The Houdini Specter E-Book

Daniel Stashower

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

The Great Harry Houdini is still struggling to make a name for himself in turn-of-the-century New York. He sees an opportunity for glory in exposing the tricks of the medium Lucius Craig - if only he can work out how the medium managed to conjure a "spirit" while tied to a chair by Houdini himself or how the apparition was able to stab an audience member to death and then disappear! Another thrilling title in the Harry Houdini Mysteries series!

Leseprobe

THE

HOUDINI

SPECTER

TITAN BOOKS BY DANIEL STASHOWER

THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES

The Dime Museum Murders

The Floating Lady Murder

The Houdini Specter

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF

SHERLOCK HOLMES

The Ectoplasmic Man

THE HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERIES: THE HOUDINI SPECTER

PRINT EDITION ISBN: 9780857682932

E-BOOK ISBN: 9780857686213

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark St, London SE1 0UP

First edition: June 2012

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 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.

Copyright © 2000, 2012 by Daniel Stashower

Visit our website: www.titanbooks.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Printed and bound in the USA.

What did you think of this book? We love to hear from our readers. Please email us at: [email protected], or write to us at the above address.

To receive advance information, news, competitions, and exclusive offers online, please sign up for the Titan newsletter on our website: www.titanbooks.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Author’s Note

Editor’s Foreword

Author’s Foreword

One

About the Author

1

THE MAN WITH THE CAST-IRON STOMACH

MONSTROUS.

The old man shifted on his walking stick and gazed sadly at the vast expanse of stone before him. It was not only vulgar but also profane, a bizarre collision of ego and some misplaced sense of piety. It offended every notion of taste and decency. The sheer ostentation might have brought a blush to the cheek of Croesus. Naturally, Harry had thought it was lovely.

Why couldn’t he have allowed himself to be buried like a normal person? With a small, tasteful marker of some sort? No, not Harry. He had to go out with a flourish. A thousand tons of granite had been spoiled to create this eyesore, along with a considerable amount of Italian marble. What had they called it at the time? A Greek exedra? That presumably described the curved stone bench that invited silent contemplation. But how to explain the stone figure of the kneeling woman sobbing at the graveside? Over the years, the old man had given her the name Beulah. “Hello, Beulah,” he would say, patting her fondly on the shoulder as he passed. “How are the pigeons treating you today?”

His feet were tired from the long walk, and the old man gave out a soft groan as he lowered himself onto the bench, gazing up at the solemn bust of his brother. Here was the crowning touch, he thought to himself. Harry in all his glory, stone-faced in death as he so often was in life, gazing magisterially over the other, presumably lesser, inhabitants of the Machpelah Cemetery. What would Rabbi Samuel Weiss have made of this display? Thou shalt not worship graven images.

With his eyes fixed on the marble bust, the old man reached into the pocket of his brown tick-weave jacket and withdrew a silver flask. Well, he thought, lifting the flask in a brisk salute, another year gone, Harry. Here’s to you, you pompous old goat.

I miss you.

Mrs. Doggett was waiting on the porch when the old man returned to the house in Flatbush. “Those men are here,” she said in a voice heavy with exasperation. “Again.”

“Those men?” he asked.

“The reporters. From the city.”

“Ah.”

“It’s the same two men,” she continued. “One of them is a photographer. They’re in the parlor, smoking like wet coal. I don’t know why you speak to them every year. It only encourages them.”

“You know why I speak to them,” he answered, tugging at his French cuffs. “He would have wanted it that way.”

“Him,” she answered. “Always him.”

Mrs. Doggett continued to give voice to her displeasure as she led him into the front room. Newspaper reporters ranked just below potted meat and Estes Kefauver in her esteem. Newspaper reporters who smoked were to be especially despised, more so if they also made slurping noises when they drank their tea.

The old man was no longer listening. He had come to expect this annual visitation from Matthews of the Herald, and he had passed a quiet hour at his brother’s exedra preparing himself. This year, he had decided, he would try something different. At the start of the interview, he would allow Matthews to believe that he had gone senile. What’s a man to do, Mr. Matthews? You just can’t get good fish paste any more. That’s what’s wrong with this country, my lad. And you can tell that to Mr. Estes Kefauver when you see him.

