The Ectoplasmic Man E-Book

Daniel Stashower

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 306

Beschreibung

When Harry Houdini is framed and jailed for espionage, Sherlock Holmes vows to clear his name, with the two joining forces to take on blackmailers who have targeted the Prince of Wales. It's a case that requires all of their skills — both mental and physical. Can the daring duo solve what people are calling "The Crime of the Century"?

Leseprobe

THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

DANIEL Stashower

TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

ISBN: 9781848569041

Published by

Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St

London

SE1 0UP

First Titan edition: October 2009

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 1985, 2009 Daniel Stashower.

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AVAILABLE NOW FROM TITAN BOOKS

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE SCROLL OF THE DEAD

David Stuart Davies

ISBN: 9781848564930

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE VEILED DETECTIVE

David Stuart Davies

ISBN: 9781848564909

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE WAR OF THE WORLDS

Manly Wade Wellman & Wade Wellman

ISBN: 9781848564916

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE MAN FROM HELL

Barrie Roberts

ISBN: 9781848565081

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

THE STALWART COMPANIONS

H. Paul Jeffers

ISBN: 9781848565098

For DavidandSally

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author wishes to thank the following people for their invaluable help and guidance: Evan and Anne Thomas, Doug Stumpf, Peter Shepherd, Frank MacShane and the Tuesday Club, Stephen Koch, Joseph Epstein, Jon Appleton, Lillian Zevin, Nicholas Meyer, The Book Ranger, Richard Ruhlman, Marta Panajoth, Sara Stashower, Rachel Weintraub, Fred and Hildegarde, Emily, The John Beach family and especially its Manhattan satellite, Chip Tucker, Harold the green pig, Jack Berman and Miss Ellen O’Neill Beach.

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Editor’s Foreword

Author’s Foreword

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Ninteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Epilogue

Editor’s Foreword

I was not the one who discovered the note from John H. Watson to Bess Houdini, but I was the first to recognise that John H. Watson was not the John Watson from Nebraska, who juggled meat hooks, but the famous Dr John H. Watson, biographer and companion of Sherlock Holmes.

It happened shortly after the death of Al Grasso, when we members of the New York City Society of American Magicians began sorting through the accumulated clutter in his shop, The Grasso-Hornmann Magic Company. Grasso’s was — and is — New York’s most peculiar landmark. It is the oldest magic store in America, and the spiritual birthplace of many of our greatest magicians. In almost any other magic store in the country you’ll find the magic enclosed in glass cases. Not so at Grasso’s. At Grasso’s you dive into the tricks as you would a pile of leaves. It’s not so much a store as a museum, a dim warehouse on the second floor of an old office building, where printed silks and tasselled wands and huge metal hoops are all jumbled together and randomly stuffed into boxes and onto shelves. The place is full of magic books and pamphlets, some of them very rare, none of them in any kind of order. In one corner is a scarred leather-top desk where Al Grasso kept his records, such as they were, and hanging above it there are more than one hundred sepia photographs of the great vaudeville magicians. And when the sun is shining in through the back window, you can catch a glimpse of some huge stage illusion among the stacks of packing crates — the corner of The Mummy’s Asrah, or the golden tail of The Chinese Dragon — relics of the great full-evening magic shows of the 1920s and ’30s.

It’s a wonder that anybody ever found anything of use in all that dust and clutter, but every year thousands of magicians would come — beginners and professionals — and each of them would uncover the one book, trick, or memento which he had always wanted and had never been able to find.

Straightening the place out, then, even with the best of intentions was a sad, almost blasphemous task. We took our slow and deferential time about it, allowing the older members time to pause over each piece of memorabilia and tell stories of the old days. Working in this fashion, we did not begin excavating Al Grasso’s desk until the third afternoon, and in the process uncovered a brittle, coffee-stained manila envelope marked “Return to Bess Houdini.”

It was like hearing sleigh bells on Christmas Eve. We all knew that Al Grasso had been a close friend of Mrs Houdini. We also knew that sometime during the First World War Grasso’s, then called Martinka’s, had been owned by Harry Houdini. But most of us regarded Houdini as something of a mythical figure, and it just didn’t seem possible that we could be holding an envelope, an envelope with coffee stains on it, meant to be given to his wife. Maybe it was something that had belonged to Houdini, we thought. Maybe it was the plans to an escape. The whole group of us, about seven that afternoon, stared at the envelope for about five minutes before someone finally dumped the contents out onto the newly cleared desktop.

