The Floating Lady Murder (17 page)

Harry did not appear to be listening. “You say she was wearing the safety harness?” he asked Collins.

“Of course.”

“And it was properly attached?”

“I helped her with it myself. Of course she might have unfastened it after I left, but I can’t imagine why she would have done so.”

“How does this harness work?” Lieutenant Murray asked.

“It’s just a safety wire attached to a pair of crossed leather straps,” Harry explained. “Many trapeze artists use them. It’s supposed to catch the performer in case of slips. Here, I’ll show you—”

“Harry!” I cried. “Don’t—”

“Houdini! What are you—?”

My brother was making out over the open drop toward the narrow platform, travelling across the black rope ladder as easily as if he were climbing a set of stairs. “I’m merely demonstrating how the harness should have worked, Lieutenant,” said my brother carelessly. “It’s easier this way.”

“Harry,” I insisted, “you saw what happened this evening! The platform may not be safe!”

“That may be true,” he returned, “and what better way to find out? Now, Lieutenant, what you must understand is that Miss Moore was wearing a harness beneath her costume, and there was a safety wire attached to one of the supports, like so.” Harry peeled off his suit coat and unbuttoned his leather braces, threading them in a loop around one of the four support wires. “Now, Dash, if you’d be so good as to toss me your braces, I’ll show the Lieutenant how the harness would have been fastened.”

“Harry, this is a ridiculous—”

“Do it, Hardeen,” the lieutenant said. “This is getting interesting.”

I shrugged and stripped off my coat, removing my braces with one hand while I gathered the waistband of my baggy trousers with the other. “Here you go, Harry.”

“Thanks, Dash. Now I’ll—good God!”

“Harry! No!” I reached forward as he lost his footing on the narrow planking, tumbling forward into the empty space
high above the audience seats. For a ghastly moment he flailed helplessly in mid-air with one arm, but an instant later he caught himself with the makeshift safety wire he had fashioned from his leather braces. “You see?” he called up as his feet dangled in the empty space below the dome. “I’m perfectly safe!”

“That was a damned reckless thing to do, Houdini!” cried Collins, whose face had turned a sickly green. “Especially after what’s happened!”

“Not at all,” said Harry, hauling himself back up onto the platform. “I was never in danger so long as I held onto the strap. That’s what doesn’t make sense about this evening’s tragedy. If the harness was fastened, she couldn’t have fallen. The safety wire would have saved her. She didn’t even need to hold on.”

I turned to the lieutenant. “My brother’s methods may be a bit dramatic, but he’s absolutely correct. The wire should have caught her when she slipped off the platform.”

Lieutenant Murray turned to Collins. “You saw her attach the wire?”

He nodded. “I did. It fastens with a spring-loaded clip.”

“The clip is still attached to the harness,” Harry said, anticipating the lieutenant’s next question. “It seems to be in perfect working order. Somehow the precautions failed.”

“But how?” Collins asked. “We went over it dozens of times!”

Harry’s face clouded. “I wish I knew.”

“Maybe she unfastened the harness for some reason,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe she was having some sort of trouble.”

“It’s possible,” said Harry, crawling back across the rope ladder to join us on the catwalk, “but—”

A voice from below interrupted him. “For God’s sake, Houdini! Get down off of there!”

“Who’s that?” asked Lieutenant Murray, pointing over the edge of the catwalk at the figure glaring up at us from the center aisle.

“That’s Mr. McAdow,” I said. “Mr. Kellar’s business manager.”

Lieutenant Murray watched as McAdow climbed onto the
stage and began speaking to Kellar, his hands cutting sharply through the air as he spoke.

“I guess I’d better have a word with him,” the lieutenant said. “I’ve seen just about all I’m going to see from here.”

“But why do you want to speak to Mr. McAdow?” my brother asked. “What about Miss—?”

Lieutenant Murray held up his palm to cut Harry off. “Please, Houdini. You’ve been very helpful, but this is a police matter.”

“But—”

“It’s a matter of routine, Houdini. I need to speak with everyone present.”

“Come on, Harry,” I said. “We’d better check and see how Bess is doing.”

Lieutenant Murray waited while Collins and Harry ducked through the low hatchway. As I made to follow, he reached out and grabbed my elbow. “Hardeen,” he whispered with a sudden urgency, “what do you know about that guy Collins?”

“Collins? Not much, I—”

“Anything queer about him?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so. He seems very trustworthy.”

“But he was alone up here with Miss Moore? Just before she fell?”