Nothing more than a reverse bait and switch; a little something to keep himself entertained. He would wait until Matthews began stealing glances at his watch and then spring the trap. What’s that, Mr. Matthews? You need to be getting back to the city? What a shame. I was just about to tell you what happened to Lucius Craig. You remember him, do you? Yes, his disappearance was something of a scandal at the time. Left half the society matrons in New York brokenhearted, as I recall. I read an article just the other day speculating as to what might have become of him. Should have asked me. I’ve known for years.

Interesting man, Mr. Craig. There were some who believed he could speak with the dead. I saw him do some amazing things myself. Spirit messages. Disembodied voices. That sort of thing. I always wondered if—pardon? You want to know what happened to him? Well, Mr. Matthews, I guess there’s no easy way to say this.

And here the Great Hardeen would pause and gaze sadly into the distance. You see, Mr. Matthews, I’m afraid my brother and I made him disappear.

Permanently.

The old man smiled to himself, then pushed open the parlor door to face his interviewer.

What’s that, Mr. Matthews? You’d like to hear the story? But I thought you and Mr. Parker had to be getting back—? No? Well, I can’t blame you for wanting to know the truth of the matter. It was front page news at the time and one of the many secrets that the Great Houdini vowed to take to the grave. Me, I’ll be content to go to my grave unburdened. Let me see if I can remember how it began. Ah, yes. Biggs. It all started with Biggs.

I seem to recall that the newspapers were filled with accounts of Commodore Dewey destroying the Spanish fleet, which I suppose places things in the late spring of 1898. Harry would have just turned twenty-four at the time; I was two years younger. As always, our finances were at a low ebb. We had recently been fortunate enough to pull a couple of months as touring assistants with Mr. Harry Kellar’s illusion show, but at the close of the season we were once again at liberty. We came back to New York, where Harry had been forced to sign on as a platform magician at Huber’s Fourteenth Street Museum. It was steady work but strictly small-time, and Harry considered it beneath him. I spent my days making the rounds with his leather-bound press book under my arm, trying to scare up suitable opportunities among the more reputable music halls and variety theaters. I was not wildly successful in this regard, and more than once I abandoned my duties in favor of Ganson’s Billiards Hall on Houston.

My recollection is that it was raining heavily on that particular day. Bess was working the chorus at Ravelsen’s Review on Thompson Street, and it was a source of some consternation for Harry that her position brought a slightly higher wage than he was earning at the dime museum. I caught up with him backstage at Huber’s, where he was pulling a double shift in the Hall of Curiosities.

“Intolerable, Dash!” Harry cried as he came off between shows. He was wearing a feather headdress and a leather singlet for his role as the laconic Running Deer, Last of the Comanche Wizards. His skin was slathered with copperish paste, and there were heavy streaks of lip polish on his cheeks, meant to suggest war paint. “You will have to find something better!” he continued, tossing aside a wooden tomahawk. “I am required to do a degradingly simple rope trick and spout ridiculous noises! ‘Hoonga-boonga!’ Have you ever heard of an Indian saying ‘Hoonga-boonga’?”

“I never heard of an Indian doing the Cut and Restored Rope, now that you mention it.”

“At the very least they could have employed Bess as well. She could have played my squaw.”

“Bess seems quite content,” I answered. “She prefers a singing engagement to working as your assistant. She says she’s tired of jumping in and out of boxes.”

“She said that?” He leaned into a dressing table mirror to dab at his war paint. “I suppose she is trying to put a brave face on the situation. Yes, that must be it. But at heart I am quite certain that she finds these circumstances as unacceptable as I do. It simply won’t do for the wife of the Great Houdini to be seen cavorting in some music hall chorus. I have my reputation to consider!”

“Reputation? Harry, you’re lucky to be working back at Huber’s. Albert only took you on because he needed someone who could double as a Fire-Proof Man.”

“Fire-Proof Man! Of all the indignities! Clutching at a piece of hot coal to show that one is impervious to pain! Thrusting one’s hand into a flaming brazier! Ludicrous! The Great Houdini is now reduced to a mere sideshow attraction!”

“How’s the arm, by the way?”

“Fine,” he answered, wincing slightly. “I just need a bit more practice, that’s all.” He pushed a feather out of his eyes and adjusted the headdress. “Dash, you must get me out of this booking. Find something where I can do the escape act. It is the only way I will ever break out of the small time. If you do not”—he paused and drew in a deep breath—“I shall be forced to seek other representation.”

