The Ectoplasmic Man (9 page)

“Obviously. But what is truly suspicious is that there are no footprints leading to or away from this cluster. Could our muddy-footed thief simply have appeared directly in the centre of the room? And as to the mud itself, that is indeed peculiar. You are aware, Watson, that I have made a little study of the varieties of mud to be found about London. It is a useful knowledge for tracing one’s movements by the spots upon his trouser cuff. Yet I cannot place the origin of this mud.”

“Why, it is the mud from outside, surely,” volunteered Herr Osey.

“Surely. But where outside? Not on the grounds of this estate. Of that I am certain. When we have located the source of this mud we shall have gone a long way towards our solution, I assure you.” Holmes stood up and gazed vaguely about the room. “It was just the four of you, then?”

“Yes.”

“No one else came in or out?”

“Just the serving man.”

“Oh?”

“We had tea then, as well.”

“At that hour?”

“The prince enjoys it.”

“Quite right. I had forgotten. And when your business was concluded, the letters were surrendered and placed in the desk?”

“In this lower drawer.”

“Pardon me,” I ventured, “but am I to understand that the letters were left in an unlocked drawer? We were told that they were placed in a vault.”

Lord O’Neill could not resist chuckling at my confusion. “Dr Watson, this room is a vault.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Let me show you,” said Lord O’Neill, leading me into the narrow corridor through which we had entered. “See here,” he said, pulling aside
the oriental hangings to reveal, recessed into the wall itself, an enormous vault door and the rails upon which it ran.

“Exactly like a bank vault,” I said admiringly.

“Actually, my friend, it is considerably more secure,” said Lord O’Neill with pride. “There are three separate locking mechanisms contained in this door. One British, one American, and the third European, making this one of the most secure vaults in the Empire. So you see, as there are no other entrances to the room, and no windows through which a man might pass, any object left in this room is as good as in the bank.”

“Or so you thought,” remarked Herr Osey.

“Yes, or so we thought.”

“Well, do not despair,” said Holmes. “We have but a few questions and then Dr Watson and I shall make every effort to bring the matter to a happy conclusion. First, may we assume that no one can leave or enter the grounds of the estate without being observed by the guard?”

“Yes. There is a guard round the clock, and they keep an admitting list.”

“May we have a copy of the list for the evening of the reception?”

“I’ll have it drawn up immediately.”

“Please be certain that it includes any help you were required to lay on for the affair — kitchen staff, footmen and so on.”

“As you wish.”

“Fine. Now then, do you have a portrait of the Countess Valenka?”

“No, Mr Holmes. I do not.”

Herr Osey cleared his throat. “This may be of some use,” he said uneasily. He drew out his pocket-watch and opened it towards us. There on the inner cover was an ivory miniature of one of the most striking profiles I have ever seen.

“The countess gave this to me some time ago,” Herr Osey told us. “I realise that a photograph would be of more use to you, but—”

“Not at all, Herr Osey,” said Holmes as he bent over the miniature. “True, a photograph would have been more practical for purposes of identification, but this is informative nonetheless.” He glanced upward as Herr Osey closed up his watch and replaced it in his waistcoat pocket. “Yes, well. Humph. Where may we call upon the countess?”

“She is staying at the Cleland.”

“Very good. We shall be on our way, then. Our first order of business is to exculpate Mr Houdini, then we shall call upon the Countess Valenka. Good day, gentlemen.”

“Mr Holmes,” said Lord O’Neill, “we are considerably less interested in the innocence or guilt of Mr Houdini than in the recovery of the stolen letters.”

“Yes,” agreed Herr Osey, “let that be your first consideration.”

Sherlock Holmes picked up his hat and stick, and, striding blithely past the vault door, affected not to hear.

^*
The Holmes stories were originally illustrated for The Strand Magazine by Sidney Paget, who drew from a model considerably handsomer than Holmes.

H
OUDINI
B
OUND

S
herlock Holmes makes it a point never to discuss a case while it is in progress. I say that this reticence is but vain posturing on his part, satisfying that peculiar love of the dramatic which has made his investigations so notable. Holmes insists that he merely wishes to avoid idle speculation which might bias his conclusions. Whatever the reason, this refusal to deliberate is one of his least endearing fancies, and try as I might as we left Stoke Newington, I could not persuade him to answer any of my questions. Indeed, all the way to Baker Street it seemed that he would talk of nothing but haemoglobin.

“Mark my words, Watson,” said he, “we shall soon see police investigators all over the world locked in their laboratories, bent over microscopes to look at haemoglobin. It is inevitable.”

“Do you truly believe that bloodstains are more useful to criminologists than, say, footprints?” I asked, attempting to draw him out on the Gairstowe problem.

“Decidedly,” he answered. “Once the full properties of haemoglobin are known and understood, the traditional methods of tracing criminals
will be abandoned as musty relics. I have known it for years.”

“Surely not footprints!” I persisted. “Such as the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study? Won’t these footprints be of use to you in this case?”

“Footprints! Footprints are boorish clues, Watson! See how easily a mind such as Lestrade’s is led astray by them! Haemoglobin affords the analytic precision of modern science, whereas a footprint is subject to any number of variants. A footprint may expand or contract, or be trod upon by one of Lestrade’s henchmen—”

“But surely the traditional methods of crime detection may be reconciled with the advantages of the laboratory? For example, if you were able to analyse the unusual mud used to make the prints—?”

“No, no, good fellow. That small irregularity would in no way be illuminated in the laboratory. Now, if the thief had been so obliging as to leave a bit of haemoglobin—”

“Holmes! You are insufferable! Will you tell me nothing about the Gairstowe matter?”

“My dear Watson, the facts — such as they are — are all before you.”