“Yes, but only because he wasn’t needed on stage just then. It could just as easily have been me or Harry.”

Collins poked his head back through the hatchway. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”

“No,” said the lieutenant with an airy nonchalance. “I was just admiring the view.” He ducked his head and climbed back onto the staircase.

We followed Collins past the office suites until we were once again in the theater lobby. While Harry went off to find Bess, Lieutenant Murray pushed through the studded leather doors that opened into the house and strolled down the center aisle, his hands in the pockets of his suit. He looked very much like a man who had concluded his work. “Mr. Kellar?” he called when
he had reached the stage steps. “Might I have a word?”

“Mr. Kellar has no statement at this time,” said McAdow stiffly. “He will answer all inquiries through his attorneys.”

“Dudley,” said Kellar wearily, “don’t be ridiculous. I intend to cooperate with the police in every way I possibly can. How can I help you, young man?”

Lieutenant Murray mounted the steps and pulled out his notebook. I listened as he posed the same set of questions he had asked me, taking careful note of where Kellar had been standing, and whether he had noticed anything unusual in the moments leading up to the accident. After marking down Kellar’s replies, the lieutenant turned to McAdow. “Your overcoat is covered with snow,” the lieutenant noted. “You weren’t here for the performance this evening, sir?”

“I was not,” McAdow answered. “What possible difference would that have made?”

“None, I’m sure, but—”

“I have had the honor of serving as Mr. Kellar’s business manager for nearly seventeen years. In that time I have had the pleasure of watching him perform many thousands of times. You cannot imagine that I am present at each and every—”

“Tonight was a big night, wasn’t it?” Lieutenant Murray interrupted. “I mean, unveiling this big new trick, right? But I guess you had some urgent business elsewhere.”

“If you are suggesting—”

“Mr. McAdow generally leaves the magic side of things to me,” said Kellar. “And I leave the business end to him. So you would do well to direct all questions about tonight’s misfortune to me. I bear sole responsibility for this tragedy.”

Lieutenant Murray scratched lazily at the back of his head. “It’s funny. People are just about tripping over themselves in the rush to take the blame for this thing. Houdini. Collins. Hardeen, here. You, Mr. Kellar. Isn’t it possible that nobody’s to blame?”

“Miss Moore came to harm under my care,” Kellar said. “It was I who placed her in harm’s way, and it is I who must bear the burden.”

Lieutenant Murray snapped his notebook shut. “Have it your way,” he said. “Naturally I’ll want to hear what the doc has to say in his final report, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he points me toward death by misadventure.”

“Death by misadventure?” I asked.

“An accident,” he clarified.

“But the safety harness?”

“Maybe it came loose. Or maybe she never fastened it in the first place.”

“Collins says she did.”

“Maybe so, maybe not.” He leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “Say, Hardeen, do you happen to know if Collins and this Miss Moore, by any chance were they, uh, were they—”

“Not that I’ve heard, Lieutenant.”

“And what about your brother? He seems to be taking this awfully hard. Were he and Miss Moore—”

“Certainly not.”

“I suppose not,” the lieutenant said. “Not with the wife watching over him morning, noon and night. All right,” he turned back to Kellar. “I’ll be in touch in the morning to wrap up the details. I would ask you not to speak to the press until then.”

“I will not be speaking to the press at all,” said Kellar listlessly. “Perhaps never again.”

“Just don’t speak to them tonight or tomorrow. I take it I can reach you at your hotel?”

Kellar nodded.

“Fine. Hardeen, I suggest that you take your brother home and pour him a stiff drink.”

“If only he would drink it,” I replied.

“Well, maybe you should have it for him, then.” The lieutenant moved off to see how Dr. Peterson was proceeding.

“Dudley,” said Kellar after a moment, “dismiss the company.
Mr. Hardeen, may I presume upon you and your brother to join me in my dressing room?”

Harry and I put Bess in a cab as the rest of the crew dispersed. Collins and Valletin invited us to join them at the hotel bar, but we begged off with an excuse about answering further questions for the lieutenant. I couldn’t be certain what Mr. Kellar wished to see us about, but it seemed pointless to excite further speculation among the other members of the company.

Harry and I circled around to the back of the theater and made our way to Mr. Kellar’s spacious dressing room. We found the magician seated on a wicker stool, removing his make-up with the help of a large lighted mirror. McAdow was hovering at his shoulder as we entered, speaking in insistent tones. “But there’s no reason for that, Henry!” McAdow was saying. “No reason at all! You’re being too hasty!”