“Other representation?” I ran a hand through my hair. “Harry, you’re welcome to seek other representation, but you’ll find that there’s a crucial difference between me and the other business managers you may run across.”

“Such as?”

“The others expect to be paid.”

Harry folded his arms, the very picture of a stoic Comanche. “I’m just asking you to show a bit more initiative, Dash.”

“Harry, I’m doing all I can. I have an appointment with Hector Platt at the end of the afternoon.”

“Hector Platt?”

“He runs a talent agency near Bleeker Street. He’s about the only one in New York who hasn’t turned me down flat in the past three weeks. You’re welcome to tag along if you think I should be showing more initiative.”

I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth. For the rest of the afternoon, Harry could talk of nothing but his “rendezvous with destiny” in the offices of Hector Platt. On stage he appeared newly invigorated, and even the expression “Hoonga-boonga” was given an enthusiastic spin. Between performances he drew me aside to speak in hushed tones of the “celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt,” who would surely be the one to propel the Great Houdini into the front rank of vaudeville. “Mine is a talent that cannot easily be confined to a single venue,” Harry told me after the final performance. “The celebrated and distinguished Mr. Platt may have some difficulty in choosing the proper method of highlighting my abilities.” He whistled happily as he scrubbed away the last traces of copper body paint.

In truth, Hector Platt was neither celebrated nor distinguished. He was what used to be called a blue barnacle in the show business parlance of the day, a man who tenaciously attached himself to the lower edges of the scene while serving no clear purpose. Very occasionally he would throw a week or two of work my way with one of the lesser circus tours or carnival pitches, but on the whole I considered him a last resort in desperate circumstances. I tried to explain this to Harry as we made our way across town in a covered omnibus, but he would not hear of it.

“Mr. Platt has simply not had the opportunity to avail himself of a truly top-drawer performer,” Harry insisted as we alighted on lower Broadway. “We shall both benefit from this fateful association.” He rubbed his hands together. “Lead on. Dash! Destiny awaits!”

I shrugged and led Harry down a narrow, winding alley off Bleecker Street. Beneath a yellow boot-maker’s lamp we came upon a door with the words “Platt Theatricals” etched on a pane of cracked glass. I pushed open the door and climbed a dark flight of stairs with Harry at my heels. At the first landing we found a door hanging open on broken hinges. I rapped twice. Hearing a gruff summons from inside, I entered the office.

Hector Platt sat in a high-backed wooden swivel chair, regarding us through the lenses of a brass pince-nez. He liked to think of himself as a country squire in the European fashion, and to that end he wore leather riding boots and silken cravats. An untidy scattering of papers littered the surface of his oblong desk, with a brown clay pipe smouldering in an ashtray within easy reach.

“Hardeen,” said Platt in his booming bass drum of a voice. “Haven’t seen you in a good four months. Where’ve you been? You can’t possibly have been working all that time!”

“As a matter of fact, my brother and I have been touring with the company of Mr. Harry Kellar,” I said primly. “We’ve only just returned and have elected to rejoin the New York season. You are undoubtedly familiar with the recent successes of my brother, Mr. Harry Houdini.” I gestured to Harry, who stepped forward to shake Platt’s hand. “Although the stresses of the recent tour have been considerable, my brother has decided that he is willing to entertain suitable offers at this time.”

Platt’s lips curled as he reached for his clay pipe. “I am gratified to hear it,” he said, tamping the pipe bowl with the end of a letter opener. “However, I am obliged to report that news of your brother’s triumphs has not yet reached our offices.”

“Indeed?” I stroked my chin at this strange lapse. “Well, if you would care to examine our press book, you will find ample testimony to the drawing power of the Great Houdini. No less a journal than the Milwaukee Sentinel was inspired to remark that—”

Platt waved the book aside. “I’ve seen your cuttings more than once, Hardeen. It might be more profitable to learn of your recent attainments. Tell me, what was it that you and your brother were doing during your time with Mr. Kellar?”

It was a sore point, as Platt undoubtedly realized. At that time Harry Kellar was the most celebrated conjurer in the entire world. He did not require the services of additional magicians in his company, so Harry and I had served as minor assistants in some of the larger production numbers. I had quite enjoyed my role in the background, but Harry had chafed at his small handful of assignments. Chief among these was a novelty number that required him to don a leopard-pattern loincloth and heft large weights as Brakko the Strongman.