The first item we examined did a lot to dispel our reverence. It was a photograph of Houdini and a friend, in which the great magician, unaware he was being photographed full length, was standing on his toes to appear taller than the other man. The Great Houdini was embarrassed about his height!

There were more pictures in the envelope, mostly of Houdini and other, shorter magicians. And there were letters to and from Houdini concerning the sale of Martinka’s. And finally, there was a small piece of yellowed notepaper which had fallen to the floor and went unnoticed until Matt the Mindreader picked it up, read it, said, “Huh! The meat hook man!” and passed it to me. The note read:

12 December 1927

Dear Mrs Houdini,

Again let me extend my warmest sympathies for the loss of your husband. I know what it is to lose a cherished spouse, and can well appreciate that the long months since his passing have done little to ease your grief. Under separate cover I am sending my chronicle of the adventure we shared in London, some twenty years ago now. Though I have no intention at present of making the facts public, I flatter myself that the account of your husband’s remarkable exploits may bring some pleasure to you in these unhappy times. I remain,

Your Humble Servant,

John H. Watson

For the second time that day I felt the thrill of discovering a tangible link to one of my idols, and even more astonishingly, evidence that Sherlock Holmes and Harry Houdini had actually met! No sooner had I considered this possibility than an even more incredible one occurred to me: perhaps somewhere in the store lay an unpublished Watson manuscript!

As I recall it, I explained this possibility to my friends in my usual measured, sonorous tones. They insist I shouted like a madman. Either way, we began a frantic, reckless search for the manuscript in the darkest recesses of Grasso’s. All the while I tried not to think of how slim the chances of finding it were. Even if Watson’s manuscript had arrived at Martinka’s, it would almost surely have been forwarded, discarded, or lost forever in the jumble that became Grasso’s. But at that moment we were all too caught up in the search to worry about any of that. We must have looked like the Keystone Kops, diving into stacks of papers, dumping out cartons of documents, and rifling through the files; not missing a trick, as it were. Manuscripts were uncovered and hastily scanned, only to be revealed as treatises on dove vanishing or coin manipulation. Then, miraculously, after only twenty minutes or so, we found Dr Watson’s manuscript. It had been serving as a shim under the unsteady leg of a goldfish vanish table. Ignominious as this may seem, it probably saved the manuscript from being thrown out.

The bundle was in fairly good condition, apart from the sinkhole where the table leg had rested. The first few pages were on the point of crumbling and the last few were stained with oil or grease, but all of it was legible. I know this because I immediately sat down and read straight through while my friends tried to repair the damage done by our search. If possible, Grasso’s was now even more disordered than when we began cleaning it three days before, and we then abandoned all hope of restoring it to order; but I had an original, unpublished Sherlock Holmes story.

That’s where my troubles really began. If discovering a Watson manuscript seemed unlikely, convincing the world of the discovery bordered on the impossible. I faced an army of disbelievers. To begin with, the sceptics said the writing was not Watson’s; but surely he would not, at the age of seventy-five, have made his own longhand copies. Then there were those who doubted that he would have gone to the trouble of writing the story merely to cheer up Mrs Houdini. I can only answer that that is exactly the sort of man he was. Furthermore, in 1927 Watson had no real need of money and would have been able to pursue whatever writing appealed to him.

Though this case is unique among Holmes adventures, it was not the first time that Watson kept a completed story under wraps for reasons of discretion. His chief concern would have been to avoid embarrassing the august person involved in the episode. Whatever his reasons, Watson succumbed to viral pneumonia within two years of his note to Mrs Houdini. Surely Holmes took no interest in the project, so any hope of the story coming to light died with Watson.

