Who Done Houdini (19 page)

“Where is it?”

“Just a few miles from here. Near Framingham.”

 

Chapter 28

T
he kidnappers' 1925 Pontiac hummed nicely on six cylinders as we motored along over Route 9. The snow of the preceding night lay melting on the roadway, water standing in the centers of slushy auto tracks. What ice there had been had melted to slush, so our breakneck fifty-mile-per-hour speed presented no hazard of driving off the road.

Mr. Holmes would be pleased with my plan.

“Turn left at the next road,” Max said. He had sat quietly next to Rose the entire trip. I didn't doubt he was giving me good directions.

I reluctantly slowed. I loved the power of the six-cylinders. No other passenger car had more cylinders than the Pontiac. The difference in the ride compared to our four-cylinder Chevrolet amazed me.

I made the turn and immediately wished I'd been going slower. We hit a water-filled rut and bounced. I barely missed banging my head on the ceiling.

“Are you all right, Rose?”

“I'm fine. Do drive slower. No one's going anywhere at the farm.”

“Sorry.” The automobile pulled to the right as I put on the brakes. “How much farther is it?”

“The next farmhouse on the left.”

In the distance I saw a stone wall, typical of New England farmsteads. My heart beat faster as we approached the breach in the wall. What would we find? Max swore Mr. Holmes and Rose were unharmed when he and Schmidt had left for Boston three hours before.

I slowed to a crawl, then stopped. Narrow tracks, undoubtedly from the Essex, led into the yard.

“What do we do now?” Rose asked.

Instead of answering, I got out and moved next to stone fence. When I got to the driveway, I peeked around.

The two-story wooden farmhouse, resting on the same type of stone used in the walls surrounding the farm, stood eerily quiet. The Essex, if anywhere around, was out of sight. A thin wisp of maple-scented smoke trickled out of the chimney.

One thought filled my mind.
Was Becker waiting in the house?

I turned and stared Max in the eye. “Is anyone here?”

“Herr Becker was here when we left.”

“Was the Essex here, too?”

“Yes. It was parked beside the house.”

Taking another peek around the edge, I tip-toed inside the wall. Three large pine trees provided a modicum of cover, and I used them to scurry to the edge of the house. I pressed my ear against the side of the building and listened.

Nothing but the wind.

I followed the wall to the other end of the house. The Essex was nowhere to be seen.

Had Becker flown the coop?

I allowed my tension to ease and cautiously made my way to the door. Laying an ear against it, I listened for sounds of movement inside.

Silence.

Taking a deep breath, I fished the picks out my pocket and inserted them into the lock. The mechanism was rusty and wouldn't move. But I knew how to fix that. I returned to the car and lifted the hood. I knew where to look for the oil cap and unscrewed it.

I opened the rear door next to Rose. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

She handed her purse to me, and I quickly found what I was looking for. Dipping it into the well, I covered the end with motor oil.

I set the purse next to her and headed for the house. Wiping each pick with oil, then daubing the rest into the mechanism through the keyhole, I went to work on the lock once more. The tumblers fought me valiantly, but the picks finally prevailed.

I cautiously opened the door. The house was dark, lit only by the light through the windows. Nothing stirred.

About to call out, I thought better of it. Someone could be lurking in the shadows.

Taking three soundless steps forward brought me into a kitchen. I paused. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw an upraised fireplace iron ready to crash into my skull.

I dropped to the floor and rolled to my back to kick.

“Wiggins?”

“Holmes! For God's sake, what are you doing?”

Mr. Holmes bent over me. “I do apologize. I had no idea it was you.”

He gave me a hand to help me to my feet.

“How did you get free?” I asked.

“Herr Schmidt didn't tie the ropes tight enough. You didn't actually believe I'd calmly submit to my captors, did you?”

I got my first look at him. Even in the dim light I could see blood had congealed on the right side of his face, staining his collar and cheek a darker color, and leaving his pompadour plastered against the side of his head. And he was sporting what is popularly called a shiner. “Did Becker do that to you?”

“No. The one called Hahn did. I haven't seen Herr Becker. My head's a bit sore, but I don't think anything's scrambled inside. Otherwise, I'm in fine fettle, if a bit short of breath. I'm very pleased to see you escaped unscathed.”

“I am too. How is Violet?”

“Frightened, but otherwise unharmed.”

“Where is she?”

“In the bedroom. This way.”

Violet lay face down and gently snoring, her arms tied behind her back and her feet lashed together.

Near tears, I bent down, giving her shoulder a gentle shake as I kissed her neck.