“My mind is set upon the matter,” Kellar said as he caught sight of us in the mirror. “Gentlemen, do sit down.”

Harry and I perched on a leather chaise longue. Naturally I felt curious to hear whatever Kellar might say. My brother, on the other hand, might just as well have been locked away in his substitution trunk. His features were still pale and grim, and he stared at the opposite wall as though hoping it might fall on him.

“Harry,” McAdow continued as if we weren’t there, “think of the enormous sums of money involved! I’ve made deposits on theaters! I’ve signed contracts in seven languages! We must go on! We must!”

Mr. Kellar wiped his face with a towel and turned away from the mirror. “Dudley, I am resolved. Mr. Houdini, Mr. Hardeen, as you may have gathered, I have elected to cancel the remainder of the tour.”

Harry nodded slowly, but did not speak. “Mr. Kellar,” I said, “Lieutenant Murray seems to feel that tonight’s tragedy may have been an accident. I know that we are all shocked beyond
expression, but I think it would be unwise to make such a decision until we have all had a chance to recover our senses. You are far too upset.”

“Listen to the boy,” said McAdow. “He’s talking sense. Certainly we must go dark for at least a week, out of respect for Miss Moore. But what you’re suggesting is nothing short of—”

“I am retiring from the stage,” said Kellar. “I have given my final performance.”

“Henry!” cried McAdow. “You can’t! You’ll be ruined!”

“I am already ruined,” said Kellar. “This disaster will haunt me until the end of my days. My glories as a performer will be forgotten, and I will be relegated to a grim footnote in history as the man who killed the Floating Lady.”

“Ludicrous!” cried McAdow. “You will see reason in the morning, I assure you!”

“It is only now that I have come to my senses,” Kellar insisted. “I should have known enough to call a halt the other day—after Boris escaped. Miss Moore would still be alive, and I might have preserved something of my professional dignity.”

I leaned forward. “Sir,” I began, “when we spoke aboard the train the other day, you mentioned a series of accidents that had plagued the show. You seemed to feel that some member of the company had contrived to set these accidents in motion, possibly to force you to close the show before you were able to perfect the Floating Lady illusion. Do you believe that this same person—whomever it might have been—was responsible for tonight’s tragedy?”

“In a sense, Mr. Hardeen.” Kellar stood and walked to an occasional table where a number of wooden boxes were arranged. “I’m afraid I was not entirely candid with you the other day.”

“How do you mean?”

“The truth is that I should have been able to predict every last thing that happened here tonight. I suppose I hoped that you and your brother might help to forestall the inevitable.”

McAdow wrinkled his forehead. “You’re speaking in circles, Henry.”

“You don’t understand, Dudley. You couldn’t possibly understand. You see, this has happened before. Every last bit of it.”

“What can you mean?”

Kellar picked up a silver memory frame and snapped it open. For a moment his eyes rested on the daguerreotype inside. “My mentor. The Wizard of Kalliffa. Duncan McGregor. This was made during his prime, but already one senses an air of gathering doom.” He turned the frame towards us. Although I had seen an oil portrait of the man in Mr. Kellar’s parlor car, the daguerreotype seemed to capture some quality of inexpressible sadness that I had not noticed before.

“I told you that it was his lifelong dream to perform the Floating Lady illusion,” Kellar continued, “but it would perhaps have been more accurate to say that it became his obsession. His life had been a very comfortable one. His services were in demand. His home life was contented. His reputation with the public was of the very highest order. All of this changed, however, as his preoccupation with the levitation took hold. The quality of his performances began to slip. He let things run down. He could scarcely wait to get off stage each night to resume his work on the levitation.”

Kellar dabbed at a patch of rouge on his cheek. “I did what I could to keep the show on its feet, but Mr. McGregor’s neglect began to take its toll. Soon, every performance was marked by some minor mishap. A trained bird would die. A prop would break during a performance. A costume would go missing. At first, it all seemed very much a matter of routine, the sorts of things that will bedevil any large enterprise. Over time, however, the mishaps became more grave. An assistant suffered a terrible broken leg. A sandbag came down during a performance, nearly striking a spectator. We began to acquire a reputation for calamity. At first there was only a half-seriousness to it, a sort
of gallows humor in which we all shared. ‘Beware the curse of Kalliffa,’ we would say. Soon there came a time when we could no longer afford to be so cavalier. Theatrical managers began to fight shy of us. Our receipts dropped off. Mr. McGregor, who had been an abstemious man, began to console himself with alcohol, and from that point forward our decline grew even more precipitous.”