“Our duties were varied,” I said, examining my fingernails with a careless air, “and I may say in all modesty that Mr. Kellar was most reluctant to see us depart.”

“Was he, indeed?” Platt’s smile broadened as he sent up a cloud of noxious black smoke. “I do hope that he will be able to carry on. Now, Mr. Hardeen, I seem to recall that you and your brother have some experience performing a magical act of your own devising. I regret to say that at present I have no need of a magical act.”

“It is not simply a magical act,” I said. “My brother has devised an entirely new form of entertainment, one that is certain to place his name in the very forefront of popular entertainment.”

Platt unclipped the pince-nez and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Not the escape act,” he said wearily, closing his eyes. “I told you last time, there is simply no audience for such a thing.”

Harry, who had showed uncharacteristic restraint during this exchange, now stepped forward and grasped the edge of Platt’s desk. “I would be very pleased to offer a demonstration of my abilities,” he said. “I guarantee that you will find it worth your attention.”

Platt waved the back of his hand. “Please, Mr. Houdini. I do not allow every passing entertainer to audition here in my office. I should have no end of singers warbling the latest tunes and Shakespeareans declaiming from Hamlet. It wouldn’t do to encourage such behavior.”

Harry smiled as if Platt had made a delightful witticism. “Singers are a penny to the dozen,” he said. “Actors can be found on every street corner. The Great Houdini, as my brother has said, is entirely unique. I fear that mere words cannot convey the power of what I am able to achieve upon the stage. Only a demonstration will suffice. Have you a pair of regulation handcuffs?”

“Handcuffs?” Platt leaned back in his swivel chair. “No, Mr. Houdini. I do not happen to have a pair of handcuffs lying about.”

“You’re certain? Perhaps a good set of Palmer manacles or a nice solid pair of Lilly bar irons? I would also settle for leg restraints or thumbscrews.”

“Mr. Houdini, I do not keep such things about my person. What sort of establishment do you suppose I am running?”

Harry’s face fell. “It will be difficult to demonstrate my facility with handcuffs if no handcuffs are forthcoming,” he allowed.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Platt, squaring a pile of documents on his desk. “Now, gentlemen, if you would be so good as to excuse me, I have some rather pressing—”

“Mr. Platt,” I said, struggling to regain some purchase on his attention, “I beg that you give my brother some chance to demonstrate his value as an entertainer. I offer my assurance that he is the most exceptional performer in New York today.”

“I must find a solution,” Harry was saying, musing aloud over the strange absence of restraining devices in Platt’s office. “I suppose that I could provide my own handcuffs in these situations, but people would naturally assume that they were gaffed in some way. What to do?”

Platt ignored him. “Hardeen, I’ve already told you that I don’t place any stock in the entertainment value of a man who escapes from things. It’s a silly notion. I know that you and your brother are fair magicians, but I don’t have any need of magicians just now.” He paused as a new thought struck him. “Is Mr. Houdini’s wife seeking opportunities at present? I might have something coming open in the chorus at the Blair.”

“She is fully booked at the moment,” I said. “My brother and I—”

“Yes, yes,” said Platt heavily. “I know all about you and your brother.”

“I suppose it is a question of advertising my intentions in advance,” Harry murmured to himself. “I could post a notice or handbill to the effect that the Great Houdini intends to accept any and all challenges to escape from regulation handcuffs. Then people would be forewarned to provide their own restraints. That might resolve the difficulty.”

“Are there any other opportunities that might be suitable?” I asked Platt. “Anything at all?”

Platt reached across the desk for a folded sheet of paper. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “But don’t despair, Hardeen. If your brother truly is the most exceptional performer in New York, the other agencies are undoubtedly clamoring for his services.” He unfolded the paper and ran the pince-nez over the print.

“Perhaps there could be a trained locksmith on hand as I took the stage,” Harry was saying. “He could confirm that the handcuffs had not been tampered with or altered in any way. It would lend an official touch to the proceedings. The Houdini Handcuff Challenge. That would look well in print.” He glanced at me. “Don’t you agree, Dash?”

“Harry, perhaps we might confine our attention to the matter at hand. Mr. Platt is consulting his books to see if—”

“I’m afraid there’s nothing,” said Platt, tossing the folded sheet onto the desk. “Unless, of course, your remarkable brother happens to have a cast-iron stomach.”

“Pardon?”

“A cast-iron stomach. The Portain Circus has an opening in two weeks’ time. I’m looking to send a man with a cast-iron stomach.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” I said.