No sooner were these objections answered than new ones were raised. Some people even went so far as to accuse me of having written the story myself, despite my assurances that I am an untalented boor. Then there was that contemptible faction that insists that Sherlock Holmes existed only in the mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. They are a spurious lot, surely, but they comprise a large faction in the publishing industry and therefore could not be ignored. Finally, after many months of effort, I was able to convince William Morrow and Company, a sympathetic publishing house, that, however dubious the origin of the manuscript might be, it was still a damn good story. I leave it to the reader to make the final judgement. I myself have no doubts, and I assure the reader that the most fantastic assertions and events herein are the most easily verified. The episode related by Bess Houdini in Chapter Three is retold by Milbourne Christopher in his biography, Houdini: The Untold Story. The escape introduced by Houdini in the Epilogue became a standard feature in his stage show; and he recreated the amazing stunt described in the nineteenth chapter in the movie The Grim Game.

I have made a few awkward but, I hope, illuminating footnotes in those places where Watson’s notorious murkiness asserts itself, but otherwise I will intrude no further on the reader’s patience. Watson is in good form as always, a friend to the reader and the one fixed point in a changing age...

Daniel Stashower

New York City

February 12, 1985

Author’s Foreword

In all my years with Sherlock Holmes I encountered only a handful of men whose wilfulness and ingenuity rivalled that of Holmes himself. One such man was William Gladstone, the late prime minister. Another was a gentleman in Cornwall who fashioned small weapons from dried fruit. But by far the most extraordinary of these was Harry Houdini, the renowned magician and escape artist.

Sherlock Holmes and Harry Houdini met in April of the year 1910. Holmes, drawing near to his retirement, was then at the peak of his fame. Houdini, twenty years the younger man, had not yet attained the remarkable international recognition that was soon to be his. The first meeting of these two men was by no means cordial, but while they never became intimates, there developed between them a tacit respect born of the recognition that each was the unparalleled master of his craft.

Their encounter and the remarkable events which attended it form one of the most singular cases of my friend’s career. Houdini, always secretive concerning the details of his private life, forbade me to write of the matter within his lifetime. Regrettably, I am no longer bound by that constraint. Houdini is dead well before his time, and by a means which I myself might have foreseen.*

I return, then, to the year 1910. I endeavour to fix the year precisely, for I am not insensitive to the complaints of some of my readers regarding my carelessness with dates. This was the year in which George V ascended to the throne; and a time in which, though we did not know it at the time, dark reverberations throughout Europe drew us closer and closer to the Great War.

John H. Watson, M.D.

2 November 1926

*Houdini died on October 31, 1926, of acute peritonitis resulting from severe blows to the stomach.

One

THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY

The crime of the century?” asked Sherlock Holmes, stirring at the firecoals with a metal poker. “Are you quite certain, Lestrade? After all, the century is young yet, is it not?” He turned to the inspector, whose face was still flushed with the drama of his pronouncement. “Perhaps, my friend, it would be more prudent to call it the crime of the decade, or possibly the most serious crime yet this year, but one really ought to resist such hyperbole.”

“I must caution you not to make light of the situation, Mr Holmes,” said Inspector Lestrade, standing at the bow window. “I did not travel all the way across town merely for your amusement. The case of which I speak has implications which even you cannot begin to grasp. In fact, I am somewhat overstepping my authority in consulting with you at all, but as I just happened to run across Watson here—”

“Indeed.” Holmes replaced the poker in the fire-irons stand and turned to face us. He was wearing a sombre grey frock-coat which emphasised his great height and rigid bearing. Holmes was, as I have often recorded, a bit over six feet tall, thin almost to the point of cadaverousness, and possessed of sharp features and an aquiline nose which gave him the appearance of a hawk. Standing there with his back to the fire and his elbows resting on the mantelpiece, it was difficult to say whether he had struck a posture of ease or advertence. “I think it would be best, Lestrade, if you told your story from the beginning. You say that you suspect this young American of a great crime, is this so?”

“It is.”

“And what did you say this fellow’s name was?”

“Houdini.”

“Yes, Houdini. Watson, will you have a look in the index?”

I selected one of the bulging commonplace books from its shelf and began paging through the entires. “H-o-u, is it? Here is the Duke of Holderness, and here — ah yes! Houdini, Harry. Born on March 24, 1874, in Budapest. This is curious, though... there is also record of his having been born on April 26 of that same year, in Appleton, Wisconsin.”

“Curious indeed!”

