The Ectoplasmic Man (6 page)

“Come along, Doctor,” Houdini prodded. “I believe you know the way.” Once again I climbed the steps to the stage. “Dr Watson,” said Houdini, leading me to the glass cabinet, “please examine the Water Torture Cell. Do you detect any false bottom or sliding panel through which I might escape?”

I shook my head.

“The panels are solid glass? The wood solid oak?”

I nodded.

“Thank you. Now please have a look at these foot manacles. My feet
will be locked into these wooden stocks and I will be lowered, head first, into the Water Torture Cell. The foot stocks will then be padlocked to the top of the cabinet and I will be helplessly suspended in the water. Have I explained this clearly? Have I made it” — he winked at the audience — “elementary?”

The audience laughed and a fresh wave of applause began, though how that word became so intimately associated with Holmes I do not know.

“Do you see any means by which I might free myself from the cabinet, Doctor?”

I shook my head once more.

“Would you care to try the escape yourself?”

I shook my head more vigorously, producing yet another wave of laughter.

“Thank you, Dr Watson. It is time now for the test to begin.” Two assistants came forward and fastened the heavy stocks to Houdini’s ankles. “For good measure,” said he, “I shall also wear these handcuffs. It is infinitely harder to escape from handcuffs when one is underwater. That, however, will be the least of my problems. Doctor, you and the audience may keep track of my progress by means of the large clock you see here. Gentlemen!”

A rope was attached to the foot stocks. Houdini was then hoisted up by the feet and dangled like a fish over the open cabinet of water.

“This ancient Hindu mystery,” Houdini proclaimed from his unusual vantage, “has not been performed on any stage for more than two centuries. I have brought the effect to England directly from Calcutta, where I was admitted to a holy council of elders that I might learn the treasured secret, or perish in the attempt! Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted, “I present the death-defying Water Torture Cell!”

The rope was cut and Houdini plunged head first into the cabinet.
Water spilled onto the stage as his assistants fastened the heavy stocks to the top of the cell, sealing Houdini within.

For thirty seconds Houdini merely hung suspended upside-down without acknowledging his predicament in any way. Then, quite suddenly, he began to squirm and twist as if trying to draw his manacled hands up to his feet.

A minute passed and I began to wonder how much longer Houdini could remain underwater, when, with a convulsive effort, he managed to free his hands from the manacles. The audience cheered as the open handcuffs drifted to the bottom of the tank, but it still remained for Houdini to free himself from the foot stocks and effect an escape from the cell.

It seemed like hours, but the large clock showed only two minutes when Houdini renewed his struggle. I knew that even a man of his extraordinary physical stamina could exert himself for only so long without oxygen. How much longer could he survive? Could this be the danger Mrs Houdini feared? I clenched my fists and waited.

Three minutes after entering the tank, Houdini’s actions began to grow feeble and desperate. “Free him, Watson!” shouted a voice from the audience. I looked to Houdini’s assistants. They were aware of the dilemma, but made no move to aid him. My heart pounded in my throat as I realised that Houdini’s life was in my hands.

Four minutes had passed. Houdini began to pound on the glass. By now the audience was in a frenzy. Men shouted, women screamed, and onstage the assistants darted about, whispering to one another, preparing to act. I feared that they would be too late. Houdini expelled a large cloud of bubbles and hung limp in the tank. Looking about for a heavy object, I chanced to see, leaning forward from one of the upper boxes, the face of Bess Houdini. In that face I beheld such a convulsion of terror that I was propelled, quite unthinkingly, into sudden and precipitous action.

Dashing to the wings I seized a fire axe. Franz, the impassive giant,
attempted to restrain me, but I broke free, rushed back onstage, and smashed open the cabinet. Water and glass flooded across the stage and into the orchestra pit. Houdini was barely conscious as Franz cut through the heavy manacles and lifted him to the stage.

“Get a doctor!” someone shouted.

“I am a doctor,” I replied. “Stand back! Give him room!”

Houdini raised his head and gestured weakly to the wings. “L-lower the curtain,” he gasped, his eyes closing.