“But I can make nothing of them.”

“Nothing, Watson? Can this be the man whose natural wit and perspicacity are the delight of millions? You have seen all that I have seen, but you have not observed. Think, Watson! Cudgel your brain!”

“Well,” I began, endeavouring to employ my friend’s celebrated logic, “whoever stole these letters must have known of their existence in advance. This limits our suspects considerably.”

“Excellent!” cried Holmes. “Proceed.”

“The thief must have been connected with the diplomatic party in some way, to have gained access to Gairstowe House. Either as a guest or an employee.”

“You surpass yourself! Pray continue.”

“Further,” I went on, much pleased with my companion’s enthusiasm,
“he would have to possess the remarkable ability to penetrate what is, in effect, a bank vault.”

“Marvellous!” cried Holmes, applauding vigorously. “You have painted a precise portrait of our suspect. I must say, Watson, that if I find one fault in these chronicles which you occasionally lay before the public, it is that you often flatter me by making yourself appear dim-witted in comparison. You are far too modest concerning your own gifts.”

“Why Holmes,” I said, deeply moved, “these are kind words indeed!”

“Yes, while it is true that you have taken a somewhat rudimentary view and perceived only that which is painfully obvious, you have nonetheless provided a succinct and functional summary.”

“But—”

“Come now, Watson. If we base our speculations on the facts as you have just outlined them, who must our prime suspect be? Who had both the opportunity and the ability?”

“Houdini,” I admitted sheepishly.

“Precisely. And what place does Kleppini, who was in no way connected with the gathering at Gairstowe, have in your summary?”

“None,” I said.

“Exactly. But do not despair. The matter is quite complicated. I believe that even my brother, Mycroft, has failed to recognise the true depth of this problem. And if we should fail...” His voice trailed off.

“Holmes,” I persisted, “what if we
should
fail? Suppose the letters were to become public?”

“At best, a dark and protracted scandal. But at a time when succession seems so close, and relations with Germany are so strained—”

“Then we must recover the letters,” I said resolutely. “It is not the first time we have averted a royal scandal.
^*
Where shall we begin?”

“We shall begin, stout fellow, by leaving you off at Baker Street. There are one or two small points which I must look into on my own.”

“But Holmes—”

“It won’t do, Watson. This is one of those rare occasions when your presence would be a hindrance.”

“But what are you going to do? Will you see the countess?”

“The countess? No, decidedly not, Watson. Not without you. The countess is a woman. I should be foolish indeed to interview a woman without availing myself of your natural gifts.” He chuckled merrily to himself. “In fact, I was on the point of suggesting that you pay a call on the countess in my absence.”

“Me? What would I say to her?”

“Take her measure, Watson. Uncover her true motives with that quiet, fascinating charm of yours. See if you can’t discover what really happened between her and the prince. And more importantly, I must know whether or not she still cares for him. Only then will we know if we are dealing with a blackmailer or a jealous lover.”

“All right,” I nodded, “I’ll go straight away.”

“Ah, wait,” Holmes said as a new thought struck him, “if I may impose still further upon your good nature, I suggest that you first go to see how Houdini is getting on at the Yard. Remind him of his pledge to remain there. I fancy that by this time he is, shall we say, fit to be tied.”

In fact, that expression proved more accurate than Holmes could have imagined, for I arrived at Scotland Yard to find Houdini not only tied, but chained and manacled as well. Evidently, Lestrade had realised that merely confining Houdini in a cell was not sufficient proof against escape. Accordingly, I found Houdini tied to a chair with a length of rope which had been looped about his body so many times as to resemble the shroud of an Egyptian mummy, leaving only his head exposed. Over this cocoon were wound several lengths of steel chain, tightly fastened by several
formidable padlocks, and finally, to all this was added several of the heavy leather straps used to restrain madmen. Any of these restraints would have sufficed, so that the layering of them was stifling and uncomfortable, and, in Houdini’s case, humiliating.

“Dr Watson,” said the unfortunate man, managing a weak smile, “forgive me if I don’t get up.”

“Mr Houdini!” I cried angrily, gripping the small barred window of his cell. “This treatment is outrageous! It is unnecessarily severe! I shall speak to Lestrade at once!”

“Don’t bother, Doctor,” said Houdini with a bitter laugh, “Bess is with him now. Believe me, if she cannot move him, he has a heart of stone.”

“It simply is not decent that you should be treated in this way,” I insisted.

“Well, it
is
unnecessary,” he sighed listlessly. “I told them I would not escape. Houdini always keeps his word. If I wanted to escape, Dr Watson, these little annoyances wouldn’t stop me.”

It was a noble sentiment, and bravely spoken, but Houdini could muster only a trace of his former conviction. Seeing him thus, helpless and dispirited, eyes glazed and expressionless, I was reminded of a bird of prey when its wings are clipped for sport. I should have preferred his customary overweeningness to this, for now, bereft of his fire and dignity, Houdini had become the palest shadow of a man.

At that moment the far door to the cell block was opened and Bess Houdini was shown in by the duty constable. “Harry,” she called, rushing over to her husband’s cell, “Harry, I have done my best, but that Lestrade is impossible. He insists that you will escape if he lets you up. I told him that you gave your word, but he said that your word meant nothing to him. I gave him a good piece of my mind for that, I can tell you!”

Houdini stared down at the floor.

“Dr Watson,” said the small woman, turning to me, “this business
hasn’t gotten into any of the newspapers, has it? Harry would be ruined. A performer must guard his reputation offstage as well as on. Any stain or suspicion of misconduct sets everyone whispering. If this gets out Harry’s career is finished, whether Holmes clears his name or not.”

“There hasn’t been a word in any of the newspapers.”