in Dortmund, neither Kleppini nor his agent would agree to meet with him, or entertain any notion of arranging an actual public contest. So, that night Harry attended his rival’s performance. After a few of what Harry called ’shoddy rope ties’, Kleppini began telling the audience how he had easily escaped from all of
the Great Houdini’s restraints, while the simplest pair of handcuffs had held Houdini a helpless prisoner. An old man in the audience stood up and shouted that the story was not true. Kleppini called the old man a liar, saying that he could not possibly know whether it was true or not. The old man rushed to the stage, ripped off his false moustache and beard, and cried, ’I know it is not true because I am Houdini!’”

“Bravo!” shouted Holmes. “That is precisely what I myself would have done. Your husband has proven far more ingenious than I suspected.”

Mrs Houdini flushed at this praise. “Yes, Harry forced his hand. Kleppini could not refuse a challenge made in front of an audience. Instead he claimed that he was not ready to accept another handcuff challenge right then, but that if Houdini would return the following evening a contest would be arranged.”