“A stone-eater,” Harry said impatiently. “An omnivore.” He made an exaggerated chewing motion. “Someone who will eat whatever the audience throws at him.”

“Precisely,” said Platt. “I have the honor to represent Mr. Bradley Wareham, who earns a fine living in this manner. At present, however, he is indisposed.”

My hand went to my midsection. “A stomach complaint, by any chance?”

“Not at all. A gouty foot, as it happens.” Platt snatched a handbill from amid the clutter on his desk. “Mr. Wareham is proving to be a difficult man to replace. Listen to this: ‘For the amusement of all present the Man with the Cast-Iron Stomach will ingest all manner of small objects presented to him by the audience, including rocks and gravel, potsherds, flints, bits of glass, and other savories. Upon conclusion of the display, this Gustatory Marvel will allow onlookers to strike his stomach to hear the rattling of the strange objects within.’” Platt lowered his pince-nez and regarded us with a bemused expression. “I don’t suppose this is an act you might be willing to undertake.”

“Certainly not,” I said. “The talents of the Brothers Houdini lie in an entirely different sphere of—”

“Would I be able to take my wife?” Harry asked.

“Harry!” I cried. “What are you thinking? You’re not a—”

“The Portain Circus is a very reputable organization,” my brother said evenly. “If I could establish myself in the company, I might be able to win a spot more in keeping with the usual run of my talents. Moreover, I would be able to rescue Bess from her servitude in the chorus line at Ravelsen’s Review.”

“Your reasoning is flawless,” I said with considerable asperity, “except for the part which requires you to eat rocks and glass. How do you propose to overcome that little difficulty?”

Harry turned to Platt, who had been pulling contentedly at his clay pipe during this exchange.

“You say that I would have two weeks to prepare?” Harry asked.

Platt folded his hands. “Yes, Mr. Houdini. Two weeks. But I warn you, this act is no place for an amateur. Do you really think you’re up to it?”

By way of an answer, Harry reached across Platt’s desk and plucked the clay pipe from his fingers.

“Harry!” I cried, as he placed the smoldering bowl into his mouth. “Don’t—”

But he had already bitten off the bowl of the pipe at its stem and was now happily chewing on the glowing contents.

“What did he say?” Platt asked, as Harry tried to speak through a mouthful of clay and burning embers.

“I can’t be certain,” I said, “but I believe it was ‘Hoonga-boonga.’ “

2

A MOST DELICIOUS POCKET WATCH

“HARRY,” I SAID, AS WE JUMPED ONTO AN OMNIBUS HEADING BACK across town, “what were you thinking? You’re no stone-eater! You can’t possibly be ready to tour in two weeks’ time! You’ll only ruin your health in the attempt!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” he said, settling himself onto a wooden seat near the back. “I shall apply the same rigorous conditioning and training techniques that have made me the world’s foremost escape artist.”

“But—”

“Dash,” he said calmly, “the Portain Circus would be a vast improvement over our current run of bookings. You know that perfectly well. As for my lack of experience, I shall simply ask for some pointers from Vranko.”

“The Glass-Eater? How long has he been on the bill at Huber’s now? Five years? Six?”

“Seven,” said Harry.

“Seven years. Vranko isn’t exactly a headliner, Harry. Not after seven years at the dime museum.”

“Perhaps, but he can certainly instruct me in the rudiments. My startling natural charisma will do the rest.”

“Of course,” I said. “Your startling natural charisma. How careless of me to overlook that.”

Harry gripped the arm rail as our driver whipped the horses around a corner. “Dash, I just want to have Bess working alongside me again. I hate to think of my wife thrown among those wolves at Ravelsen’s, helpless and vulnerable.”

“Harry, do you recall that theater manager in Loon Lake? Bess nearly chewed his ear off for daring to suggest that she use a more ‘enticing’ shade of rouge. Your wife could scarcely be described as helpless or vulnerable.”

“Even so, Dash. I can hardly be faulted for wishing to take her out of the chorus line.”

“She enjoys it, Harry. This wouldn’t have anything to do with her pay packet being heavier than yours, would it?”

He colored. “Certainly not! I am delighted that my wife’s talents are so highly prized!” He drew back from the open window as a hansom cab clattered past in the opposite direction. “In any case, the disparity is only temporary and will soon be rectified.” He tugged at the corners of his bow tie. “Yes, a temporary disparity. I believe we are approaching your stop, Dash. I shall collect Bess at Ravelsen’s and join you at Mama’s. We have much to discuss.”

