The Floating Lady Murder (23 page)

She lifted her tea cup and studied me very carefully. “You’re a good deal more clever than you pretend to be, Mr. Hardeen.”

“You give me more credit than I deserve.”

“Perhaps.” She set the cup down and covered my hand with her own. “I suppose I’m feeling sorry for myself. As I said, I rather hoped that I might spend a year or two with Mr. Kellar.
Now, who can say? It hasn’t always been easy to find work, you know.”

“I’ve had some experience along those lines.”

“No doubt. But it is so much harder for a woman, I expect. At least you needn’t worry about lecherous advances from every booking agent and manager that you meet.”

“Seldom,” I agreed.

“I just couldn’t go back to the burlesque houses, Mr. Hardeen. I’d sooner pack my bag and go back to Illinois.” She withdrew her hand. “But there I go again, feeling sorry for myself. Perdita, you really have become the most extraordinary bore!”

“Perdita,” I said. “It’s quite an unusual name.”

“My father was quite a Shakespeare enthusiast. Do you remember
The Winter’s Tale
, Mr. Hardeen?”

“Dimly. Miss Becker was quite a demon for Shakespeare.”

“Miss Becker?”

“My seventh form instructor. I preferred the historicals. I found
Henry V
rather stirring.”

“I imagine you would have,” she said. “Once more unto the breach, dear Hardeen. God for Harry! England! And Saint George!” She smiled. “That’s you to the last detail, Mr. Hardeen.”

The conversation continued in this vein as I settled the bill and escorted her back out onto Broadway. She gripped my arm tightly as I helped her over the mounting drifts of snow, and laughed at my remarks with rather more energy than they deserved.

“Thank you again, Mr. Hardeen,” she said as we paused outside the Tilden. “You are quite possibly the most charming man in New York.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to my cheek, leaving me quite red-faced with surprise. “Oh, and don’t forget this,” she added, pressing the pocket square into my gloved hand.

“Er, Miss Wynn,” I began, suddenly tongue-tied, “I wonder if—that is—I wonder if—”

“Yes?”

“You’re quite fond of Shakespeare, are you?”

“Indeed, Mr. Hardeen.”

“Of course you are. I happened to note that there is a production of
Cymbelline
at the Lyric. I wondered if, by any chance, you might wish—”

“Yes, Mr. Hardeen?”

“I wondered if you might care to—”

“Dash! There you are!” My brother burst through the front doors of the hotel and hurried down the snow-covered steps. “Come along! We have urgent business this evening!”

“Urgent business? This evening?”

“Ah! Miss Wynn!” Harry lifted his hat as he joined us at the bottom of the steps. “You grow more radiant each time I see you.”

“How kind, Mr. Houdini.”

“Harry, this is not the ideal moment—”

“There has been a stunning turn of events!” Harry cried. “It concerns—” he glanced at Miss Wynn, measuring his words, “—it concerns our cousin Chester! You remember Chester, don’t you? Our cousin?”

“Yes, Harry,” I said evenly. “I remember Chester.”

“He requires our assistance at once! It is most urgent!”

“It sounds terribly serious,” said Miss Wynn. “I won’t detain you, Mr. Hardeen.”

“I—”

“Thank you again for the tea. It was very warming.” She took a step toward the front door of the hotel.

“Wait—”

She turned. “I understand that the tea at the Lyric is also quite good, Mr. Hardeen.”

I let my hands fall to my sides. “I’ve heard that as well,” I said.

“Next time, then.” She turned and climbed the rest of the stairs. “And Mr. Hardeen—” she called, pausing at the door.

“Yes?”

“Do give my best to your cousin Chester.”

12

“HARRY,” I SAID, “WHAT YOU’RE PROPOSING IS ILLEGAL. IF WE’RE
caught, we’ll go to jail.”

“Why should that trouble you?” my brother asked with a grin. “Jail cells have never held us before.”

“It would be different this time. If we broke out, they’d put us back in again. It could get tiring after a while.”

We were sitting over the remains of a light supper in Mother’s kitchen on East 69th Street. Harry had listened attentively as I reviewed my movements for the afternoon, and expressed little surprise that my search of the archive at the
World
had produced no revelations. “Dash gets these ideas in his head,” he told Bess. “Sometimes it’s best just to let him have his way.”

Harry’s own afternoon, as it turned out, had been no more fruitful. “Would you believe it?” he asked indignantly. “Mr. Servais Le Roy has never even heard of the Great Houdini!”

“Imagine,” I said.

“Will wonders never cease?” asked Bess.

“It seems that I am not the first member of the Kellar company to come looking for work, either,” Harry continued. “Can you imagine?”

“Who else?”

“Mr. Le Roy’s representative would not say, but clearly
there had been several. Mr. Kellar has not even announced his retirement yet, and already the members of his company are fleeing like rats. It offends my sense of decency!”

“Well, Harry,” said Bess, clearing away his dinner plate, “you were also there looking for employment.”

“Ah! But I was in disguise!”

“In disguise?”

“Well, I was acting in a confidential capacity. Yes. A confidential capacity. Behind enemy lines.”

“Harry, we don’t know that Mr. Le Roy is an enemy.”

“We do, Dash. Why else should he have hurried to New York with his version of the Floating Lady? How else could he have been ready with his posters and bookings?”

“Because he’s smart? Because he’s hoping to take advantage of all the publicity surrounding Mr. Kellar’s misfortune?”

“It is more than that. Far more. The man is a horrible ghoul, at the very least. Possibly he is much worse. We must discover whether his method of achieving the Floating Lady illusion is the same as our own.”

“What would that prove?”

“It would prove that he has a spy within the Kellar organization. And it would prove that he has a powerful motive for seeing the Kellar show closed for good.”