“He is an American magician, best known for his remarkable escapes. It is said that he has never failed to free himself from any form of restraint. He is particularly fond of challenging police officials to bind him in official constraints, from which he then releases himself.”

I heard a suppressed chuckle near the fireplace.

“Houdini also has an interest in the new flying machines, and has actually made several short flights himself.”

Lestrade scoffed. “That’s just the sort of thing I’m talking about! What kind of person is it who tampers with unnatural machinery!”

“On the contrary, Lestrade, I’d say our Mr Houdini shows a keen interest in the advance of science, as well as a highly adventurous spirit. He sounds like a most surprising individual. Is there anything else, Watson?”

“Nothing,” I said, replacing the heavy volume.

“I presume then that you have something to add to Watson’s description, Lestrade?”

“I do indeed, Mr Holmes,” said the inspector, reaching into his breast pocket for a small notebook. “Let’s see... where to begin... ah, right!” Lestrade jabbed a forefinger into the notebook. “On the day before yesterday, this fellow turns up at the Yard and demands to be locked up in one of our cells! Well, I’ve been on the force near thirty years now and this is the first time anyone ever volunteered to be locked up. So we looked him over pretty carefully, and he says, ‘I want to be locked up so I can escape!’ We all got a good laugh out of that, I can tell you. But this young fellow wouldn’t give up! He insisted that he’d done the same thing in Germany and France, and he brought out the newspaper clippings to prove it!” Lestrade slapped his notebook against his open palm.

“Well, Mr Holmes, it’s one thing to break out of those tin boxes they have over there, but our British gaols are the finest in the world. If this little American thought he was just going to walk in and walk out, quick as you please, we were only too happy to oblige him. So we took him into the ground floor cell block and put him in a free cage. Frankly, I thought he’d back away when he saw the lock on the door, but he didn’t, so we locked him up tight. I promised to come back for him in a few hours, when he’d had enough.”

Holmes looked over at the inspector. “And then?”

Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and looked out of the window. “Thirty minutes later we received a telephone call in the C.I.D. office. It was Houdini. He said he’d made it back to his hotel all right and he just wanted us to know he’d left a surprise in the cell block. Naturally we didn’t believe it, but when we got in there we saw that not only had he broken out, but he’d also switched around every prisoner in the entire wing! Seventeen prisoners and not one of them was in his right cell! We had quite a job just — Mr Holmes! I fail to see what is so amusing in all this!”

“Quite so, Lestrade,” said Holmes with a short cough, “forgive me. But still, I don’t see that your problem is as grave as you suppose. I’m sure it’s simply a question of improving the design of your goal. Perhaps Mr Houdini could be persuaded to cooperate—”

“My God, Mr Holmes!” Lestrade cried impatiently. “Do you really think me such a fool as all that? The cells are nothing! That was only the beginning! But if he can get in and out of our gaol cells he can get in and out of anything! Anything at all! Some of the men even suspect... well, they suspect...” He paused and looked down at his notebook.

“Yes?”

“It’s nothing.”

“There, Lestrade, you were on the point of saying something.”

Lestrade cast a wary eye at Holmes and then at me. “I don’t believe any of it, mind you, but some of the men say that Houdini is a... a spirit medium.”

“Oh, come!”

Lestrade held out his palms in a gesture of disavowal. “It’s not my theory, I assure you, but it has to be taken into account. I’ve done a bit of research on this fellow and the results are very surprising. Very surprising indeed. Just consider the facts for a moment, Mr Holmes, and see what you make of them. Every night, on stages all over the world, Houdini allows himself to be tied up, wrapped in chains, nailed into packing crates, and I don’t know what all, and he always gets free! Now what does that suggest to you?”

“Great skill and technical proficiency?”

“Perhaps, but don’t you find it in the least strange that he never fails? Not once? Can you say the same?” Here Lestrade was referring, rather indelicately I thought, to the theft of the black pearl of the Borgias, an affair which even Holmes had been unable to penetrate. Though he would soon recover the pearl in a case I have recorded elsewhere, * the matter weighed heavily on him at present. I realised then how great was Lestrade’s sensitivity over the issue at hand, for he was never one to open old wounds.