“Harry, be careful of how you break this news to Bess.”

He looked at me with surprise. “You don’t think she’ll be pleased?”

I stood up as the omnibus slowed. “I’d approach the matter with caution, if I were you. Use your startling natural charisma.” I descended the wooden stairs and made my way north on foot.

The rain had slackened by the time I reached my mother’s apartment on East 69th Street. As I approached the familiar building I found my friend Biggs lounging in the doorway with a cigarette. It was not often that I saw him away from his compositor’s desk at the New York Herald, and he retained the hunched and focused attitude that marked him as a working journalist. He wore his customary baggy tweed suit with an open waistcoat and a loosely knotted wool tie, but even so his appearance was markedly spruce. His thinning red hair, which usually resembled a thatch of chick-weed, had been neatly pruned and swept back. His nails were carefully groomed and polished, and his cheeks fairly glowed with ruddy vigor.

I gave a two-tone whistle as I approached. “Biggs!” I cried. “Who’s the lucky girl?”

“Augusta Clairmont,” he replied without hesitation. “I don’t clean up for just anyone, Dash. We don’t all share your foppish disposition.”

“Augusta Clairmont?” I asked, climbing the front steps and pulling open the outer doors. “Jasper Clairmont’s widow? Isn’t she just a bit old for you, Biggs?”

“She invited me to dinner last night,” he said, following me inside. “I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon receiving the attentions of my tonsorialist. Shave, haircut, steam—the works.” He ran a hand through his hair. “It’ll be days before I regain my usual sickly pallor.”

“But I thought Mrs. Clairmont had gone into seclusion after—after—”

“Her husband’s suicide? She did go into seclusion. She only sees her closest friends and relatives now, but there were special circumstances last night. That’s what I’ve come to speak with you about. I believe you can help me, Dash.”

“How so? I must say, you’re being very cryptic, Biggs.”

“Do you think so? I’m so pleased. I’m hoping that an air of mystery will make me more appealing to the fair sex. Why don’t you invite me inside, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Biggs refused to answer any more questions as I led him through the main doors and up the stairs. I couldn’t imagine what interest Augusta Clairmont, the famous society hostess, could possibly have in my friend, nor could I conceive of why Biggs might require assistance from me.

I did, however, recall the circumstances of the death of Jasper Clairmont some three months earlier. The news had dominated the headlines for nearly a week and remained a subject of speculation and salacious gossip. Clairmont, a shipping magnate who wielded enormous power in the city’s financial circles, had shot himself through the head while locked away in his private study. Almost at once, rumors began to surface of ruinous business failures, illicit liaisons, grave illnesses, and various other dark portents, each of which was put forward in its turn as a possible explanation for the tragedy.

“I still don’t understand what connection there can be between you and the Clairmont family,” I said as we neared the top of the stairs. “You weren’t even assigned to Mr. Clairmont’s death, as I recall.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he answered, his breath growing short with the effort of climbing so many steps. “Why must your mother live on such a damnably high floor?”

“Why is it that you always insist on calling for me here, anyway? You know I live at Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house now.”

“I’m aware of that, Dash.”

“Well, then?”

“Is Mrs. Arthur the finest cook in all of New York?”

“No, but—”

“No, she most certainly is not. Your mother holds that distinction, and the last time I called upon her she gave me the most extraordinary lemon cake I’ve ever tasted. I still dream of it.”

“I believe it’s a raisin bundt today, but you know perfectly well that my mother will never be content with a slice of cake at this hour. She’ll insist on giving you dinner.”

Biggs made a show of seeming surprised. “Dinner, you say? How could I have been so thoughtless as to appear on your doorstep at the dinner hour? What an unpardonable breach of courtesy! You must think me a terrible—”

“That’ll do, Biggs,” I said, pausing at the kitchen door. “Hardly your most convincing performance, in any case.”

“No,” he agreed, as I led him into the kitchen. “I really must remember to leave the theatrics to you.”

We found my mother hovering at the stove, as always, and the rich aromas of simmering meats and cooling breads filled the room. She paused just long enough to pinch Biggs’s cheeks and comment on how thin he was looking before commanding him to take a chair at the kitchen table. After a moment or two of clattering through the silver drawer, she set an extra place and ladled out two steaming bowls of cabbage soup. This done, she turned back to the preparation of a Chicken Debrecen.