She sighed, then her eyelids fluttered. Turning her head, her eyes opened wide. “Timothy? Is it really you?”

“Yes, my love. It's me. Are you all right?”

“Yes, but my arms and shoulders are sore, and my feet are numb.”

Holmes handed me a long-bladed knife. It wasn't sharp, but with some strenuous work I cut through the rope and freed her arms. She rolled to her back, reached up to encircle my head and pulled, nearly breaking my neck. “I knew you'd come to rescue me.”

“I could think of nothing else. Now let me untie your feet.”

“I'll do that, Wiggins. Contact the Framingham police.”

“Good idea. Neither of you saw Becker?”

“No,” Holmes said. “I thought I heard his voice. He must have left while I was sleeping.”

The phone was the old-fashioned wooden-box-and-crank type hanging on a wall near the kitchen. Most of them had been replaced with the modern rotor dial models, but this was the second one I had seen in two days. I hadn't seen any in Detroit for years, but I still remembered how to use one. Holding the receiver against my ear, I turned the crank.

“Operator,” a female voice squawked.

“Good morning. Please connect me with the Middlesex police.”

“Who are you? You're not Isaac Bradford.”

“You're right. This is an emergency.”

“I'll get Sheriff Pibbidy for you.”

The sheriff answered on the second ring.

“Someone's calling from Isaac's house,” the operator said. “He says it's an emergency.”

“Who is this, and what are you doing in Isaac Bradford's house? He's in England.”

“It's too hard to explain over the phone. How does kidnapping sound to you.”

“I'll be right over. You can hang up now, Bernice.”

I heard a second click as I replaced the receiver. I was immediately attacked by a sobbing Violet, who threw her arms around me and squeezed for dear life. I gave her a hug and a proper kiss, but she wouldn't let go. I felt her blond hair, her most prized possession, hanging in sweaty strings against my face. It never looked or smelled more beautiful to me.

“Rose is still in the auto,” I said, untangling myself from my beloved's grasp. “Why don't you get her? She must be freezing.”

 

With Max safely lashed
to
a chair, the rest of us were warming ourselves around the well-stoked wood stove when the sheriff arrived.

I unlocked the door for him, and he shuffled in.

I guessed my summons had interrupted his breakfast, because his salt and pepper mustache had bits of egg yolk stuck to it. The zipper of his puffy red coat was open, and his buckle galoshes dripped water on the bare floor. “Good morning. I'm Sheriff Peabody. What's this about a kidnapping?”

“This is Max Hahn,” I said, pointing. “He's one of the two who kidnapped my wife and my friend out of a limousine in Boston. His partner is out cold in a room at the Park Hotel.”

“I saw the bulletin about a kidnapping in Boston when I went into the office this morning. I just figured it was the work of Frankie Wallace.”

I knew Frank Wallace was the head of the Gustin Gang, Boston's version of the Purple Gang. Both were ethnic groups. The Purple Gang was Jewish, Wallace and company Irish. From what I had read, the Gustins were more interested in hijacking trucks and running rum than kidnapping, but I was sure they were capable of snatching someone off the street, if properly motivated.

“You made a reasonable assumption, but Frank Wallace isn't involved. Albert Becker, a phony medium from Detroit, is the ringleader. We exposed him, and now he wants revenge. Who owns this house?”

“Isaac Bradford. This is one of the original Danforth Farms Thomas Danforth sold in 1660. One of Isaac's ancestors was on the Mayflower.”

What would he have to do with Albert Becker? I couldn't even imagine.
“I think you said he was in England.”

“With his girlfriend,” the sheriff said, nostrils flaring. “She goes around in public in dresses halfway up her thighs and necklines so low they barely cover her nipples. More makeup than a Ringling Brothers clown. Isaac just bought a new flivver to please her, and now he's spending all the rest of his savings on an expensive trip. She has to be at least forty years younger than he is. Everybody tells him she's just a golddigger, but he won't listen. Says he loves her and she loves him. She says it was in the stars they'd finally meet.”

I smiled. “Of course. Do you know where they met?”

The sheriff brushed his chin with a hand. “Not around here, that's for sure. From what I hear it was at a séance in Boston. Isaac's wife, Rachel, died about ten years ago. Isaac said he kept getting a strong feeling she was trying to contact him. He went to see some woman in Boston who people say talks to the dead. That's where he met Junie. After that, Isaac, Junie, the woman who put on the séance, and the woman's husband got to be pretty tight.”

“You mentioned he just bought a new motorcar,” Holmes said. “Do you know what make?”

“No, but it's brand new. Black. I'm surprised it isn't here.”

