Escapade (14 page)

“But perhaps Miss Turner
did
see Lord Reginald.”

Lord Bob frowned, as though he didn’t want to discuss this possibility. “Irrelevant, isn’t it?” He held up a placating hand. “Sorry, Doyle, know you’re fond of all that—ghosts, spirits, et cetera. Fair enough. One man’s meat, eh? Agree to disagree, eh? But just now, seems to me, we’ve got to deal with this Chin Soo fellow.”

“I concur,” said Doyle. He sat back in his chair and I noticed a small brief wince of annoyance flicker across his mouth. Rheumatism, or arthritis, or maybe just ligament and bone that had grown wary of sudden movements. Whatever it was, he wasn’t as limber as he would’ve liked to be. Probably no one was, except the Great Man.

Doyle reached into the right-hand pocket of his coat, looked over at Lord Bob. “May I smoke?”

Lord Bob waved his hand. “Course you may.” He smiled. “A two-pipe problem, eh?”

Doyle smiled back, but wanly, as though he had heard this before, often. He pulled from the pocket a meerschaum pipe and a leather tobacco pouch. He opened the pouch and dipped the pipe into it and he glanced over at the Great Man. “When did all this begin?”

The Great Man put his arms on the arms of the chair. “One month ago,” he said. “In the city of Buffalo, in New York State. Both Chin Soo and I were performing there. I was at the Orpheum, he was at the Palace. You know, perhaps, that the vaudeville houses in America are extremely competitive these days, due to the increasing popularity of the cinemas.”

Doyle had pulled out a small box of Swan Vespa matches. He struck one alight. Nodding at the Great Man, he held the flame to the bowl of his pipe.

“Naturally,” said the Great Man, “I myself have no trouble filling a house, even in these difficult days. But for a performer of lesser magnitude, such as Chin Soo, the situation can be truly formidable. And when Houdini is playing the same town, at the same time, well, of course, the situation becomes in fact hopeless.” With a lot of puffing at the stem of his pipe, Doyle had finally gotten the thing lit. He slipped the matches back into his coat pocket and blew out a streamer of smoke. The smoke drifted across the room, smelling like smoldering burlap.

“Not surprisingly,” said the Great Man, “Chin Soo’s ticket sales were very poor. He grew desperate. He ordered his minions, common hoodlums of the street, to begin pasting his boards—his advertising posters—over my own. Naturally, to protect myself, I retaliated by having my assistants do the same to his. But interfering with my advertisements was not enough for the man. He began denouncing me on stage, before his performance, calling me a fraud, a charlatan. He went so far as to claim, in a press interview, that I had stolen my legendary coffin escape from him. Him, a mediocre trickster who had never in his life given a coffin a second thought.”

“Only fair to point out, though,” said Lord Bob to Doyle, “that the chap
does
catch bullets in his teeth.”

“A trick, merely,” said the Great Man. “But no matter. What then happened, I called a press conference and I revealed the truth to the assembled reporters. That it was Chin Soo who was the fraud. That the man was a liar and an incompetent. I challenged him to appear on stage with me, bringing any restraint of his own choosing—chains, handcuffs, shackles, whatever he liked—and attempt to render me captive. I would, in turn, provide a restraint of my own choosing, for him. Whoever succeeded in escaping in the least amount of time would be considered the winner. This seemed to me utterly fair-minded.”

Doyle nodded, puffing at his pipe.

The Great Man shrugged. “But naturally, Chin Soo declined the challenge. And, naturally, as a result, he was ridiculed in the newspapers. His last performance played to an empty house. Or it nearly played, I should say. When he discovered that most of the seats were unoccupied, he stormed from the stage. Typical behavior, from such an egomaniac. He left the theater and removed all his things from his rooming house. He simply disappeared.”

The Great Man paused for a moment, letting that sink in. Then he said, “That night, as I left the Orpheum by the stage door, someone attempted to shoot me.”

“Good heavens,” said Doyle, and raised his eyebrows.

“He missed me, but by a matter of inches only. My quick reflexes enabled me to dash back to the safety of the theater. The police were notified, and when they arrived I explained the situation. They immediately suspected Chin Soo, of course. But when they attempted to locate him, they learned he had gone.”

“One moment,” said Doyle, taking his pipe from his mouth. “You said earlier that no one knew what Chin Soo actually looked like, without his stage make-up. And yet he had taken lodgings. Wouldn’t the people there—the landlord, for example—wouldn’t someone have seen him as he truly appeared?”