Though I did not have my medical bag with me, I began to minister to Houdini as best I could. How could I have allowed this to happen? It was plain that the cell had been altered in some way, and now Houdini was on the brink of death. If I lost him, I thought grimly, I would not rest until I had discovered the agent of this outrage, with or without the aid of Sherlock Holmes.

A
N
A
STONISHING
R
ECOVERY

M
y bold resolves did not carry me very far, for no sooner was the curtain rung down than Houdini, miraculously recovered, leapt to his feet and seized me roughly by the lapels.

“Damn you, Watson,” he hissed, “did Holmes put you up to this?”

“Mr Houdini,” I stammered, “I thought you were in peril!”

“’In peril?’ In dire need of the trusty Dr Watson? I’ve done this escape hundreds of times, you idiot! The drowning business is part of the act!” He turned to the shattered glass cabinet and ran an exasperated hand through his wet hair. “Look at the Torture Cell! Who’s going to pay for this?”

Franz handed the magician a towel. “Your instructions, Mr Houdini?”

“We milk it. Wait five minutes, I stumble out looking weak. We leave the broken Torture Cell onstage for the rest of the show. Tomorrow’s papers will read: ’Houdini show goes on despite near tragedy’.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll clear this glass.”

“Your wife,” I said, falteringly, “she was terrified. I truly believed that you were drowning.”

“Bess always looks like that when I do the dangerous stuff. Get out of the way, Watson. Franz! We’ll go to Mummy’s Asrah; I’ll warm them with Needles and Thread. Charlie! Bring down the house lights. Signal the orchestra. Raise the — Lestrade, what are you doing here?”

In the midst of all this confusion, Inspector Lestrade had stepped boldly from the wings, followed by three large uniformed constables. “I wouldn’t raise that curtain if I were you, Mr Houdini,” he said.

“Charlie! Get this buffoon off the stage!” Houdini shouted, as if issuing another stage direction. “Take Watson too!”

“Mr Houdini!” cried Lestrade, puffing himself up. “You are addressing an officer of the law! Now, it is my duty to inform you that you are under arrest!”

“Yes, yes,” said Houdini, “I’m sure that’s very interesting, but I have a show to put on. We’ll discuss it later.”

“We’ll discuss it now,” said the inspector, placing a firm hand around Houdini’s arm. “You are hereby charged with crimes against the Crown!”

“Crimes against the Crown! What are you talking about?”

All at once the commotion onstage was stilled, and we could hear the sound of the still-distraught audience through the curtain. Lestrade, suddenly finding himself the centre of a great deal of attention, cleared his throat and withdrew a notebook from his breast pocket. “Let’s just be certain of our facts. You are Harry Houdini, the escape artist?”

Houdini, still wet from the Water Torture Cell, did not bother to reply.

Lestrade cleared his throat again. “Right. Last night your performance was attended by a party of government officials, which included His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales?”

“I had that honour.”

“And it had been arranged for you to entertain this party at a private reception following the performance?”

“That is correct.” Houdini shifted about uncomfortably. Through the
curtain we heard the din of the crowd growing louder.

“This reception was held at Gairstowe House, the government residence in Stoke Newington?”

“Is there a point to any of this? I’d like to continue with my performance.”

“The point is this, Mr Houdini: Last night a thief broke into the vault at Gairstowe House and stole an important package of documents, documents which compromise the security of His Majesty’s government. We have reason to believe that you are that thief.”

“That’s absurd!” cried Houdini. “Why that — you can’t possibly mean that! Houdini a thief? A spy? You’ve made a mistake!”

“Scotland Yard does not make mistakes, Mr Houdini” — Lestrade glanced briefly at me — “at least not in this case. The evidence is conclusive. You must come with me now. You will be held at the Yard until a trial is arranged.”

“I will be
held?
In one of your Scotland Yard cells? You must be joking.”

“We have made certain provisions,” Lestrade informed him. “You won’t be able to escape this time. Now come along with us, please.”

“But—”

Franz stepped quietly through the knot of assistants and stagehands gathered about Houdini and Lestrade and spoke urgently to his employer. “Sir, you must go on. The audience thinks you’ve drowned in the Torture Cell. You must do something.”