I lifted my spoon as Mother placed a shallow bowl of currant pudding before me. “Do you really suppose that any magician would stoop so low as to commit murder to drive a rival out of business?”

“Of course. Besides, who else would have been clever enough to manage it?”

“But if Mr. Le Roy is a murderer, as you seem to believe, why wouldn’t he simply kill Mr. Kellar? Wouldn’t that be rather more direct?”

Harry plunged a spoon into his currant pudding. “The publicity, of course! Mr. Kellar’s tragedy has generated a great deal of interest from the public. Mr. Le Roy’s ‘Mystery of Lhassa’
is certain to open to a sold-out house. This is far more valuable to him than the death of Kellar.”

“Harry,” said Bess, “you are being utterly absurd!”

“Am I? Well, we will know soon enough—as soon as we put my plan into effect.”

“Your plan is preposterous,” I said. “You’re suggesting that we—”

“—Steal Mr. Le Roy’s Floating Lady.” Harry spooned up a mouthful of pudding. “What’s so preposterous about that?”

“Where shall I begin?”

“Dash, it’s really very simple,” he said, as though explaining simple arithmetic to an especially dull pupil. “It is vital that we ascertain the method by which he intends to perform the Floating Lady. If it is the same as ours, then he has stolen it from us. One could hardly blame us if we should then take back what was ours to begin with.”

“Harry, you and I came up with the Kellar method in a single afternoon. Surely Mr. Le Roy might have hit upon the same method independently?”

“I find that very unlikely. The genius of Houdini is quite unparalleled.” He scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. “You know that I’m right, Dash. If Mr. Le Roy’s method is the same as ours, then he is surely our villain.”

“Why don’t we simply wait until tomorrow, buy a ticket, and enjoy his performance of the Floating Lady when the rest of New York City sees it—at his opening performance?”

“That will be too late. Jim Collins is to be formally charged with murder tomorrow. That is what I came to tell you at the hotel. I wish to prevent that from happening if at all possible. I grow more convinced of his innocence with each passing moment! So we must not delay. I have discovered that Le Roy’s apparatus is arriving this evening by train and will be stored in a holding facility at Grand Central. This is our opportunity.”

“Grand Central?”

“Yes. We cannot afford to dawdle. Tomorrow the apparatus
will be transferred to the Forsythe Theater and held under guard. I am going to infiltrate the Grand Central storage facility at 3:17 this morning. You are welcome to join me, but I am going in any case.”

“At 3:17? In the morning?”

“Or possibly 3:18. It may be dangerous, and the task would be considerably easier with your assistance.”

Bess, hovering behind Harry’s chair, fixed me with a pleading expression.

“You’re certain there’s no other way?”

“Do you believe that Jim Collins killed Francesca Moore?”

I sighed. “No,” I said. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

“Then there is no other way.”

“Very well, Harry,” I said with an air of resignation, “but if we’re caught, I’m going to insist on separate cells.”

In those days, the sumptuous Grand Central Terminal of today was still some years off. Mr. Vanderbilt’s smaller and far more modest structure occupied the site on 42nd Street. I can still recall the open cut of the railway tracks of the New York Central along Park Avenue, and the furor that attended the decision to charge them with electricity. Even then, the terminus was thriving with travelers, and it was already apparent that the needs of the city would soon necessitate a larger station.

Harry and I had elected to catch a few hours of sleep before setting off, so as to make our approach under cover of darkness. He insisted that we leave the flat at 2:30 precisely, so as to be “ready for curtain,” as he phrased it, at the appointed hour. Harry had also insisted that we don our special dark clothing, the remnants of our ‘Graveyard Ghouls’ act.

I felt that the attire made us more than usually conspicuous. “What are we supposed to say if we run into a roundsman?” I asked as we made our way down Park Avenue. “We might as well be wearing domino masks and carrying a bag marked ‘swag.’ ”

“You worry too much, Dash. I have decided that we won’t wear masks.”

“How prudent of you.”

“What’s the time?”

I hauled out my Elgin and peered at the face under a flickering street lamp. “Seven minutes before three,” I said. “Why are you marking the time so carefully?”

“Look,” he said, “there is the back gate of the station.” He pointed to a high brick wall topped with sharpened slatting. “Formidable, is it not?”

“Harry, we can’t climb that.”

“No, indeed. The front is just as heavily fortified.”

“What about the gates? Can we pick the locks?”

“Alas, no. There are guards posted at both entrances. They would surely object.”

“Then how are we supposed to get in?”

“What’s the time now?”

“Harry—”

“The time, Dash.”

“Five to three.”

“Good, there is just time enough. Come along, Dash.”

“But Harry, how are we supposed to—”

He put a finger to his lips. “Small steps, Dash. Everything in small steps.”

Twenty minutes later, a wagon rolled up to the rear gates of the station. It was a flat-back four-wheeler pulled by an aging draft horse named Bill. Heaped in the back was a pile of nine regulation U.S. Postal Service mailbags. Seven of them contained mail that would be shipped out by train in the morning. The other two contained the Brothers Houdini.

Harry managed it brilliantly, I have to admit. The previous afternoon, posing as an inspector from a mysterious “Weiss Agency,” he had quizzed the station guards about security practices and schedules. He quickly fastened on the nightly mail delivery as the weak link in an otherwise solid chain, and set
about devising a means of exploiting the fact. When he learned that Malachi, the delivery driver, generally stopped beside a briarberry bush at the corner of Madison and 43rd to perform a necessary, Harry’s plan fell into place. That morning, while Malachi attended to his business in the bushes, Harry and I scrambled onto the back of the cart. By the time our driver’s fly was buttoned, we had slipped into a pair of empty mail sacks.