“No,” announced the Great Man. “Before Chin Soo arrived in a city, he retained someone to engage a room for him, and pay for it in advance. Chin Soo would arrive on the date specified, but he would be wearing his make-up. No one would ever see him without it, at least wittingly.” He sniffed dismissively. “It was something he did to make himself appear fascinating. Part of his so-called mystique.”

“And you’re quite sure,” said Doyle, “that it
was
make-up?” 

“Oh yes. No one has ever seen Chin Soo arrive in any city in which he was performing. Not by automobile, by train, or by boat. He travels undisguised. Or perhaps disguised as someone else.”

“But how—and just when, exactly—does he transform himself into his Chin Soo identity?”

The Great Man shrugged. “If he travels by means of an automobile, perhaps he changes inside it. Perhaps he uses public lavatories. Perhaps he engages some other lodgings, from which he can come and go unseen.”

“Extraordinary,” said Doyle, and shook his head. “And you’re certain that it was Chin Soo who attempted to shoot you?”

“He himself admitted as much to me. On the day after the incident, I returned to my home in New York City, and that evening he telephoned me—on my private number—and spoke with me. He used his stage voice, and he asked me whether I would like him to give me lessons in catching bullets. I told him, of course, that I needed no lessons of any kind from him. And I suggested to him that perhaps he required some lessons himself, in marksmanship.”

Doyle smiled around the pipe stem. “Good man. Giving him his own back.” He frowned slightly. “But you say he used his stage voice?”

“On stage he speaks in a singsong Oriental manner. It was in such a voice that he spoke with me.”

“And this Oriental voice is assumed, I take it?”

“Yes. He possesses, I admit, some accomplishments as a mimic. He has telephoned me several times since then, and each time he used a different voice, a different accent. A feeble attempt at wit, I suppose. But always he has made his identity clear.”

“How did he obtain your private telephone number?”

“From someone in the telephone company, no doubt. No doubt he paid bribes. I have had the number altered several times, and each time he has somehow acquired the new one.”

“And he threatened you, you say, before you went to Philadelphia?”

“Yes. That was my first appearance after the engagement in Buffalo, and it was to be my last in the United States, before I sailed for Europe. He telephoned me two days before I left, and said that he was looking forward to seeing me in Philadelphia. At my wife’s suggestion, I discussed the matter with the Philadelphia Police Department. As I told you, they attempted to capture him, and they failed.”

Doyle nodded. “And between the time you appeared in Buffalo and the time you appeared in Philadelphia, no one has seen Chin Soo?”

“No one. He had several bookings, small theaters in insignificant cities, but he canceled them all.”

“And he made no attempt to harm you while you were in New York City?”

“No. Perhaps he is aware of the esteem in which I am held there. Or perhaps he wishes to harm me only while I am on tour. Perhaps he feels that this would be more dramatic.”

“And it was at the start of the tour that you retained Mr. Beaumont’s services?”

“Correct, yes.”

Doyle turned to me and took the pipe from his mouth. “Do you have anything to add, Mr. Beaumont?”

Across the carpet, Lord Bob scowled.

“A couple of things,” I said. “First off, although Harry doesn’t agree with me, I think that maybe Chin Soo isn’t really trying to kill him.”

“We have discussed that, Phil,” said the Great Man. Suggesting that there was no point discussing it again.

“What do you mean?” Doyle asked me.

“Maybe Chin Soo is just trying to rattle Harry. Shake him up. Make him nervous, so he’ll lose his concentration on stage, botch up the performance. Bungle it.”

“Phil,” said the Great Man, “
nothing
could make me lose my concentration. I have never bungled anything in my life.”

I smiled. “Like I told you, Harry, maybe Chin Soo figures there’s a first time for everything.”

Doyle said to me, “You’re basing this notion upon what? Your understanding of Chin Soo’s character?”

“Partly,” I said. “I think Chin Soo would love the idea of Harry screwing up—making a mistake. But also, Harry’s told me about this bullet-catching trick. In order to pull it off, you’ve got to know a fair amount about guns and bullets. You’ve got to be a pretty good shot yourself.”

“Just how is the trick performed?” Doyle asked me.