“I think I know what happened to it,” I said. “Was the woman who put on the séance named Margery?”

“Dunno. I never heard her name.”

“One of the kidnappers is a friend of her husband. Do you have any idea why Isaac would have let the kidnappers use his house?”

“I'm not sure even Isaac knows the answer to that. He isn't thinking very straight anymore, but I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he doesn't know anything about it.” The sheriff squinted. “Tell me. How'd you get into the house? The front door has a deadbolt.”

“One of the windows wasn't locked,” I said. Too quickly, I'm sure.

The squint turned into a scowl. “You let me in through the door. Someone had to have unlocked it.”

Suddenly, everything right had gone terribly wrong. Like a Tigers' game I saw with my son last summer. Ahead of the Yankees by four runs in the top of the ninth, a couple of walks, a swing of the bat by Gehrig and another one by Ruth and we lost six to five.

The sheriff's scowl got deeper. “Well?”

“Okay, I picked the lock. I'm a crime reporter with the
Detroit Free Press,
and the police taught me how to do it. Albert Becker tried to kill my wife and me at a theatre in New York. Then he kidnapped my wife and friend on the street in Boston. Fortunately, I got away.”

He didn't look any happier. “Is that so?”

I fumbled for my wallet and took out my press card. The sheriff glanced at it without changing expression.”

“Call the New York police. Better still, call the Boston police. They'll have to come to pick up Max, anyway. They'll confirm my story. I know I should have called you first, but I was nearly crazy worrying about my wife. I just saved you having to knock the door down or break a window to get in.”

The silence became unbearable. I half expected him to arrest me.

Instead, he nodded. “Okay. I'll have someone come and lock up. I really should confiscate those picks. You may try to use them again.”

I could imagine the explaining I'd have to do when I pulled Houdini's false finger out of my pocket.

The sheriff sighed. “Tell you what. I'll save the county some money. I'll let you lock the door when we leave.”

 

Chapter 29

S
heriff Peabody marched Max to the door. “I'll be back to drive you to Boston after I've put Mr. Hahn behind bars. In the meantime, make yourselves at home. I'm sure Isaac won't mind.”

We intended to do just that.

Holmes, Rose, and I found places around the pot-bellied stove and soaked in the warmth while Violet puttered in the kitchen, going through the ancient pantry. Lost in thought, Holmes sat a short distance away with unlit pipe in mouth, and Rose next to him paging through her notes from her phone calls.

“Your impromptu meeting with Mrs. Croydon sounds very interesting,” Holmes said in a desultory tone. “Her offer of a séance is just the opening we need. Maybe Walter can tell us where Albert Becker's hiding.”

I snorted. “Why don't we just ask him who poisoned Harry Houdini while we're at it?”

His eyebrows raised, puzzled. “Why not? That's an excellent idea.”

“You're serious, aren't you? The only real benefit I can see in a séance is that it'll give us a chance to meet Doctor Croydon.” I squinted at what he said next. “I'm surprised you have such a limited imagination. That's not the Wiggins I remember patrolling the London streets. Certainly you must see it'll also give us an opportunity to find out about Dr. Crookes's visit. That's the only direct link we have to Thallium so far.”

“That's true,” I said with a scowl, deciding to be angry rather than embarrassed. Holmes certainly had his nerve. “Anything else?”

“A séance will loosen tongues that aren't usually speaking at all. Imagine the benefits we can glean from that.”

“Sorry, I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

“Come, Wiggins. All you have to do is think.”

Obviously noticing my expression, he gave me a hearty pat on my shoulder. “Be of good cheer, my friend. You're the man of the hour for foiling the kidnappers. I couldn't have done better myself.”

“I know,” I said dryly. “Everything's hunky-dory. Mr. Holmes was asleep when Becker left this morning. Do you have any idea where he went, Violet?”

“I didn't hear a thing. All I know is he didn't stoke the fire before he left. I woke up freezing in the middle of the night.”

“That's interesting,” I said. Happy to gain the upper hand. I pressed the attack. “That means he left before daylight. Unless there's another vehicle we don't know about, he obviously drove the Essex. I know we didn't pass him on our way here, so it must have been much earlier than when we left the hotel.”

Holmes took the unlit pipe from his mouth. “Excellent reasoning, Wiggins. I take back everything I said about you.”

Grr. Even that sounded like a left-handed compliment.

“Leaving aside how Becker and company got use of the farm,” Holmes said with a noisy suck on the pipe, “the question of the various automobiles is intriguing. How did you get here this morning?”