Holmes reached into the scuttle and threw a lump of sea coal onto the hearth. “Occasionally my methods fail me,” he observed quietly, “but then, I receive no assistance from the other world.”

Lestrade looked away quickly. “I didn’t mean to give offence, Mr Holmes, I’m simply asking you to keep an open mind to this thing, as I’ve done.” He flipped through the pages in his book. “Now, there’s a group in America that calls itself the Society for Psychic Research. These aren’t witch-doctors in this group, they’re scientists and doctors, reasonable sorts like you and me. This society swears up and down that Houdini achieves his effects through psychic means. They say no other explanation is possible.”

“And what of Houdini himself? Does he claim to traffic with the spirits?”

“No, he’s denied it repeatedly. But don’t you see? Even that fits the theory. If he were using special psychic powers to make a living as a magician, he’d have to conceal his gifts in order to protect his livelihood!” Lestrade gave a nervous laugh. “I know that what I’m saying sounds incredible, but two days ago this fellow walked out of one of our tightest cells without turning a hair. No one has ever done it before, and frankly I doubt if anyone will ever do it again. A thing like that sets me thinking maybe we are dealing with... well, with the unknown. Now I’m not saying I hold with all of this psychic claptrap, but after Houdini was at the Yard I went down to the Savoy to see one of these performances of his. What do you suppose I saw?”

“Do tell.”

“It was astonishing. I’ve never seen anything like it. During the course of his magic show, Houdini had his workmen construct a solid brick wall on the stage behind him. There was no trickery about it, I’m certain. The wall was put together brick by brick; it was absolutely solid. And he had it positioned so that he couldn’t get around it in any way, but somehow he managed to travel from one side to the other, right before my eyes! Right through the wall! Now how could he possibly have done that?”

“He was assisted by elves?”

“According to the Society for Psychic Research, Houdini can only do this trick by reducing his entire body to ectoplasm.”

“Ectoplasm?”

“It’s the substance of spirit emanations. What ghosts are made of. I know that sounds ridiculous, but how else could a man pass through a solid substance? At least at Scotland Yard there was a door in the cell, but this was a solid brick wall. So naturally when the theft occurred—”

“Theft?” Holmes was instantly alert. “Would this theft be the crime of the century you mentioned earlier?”

“The same. I can’t give you the details just yet because the matter is highly confidential and involves certain highly placed individuals. But I’m convinced that the crime can only have been committed by someone who can walk through walls. Mind you, I’m not saying he actually does walk through walls, but he certainly manages to convey that impression. So if you would just come down to the Savoy with me and have a look—”

“Lestrade, this crime—”

The inspector held up his hands. “I’m sorry, I’ve told you all I can. You are not an official detective, Mr Holmes, and this matter is absolutely confidential.”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“What!”

Holmes threw another lump of coal onto the fire. “I am clearly out of my depth, Lestrade. Men made of ectoplasm, thefts of such high confidentiality.” He shook his head. “No, no. It’s too much for me. Watson, would you care to take a stroll in the botanical gardens?”

Lestrade’s mouth fell open. “But — but you don’t understand! All I’m asking is that you come down to the theatre with me and see this Houdini for yourself! Now where’s the harm in that? It’s not so much to ask, is it?”

“I’m afraid it is, Inspector,” Holmes said evenly. “You are asking me to enter into a criminal investigation with no knowledge of the actual crime. You are asking me to entertain a theory which accommodates men who walk through walls. I am not an official detective, as you have so conscientiously reminded me, but neither am I a haruspex. Should you need my services in matters pertaining to the corporeal, my door will be open. Until then, good day.”

Lestrade let out a long sigh and moved towards the door. “It’s just as well, I suppose,” he said, taking down his hat and ulster. “We were given specific orders not to consult you on this case. I just thought—”

“Orders?” Holmes whirled about, his features drawn tight. “Orders from whom?”

“Why, the government, of course!”

Holmes stiffened. “What branch?”

“The message came from Whitehall. It was unsigned.”

A high colour crept into the gaunt cheeks of Sherlock Holmes. “Lestrade,” he said, his voice rigid with emotion, “either you are the most devious man at the Yard or you are an unpardonable lummox.”