“Sorry,” I said. “It’s Harry’s cat.” I turned to the Great Man. “He’ll have to let it out of the bag himself.”

The Great Man smiled sadly. “I regret to say, Sir Arthur, that—”

Doyle held up the palm of his hand. “I understand completely. I should never have asked.” He turned back to me, took hold of the bowl of his pipe, puffed. “You were making a point about Chin Soo’s marksmanship.”

“Yeah. He’s a good shot. But one of our ops—operatives, agents—examined that alley in Buffalo. The one where the shooting took place. Harry was standing only about fifteen feet from the spot where the gun was fired.”

Doyle nodded. “And yet Chin Soo’s bullet missed him.”

The Great Man shifted in his seat. “The alley was dark, Phil.” 

“The gas lamps were lit,” I said. “Harry, you were a sitting duck, and he missed you.”

Doyle said to me, “But I understood that he did shoot a police officer in Philadelphia.”

“When the guy was trying to nab him.”

The Great Man said, “But you have no way of proving that Chin Soo wouldn’t have shot me, if I had been in the room.” He was dead set on getting shot at.

Doyle said to him, “The shot that was fired today.” He puffed at the pipe. “That missed you, as well.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it was fired from—what was it, Phil?— something like two hundred yards.”

“A hundred and fifty.”

“Still, his missing me is entirely understandable.”

“Why didn’t he fire again?” I asked him. “You were standing there and he just walked away.”

“A single-fire rifle, perhaps?” suggested Doyle.

Lord Bob said, “Filthy sod spotted me chasing after him.”

“A single-shot rifle, maybe,” I said to Doyle, and I turned to Lord Bob. “But if it wasn’t, he had plenty of time to let off another shot before you got to him. And plenty of time to shoot you, if he wanted to.” I looked at the Great Man. “And, Harry, it was a handgun he used in Buffalo. A Colt forty-five, a semi-automatic. Cops found the slug and the spent cartridge. Why didn’t he empty the whole clip into your back?”

“Phil,” he said, “as I have explained to you countless times, I moved too quickly for him to attempt a second shot.”

“Seems to me,” I said, “if he was serious, he would’ve given it another try.”

Doyle took his pipe from his mouth and narrowed his eyes and he said, “You do realize, Mr. Beaumont, that even if these speculations of yours are correct, your own position remains essentially the same.”

“Sure,” I said. “Even if he’s just trying to spook Harry, I’ve still got to stop him. He could make a slip, and kill him by mistake. But the idea that he’s trying to shake him up, not kill him, that’s the only thing that gives me a sliver of hope. Because if I buy the idea that he really wants to kill Harry, I might as well pack up and go home. There’s no way that one man can stop him.”

“And,” Doyle said, “despite your doubts, you must proceed as though the man were in fact determined to effect Houdini’s death.” 

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why I want to bring in the cops. Lord Purleigh and Harry disagree with me.”

Lord Bob leaned forward in his chair. “What do
you
think, Doyle?”

The Evening Post (continued)

Again, as I had before, I simply stood there. Sir David held the crop; I held still; so did Time.

Evy, I wish I could tell you that I drew upon some secret reservoir of courage; but in fact I was still functioning on another plane, in a dimension slightly out of step with this one, slightly behind it. I had not yet reached even the stage of disbelief. If he
had
hit me, I think that I should not have realized it until sometime the next day.

He didn’t hit me. He lowered the crop and grasped its ends in his hands. Slowly, the wickedness and the fury left his face. He drove them away, Evy, by an effort of will, an effort I could sense and could, from within my curious remoteness, very nearly admire. When he spoke, his voice was completely under control and laced with that familiar mocking irony. ‘A saint,’ he said lightly, ‘would turn the other cheek.’

I said, ‘A saint would have no need to.’

He reached up and touched the cheek. The marks of my fingers were stencilled bright red against the pale skin. ‘You are,’ he said, ‘a plucky young woman, Jane.’

‘And you, Sir David, are a boor.’ I said it without thinking; had I stopped to consider, had I remembered the wickedness I’d glimpsed, I should have said nothing, perhaps.

But he merely smiled again, then faintly shrugged. ‘We’ve done the introductions and exchanged the mutual appraisals. What do you say to our getting to know each other better?’

‘The others are waiting for you. May I have my crop?’

With a small bow, he presented it. He smiled. ‘We’re not finished, Jane. You know that, don’t you?’