“On six cylinders,” I said. “A Pontiac motorcar, which must belong to Max or Jurgen Schmidt. The owner will need to hire a good lawyer. I'd love to take the Pontiac off his hands to help him pay for it.”

“Don't be silly,” Violet said. “What would we do with two cars?”

“I don't know. I'm sure I could come up with some logical reason.”

“You don't need any more toys. You're a big boy now.”

I flashed a mock smile.

“Be that as it may, you raise an important point, Wiggins,” Holmes said. “What about the vehicle the kidnappers drove?”

“From what the sheriff said, it most likely belongs to the man who owns this farm.”

“What happened to the Croydon's chauffeur worries me,” Holmes said. “I never saw him again after we were forced into the escape machine.”

“He's no longer of any concern. He came to our hotel room with a message from Becker. They damned near killed him by throwing him out of a speeding car.”

“
C'est la guerre,
Wiggins
.
Warfare always slaughters the innocent.” Getting to his feet, he took his pipe out of his mouth. “What bothers me the most is that the scope of the conspiracy seems to grow by the day. I doubt very much Isaac Bradford is knowingly involved, but even assuming a logical explanation for how the kidnappers got the use of the farm, why did Becker have a hotel room in Boston? And how did he get to Framinghamn?”

“I think I have the answer to the last question,” I said. “He must have driven the Pontiac.”

“Whichever car he drove,” Rose said, “he obviously had a reason for taking a room in Boston. Otherwise he would have stayed here with his friends.”

“Very good, m' lady,” Holmes said. “He may have stayed in town just to be able to hear Margery's lecture. He couldn't have known we'd be there, too, so he had to cobble together a plan at the last minute.”

“I have another good question,” I said. “Schmidt and Max had hypos filled with phenobarbital. I don't know much about it, but I do know you can't find it on a drug store shelf. Where did they get it?”

Holmes nodded with enthusiasm. “Another excellent question. Either some doctor prescribed it for them, or they blagged some pharmacy. Most likely the former.”

“Somehow I don't think they robbed a drug store. But a doctor, hmm, I wonder who that could be? Either way, the police should be able to trace the source. I'll have to say Becker's gotten very sloppy.”

“Don't be so modest,” Holmes said. “They didn't have much choice. You threw the spanner into all their plans.”

“Give the credit to Houdini. We never would have gotten away from the goons at the hotel if Rose hadn't given me his false finger. That gigli saw is horrific.”

Holmes turned. “Rose, we've been neglecting you. What did you learn from your telephone queries?”

“For one thing, many of the Spiritualists were following Mr. H's movements closely by the time of his death. Several of them even predicted the exact date to impress their clients.”

“Wishful thinking, undoubtedly,” Holmes said. “It's next to impossible they all played a role in Houdini's poisoning. Did your sources have any idea where these predictions came from?”

“Mostly from Pheneas and Walter. Somehow they've become the leaders of the movement rather than Sir Arthur and Margery themselves.”

Holmes nodded. With a tight smile he said, “Not at all surprising, as strange as that may sound. They are the strongest voices, and the ones with the message the faithful most want to hear. I should think it would almost have become inevitable.”

Conversation ended with the aroma of fine coffee.

Violet, while rifling through the cabinets, found a two-pound can of Timur brand arabica. I recognized the tin sitting on the counter because I have one in my basement where I keep my nuts and bolts. Violet occasionally bought the brand, probably because of the beautiful blue and multi-color lithograph of the horseman and stallion on the front. If Isaac Bradford had questionable taste in women, he knew good coffee. An enormous pot steamed away atop the Franklin Stove. The aroma also reminded me how hungry I was. None of us had eaten since last night. “I don't like the idea of raiding Mr. Bradford's larder, but is there anything to eat around here?”

“There's nothing in the ice box, but I did see a few cans of sardines in one of the cupboards,” Violet said. “I think I saw some hardtack, too.”

“A feast fit for the gods,” Holmes said. “I'll leave a few coins as payment.”

“One will be more than enough,” I said. “Make it two for the sleeping accommodations. I have a feeling Isaac is going to need every penny he can come up with before too long.”

We found only two plates and one coffee cup in the cupboards. Holmes grumbled about the absence of cream and sugar, but he forced the brew down, making only one or two pained expressions while he swigged from the cup. The rest of us drank our coffee from water tumblers. The sardines and hardtack quickly disappeared, and we bravely pretended we weren't still hungry. Violet and Rose were just putting away the dishes when Sheriff Peabody arrived.

“Officer O'Neal just picked up Mr. Hahn. He wants you to call him when you get back to Boston. He's very anxious to talk to Mr. Conan Doyle. Everybody ready to go?”