“Come now, Biggs,” I said as he bent low over his bowl, “you’re lapping up that soup as if you haven’t eaten in a week. Surely Mrs. Clairmont puts on a respectable table?”

“Very respectable,” Biggs agreed. “Although dinner was not the main feature of the evening.”

“No?”

He looked up from his soup bowl. “Not at all. That’s what I came to tell you. You see, Dash, I’ve seen a ghost.” He lowered his head and went back to eating his soup.

I lifted my eyebrows. “Have you, indeed?”

“Several of them, in fact. Mrs. Clairmont might as well be running a hotel for departed souls. The place was fairly swimming with apparitions.”

“A séance,” I said quietly. “Augusta Clairmont invited you to a séance. You’ve been table-tipping with the upper classes.”

He nodded. “The poor woman has resolved to make contact with her late husband. She can’t accept the fact that he did himself to death. It seems she wants to hear it from his own lips, if you please.”

I glanced at my mother. “It’s difficult to lose a husband, Biggs,” I said. “If Augusta Clairmont chooses to sit in a dark room and console herself by reading auguries in a saucer of tea leaves, who am I to criticize?”

“This was no ordinary séance, Dash. I know a bit about that type of jiggery-pokery. A group of people gather in the parlor after supper and decide that it would be a jolly lark to try to communicate with the spirit world. So they lay their hands on the table and wait for the spirits to arrive. After a while the table begins to sway and finally gets up sufficient motion to tap with one leg. Then a question is asked—“Is that you, Uncle Chester?”—and an answer is given by the tedious process of reciting the alphabet and waiting for the table leg to tap at a certain letter. It can take an eternity to get a simple yes or no. I had a lady friend once who went in for that type of thing. She dragged me along on more than one occasion. It seemed to me that we were collectively pushing the table without really realizing it. In our eagerness to have something happen, we were causing the table leg to come down at the right moment.” He looked up as my mother filled his soup bowl again. “Thank you, Mrs. Weiss. Delicious, as always. Anyway, Dash, I hope you don’t think that I’m completely benighted where this type of thing is concerned. I know a bill of goods when I see one.”

“I take it there was no table-tipping at Mrs. Clairmont’s.”

“No. She’d never tip her own table, in any event. She’s a very wealthy woman. She’d hire someone to do it for her. Listen, Dash, I know it sounds like a lot of hokum, but there were some remarkable things that happened last night. Truly remarkable.”

“And there will be a rational explanation for each of them, Biggs.”

“I would have thought so,” he said. “I spent the whole day digging for answers. You know I can be a real brass-plated bloodhound when I have to be, but this has me stumped.” He pulled out a leather-bound notebook. “You’ve heard of Lucius Craig?”

I shook my head.

“Apparently he has Mrs. Clairmont wrapped around his finger.”

“He was the medium?”

“The what?”

“The medium, Biggs. The spirit guide—the one who makes contact with the supernatural realm. You’ll need to learn the lingo if you intend to keep up.”

“That’s why I’ve come, Dash. You and the ape man have done a bit of medicine show fakery, haven’t you?”

“Biggs, you really must stop calling him that.”

“Oh, I shall. Just as soon as he evolves into something vaguely human. I imagine your brother would have given the estimable Charles Darwin a few uneasy moments. Natural selection seems to have looked the other way when it came upon Harry Houdini.”

“Biggs. Really.” I glanced again at my mother. Thankfully, she was too absorbed in her cooking to pay any heed.

“Sorry, Dash,” said Biggs. “I forget myself sometimes.”

It was a familiar rant. Harry and Biggs had nurtured an intense dislike of one another since childhood, and neither showed any sign of growing out of it. Biggs had often found himself on the receiving end of Harry’s bullying nature, and unlike me, he had never grown comfortable responding in kind. As we grew older, however, Biggs learned to use words every bit as forcefully as his fists, and this was an arena that left my brother at a decided disadvantage.

“So,” Biggs continued, dabbing at his lips with a napkin, “have the two of you worked the spirit angle or not?”

“There was a brief period when we were travelling with an outfit called Dr. Hill’s California Concert Company. We were doing tent shows through Kansas and Oklahoma, and everybody wanted to see a spook show because the Davenport Brothers had passed through and caused a sensation.”