“Mr Lestrade,” said Houdini, “I’m afraid your little spy story will have to continue without me. I have an audience. Let’s go, everyone! Mummy’s Asrah! Charlie! The house lights! Signal—”

Two of Lestrade’s burly constables grasped Houdini by the arms. “No, Mr Houdini,” said the inspector, “not tonight. You will come with me. Now.”

“Look, Inspector, don’t you understand? They think I’ve drowned.” Houdini spoke as if explaining algebra to a very dull boy. “I must undo Watson’s blunder. We can’t have the British public thinking the Great Houdini was drowned in that ridiculous Water Torture Cell. Think of my reputation!”

“The British public may think what it likes. I wished to spare you the humiliation of being arrested onstage. We planned to make the arrest during the interval. But if you insist we shall announce to the public that you are being taken on suspicion of crimes against the Crown. Think of your reputation then, eh?”

The colour drained from Houdini’s face and he leaned heavily on the arm of Franz, who was still at his side awaiting instruction. News that the sun had been extinguished could not have had a more profound effect. “Franz,” he said quietly, “announce... announce that the Great Houdini is unable to complete his performance this evening, but that he invites the public to return at his expense. And Franz” — the young American stared significantly at Lestrade — “tell them to watch the newspapers for news of my greatest escape yet.”

With a slight smile, the only mirth I ever saw him betray, Franz bowed and stepped through the curtains. As we heard him address the audience in his clipped Germanic tones, Houdini writhed and grimmaced as if each word pierced his soul.

“My performance!” he moaned. “My career! All because of some idiotic policeman!”

“Inspector,” said one of the uniformed officers, “there’s a crowd of newspaper men out by the stage door. They must have gotten wind somehow.”

“All right,” said Lestrade. “We’ll wait until the theatre empties and take him through the front.”

“Harry! Harry, what is all this?” Bess Houdini had found her way
backstage and was clearly bewildered by what she found there. “Franz just cancelled the show! Are you all right? I thought you really
had
drowned! Who are these men?”

Slowly, painfully, Houdini explained to his wife that he was suspected of espionage and had been arrested. Neither of them seemed to comprehend how this could have happened. “Bess” — Houdini took her small hands in his — “it is the end of my career! After all those years in the dime museums, all those years we waited to strike it big... now what’s happened? How can this be?”

Bess Houdini cast a withering look at Inspector Lestrade. “You are the man who has charged my husband with this crime?”

Lestrade nodded.

“Do you believe that he is guilty?”

“I do.”

“Do you also believe in justice? That every man must be held accountable for his actions?”

“Indeed I do, and there is no higher justice in the world than that of a British jury.”

“There is one higher,” said Mrs Houdini, “and I would fear it if I were you, sir. Dr Watson?”

“Yes, Mrs Houdini?”

“Was my tale of this morning the prating of a deluded woman? I told you that some ill would befall my husband, and here we are. Where is the great Sherlock Holmes now?”

“I assure you, Mrs Houdini, if I have anything to say about it, Holmes will devote his full energies to the matter.”

“Thank you.”

“Wilkins!” Lestrade called to one of his constables. “Escort Mrs Houdini to her hotel.” One of the large officers took Mrs Houdini’s arm and began to lead her off the stage. “Is the theatre empty yet?” Lestrade
called to another of his men. “Where is that music coming from?”

“Wait!” cried Mrs Houdini, turning to her husband. “Harry! It will be all right! I will—” What happened next occurred very suddenly, and with no malice of intent, but as the officer gripped Mrs Houdini’s arm more firmly to hasten her off, the small woman stumbled and fell heavily to the stage. From where Houdini stood it must have looked as if the constable had shoved his wife to the ground, for he gave a cry of rage, pushed Lestrade aside and quickly dispatched Officer Wilkins with a blow across the chin. Another of Lestrade’s men spun Houdini about and landed a thudding blow to his abdomen. It was as solid a punch as I have ever seen, but it had no effect whatsoever on Houdini. He simply winked at the officer, spread his arms, and said, “Would you care to try again?”