“What—?” The inspector stammered, but Holmes was already gone, running down the steps to Baker Street, blowing two shrill blasts on his cab-whistle.

* For some reason Watson is referring to “The Adventure of the Six Napoleons,” a case which occurred years earlier.

Two

THE ECTOPLASMIC MAN

Holmes was silent as our four-wheeler sped towards the Savoy, and Lestrade, to his credit, knew better than to probe for the source of the detective’s sudden agitation. For my part, I had observed these fits of pique on several previous occasions, and I knew them to be grounded in a personal, rather than professional, vexation. As Holmes now seemed to have regained his composure, I thought it best not to remark upon the matter, for I knew that if my suspicions were accurate, all would be revealed presently.

And so I passed the journey wondering what sort of man it was who could so readily divest himself of canvas strait-jackets and pass through solid brick walls. In my long association with Holmes we had been concerned in a score of mysteries which, at their outsets, seemed to involve spirit beings. Crime aficionados still remark upon the macabre affair of the earl, the ascot and the heavy feather, which had been the despair of several well-trained investigators. Only Holmes had been able to prove that flesh-and-blood murderers were responsible, rather than the vengeful revenants originally suspected by Scotland Yard.

Would Holmes be as successful in penetrating the mysteries of Houdini, or had Lestrade at last presented him with a problem which had no logical solution? This was the challenge my companion had unwillingly undertaken that afternoon. In Lestrade’s defence I must say I rather doubt that he ever truly believed all this spiritualist commotion about Houdini. He was, rather, a man who dearly loved to have a key for every lock, no matter how unwieldy the keys became.

I had not been to the Savoy Theatre since the passing of my beloved wife, Mary. Together we had attended many of the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan there, and though she had been gone many years, the association was still a painful one. My mood was certainly not lightened by the appearance of the theatre itself, which was dark and grim. The plush lobby, which I was so accustomed to seeing brightly lit and filled with cheery theatre patrons, now appeared shadowy and hollow. Through the far doors I could see rows of empty seats which seemed to stretch forever, creating an impression of eerie expectation. I am not ordinarily given to flights of fancy, but I imagined that I could feel my wife’s presence in that opulent crypt, and I acknowledged to myself that if I were ever to see a spirit, it would very likely be in this place.

“Do you see this?” Lestrade was saying. “Do you see this, Holmes?” He pointed to one of the dozens of theatrical posters which covered the walls of the lobby. “Houdini claims to have no interest in spiritualism, and yet he draws attention to himself with a poster like this! There’s more here than meets the eye, I tell you!”

The poster showed an ordinary wooden barrel secured with chains and heavy padlocks. Above it hovered a likeness of Houdini, who had evidently just wafted from the barrel as smoke rises from a chimney. His legs, the illustration plainly showed, were still vaporous. To strengthen this supernatural impression, the young man was shown receiving counsel from a small band of red demons who scurried about his form, while in the background a number of befuddled-looking officials stood scratching their heads. Below the illustration was printed the legend: “Houdini!!! The World’s Foremost Escape King!!!”

“You are absolutely right, Lestrade,” said Holmes. “This is conclusive evidence of the man’s spirit capacities. What a fool I have been ever to have doubted you! Now as to the details of this crime you mentioned—”

“Enough of that, Mr Holmes. You’ll be able to see for yourself in just a moment. Remember, though, Houdini doesn’t yet know that he’s a suspect in the crime, so you musn’t let on!”

Holmes turned and walked towards the empty theatre. “As of yet I have nothing to let on,” he said.

As we gained a view of the stage I could see a group of four workers carrying large packing crates back and forth across the stage. By his resemblance to the poster illustration, I gathered that the man directing the activity was none other than Houdini himself.

Houdini was a small but powerfully built young man. His black, wiry hair was combed out from the centre into two pointed tufts, which combined with the black slashes of his eyebrows to give him a satanic aspect. His every movement was precise and forceful, yet so fluid and full of grace that I was put in mind of the sleek jungle cats I encountered during my Afghan campaigns. He wore a coal-black suit, which contributed to his dramatic appearance, and though he was smaller than any of his workers, he nevertheless insisted on carrying the largest load.

One of Houdini’s assistants drew his attention to our arrival. Upon seeing Lestrade, Houdini gave a cry of surprise and set down his burden. He then leapt across the orchestra pit and made his way towards us, skimming across the backs and arms of the theatre seats as if using stepping stones to cross a river. This display of coordination and balance was not mere bravado, but rather the natural course of one whose control over his own body was so complete that such exertions were as natural to him as walking.

“Mr Lestrade!” cried Houdini as he jumped down into the aisle where we stood. “It’s good to see you!” He gave the inspector a jovial slap on the back. “I didn’t expect to see you snooping around until this evening’s performance! You’re not still upset about that gaol break, are you?”

“No, no,” said Lestrade quickly, “I only wished to introduce you to these two gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, allow me to present Mr Harry Houdini.”

Upon hearing my friend’s name, the young magician was scarcely able to conceal his pleasure. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he said, grasping Holmes by the hand and shoulder. “I’ve admired you for years.”

“The honour is mine,” replied Holmes. “I trust that you have worked out the difficulties with your rope escape?”

“Why yes, I... wait a minute, how did you know I was having trouble with a rope escape?” In his surprise at this observation, Houdini quite forgot to take my hand and slap my shoulder. “I’ve always read about you doing that, but I never thought I’d actually see it! How did you know?”

“Simplicity itself, my dear fellow. There are several chafing wounds on both your wrists. I have seen identical wounds on the wrists of robbery and kidnap victims who had strained against their bonds for many hours. The natural conclusion is that you have spent some hours attempting to free yourself from a similar restraint, and were, perhaps, less successful than you might have hoped.”

“Wonderful!” Houdini cried. “What a trick! But I did get out of that rope tie. I was practising on a new kind of knot. Better to work it out in rehearsal than to have it come at me during a performance.” He led us towards the stage. “I sure wish Bess were here to meet you, Mr Holmes.” He paused and struck a theatrical pose. “To Harry Houdini,” he intoned, “she is always the woman.”

This brief reference to one of my early Holmes stories * was clearly intended to flatter the detective. Houdini could not have known that Holmes seldom remembered anything but the titles of my stories, when he bothered to read them at all, so it meant nothing to him. Instead, Holmes proceeded immediately to the business at hand.

“Tell me, Mr Houdini, is it true that you are able to reduce your body to ectoplasm?”

The American laughed. “Is that why you came here? No, Mr Holmes, as I’ve been trying to tell Lestrade here, my magic has nothing to do with any witches or ghosts.”

“Witches and ghosts have nothing to do with it,” Lestrade insisted. “I never said that at all. I merely suggested that if you were a spiritualist you would have to hide your abilities from the public. If it became known that you were able to become immaterial, your escapes would cease to be dramatic. Where’s the excitement in an escape artist who can walk right through his chains?”

“On the contrary,” Houdini replied, “that would be the greatest act ever staged. People would pay ten bucks a head to see a real live ghost. But I am not a ghost, I’m an escape artist.”

Lestrade was not satisfied. “You insist that you are not a psychic, but I still feel that no other explanation is possible for what I have seen on this stage.”

Houdini bowed deeply. “Thank you very much, Mr Lestrade. That is the best compliment a magician could receive.”

Lestrade turned to Holmes in exasperation. “I get no where with him! Do you see why I wanted you to come down here?”

“Actually, I do not,” Holmes answered. “I’m sure you’ll forgive me, Lestrade, but your failure to comprehend Houdini’s mysteries will not cause me to embrace spiritualism. I submit that some more logical explanation has escaped your notice.”

“Are you saying I’m thick, Holmes? Or gullible? I’d like to point out he’s not merely pulling rabbits out of a hat; he’s walking through solid brick walls!”

“Pray do not grow testy, Lestrade. I did not invite this interview. Nor am I suggesting that you are slow-witted in any way. I merely observe that in this case you are quick to accept the phenomenal where a more strict logician might turn to the somatic. I have no doubt that the same disciplines which govern the science of deduction would lend some insight into the marvels of Mr Houdini.”

“Pardon me, Mr Lestrade,” Houdini broke in with exaggerated formality. “Did I just understand Mr Holmes to say that my little mysteries would give him no trouble at all?”

“That is more or less what he said.”