The Ectoplasmic Man (13 page)

Holmes chose not to answer.

“It is a time of my life that, mercifully, I do not remember very well. There are bits and fragments which return to me: Foraging through garbage, sleeping with vermin, striking down an elderly man for his cloak — no, I was not above stealing from others to support myself and my addiction. I would prey upon travellers who had been unwise enough to stray into the waterfront district, the area known as ’Satan’s Lair’.

“One night I set upon a young American couple and demanded their money. I did not know it at the time, but they were Mr and Mrs Houdini. I had been foolish enough to think that such a small man would be easily overcome. But Mr Houdini was not intimidated either by my size or by the knife with which I threatened him. Within a second he had knocked me down and seized my knife. I was rendered entirely helpless. And he did not stop there. He took my knife, broke off the blade, and said, ’It’s one thing to threaten me, my big friend, but when you threaten my wife, that is a different matter.’ To make a long story short, the Houdinis saw me cured of my addiction and restored to health, and when the time came for them to return to America, I went with them.”

Franz reached into his pocket and withdrew the broken handle of a parang knife. “This is all that remains of the life I once led. And that, gentlemen, is how I met the man that Scotland Yard now calls a thief. Houdini is not a thief! He is a reformer of thieves!”

“That is a very remarkable story, Franz,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” Holmes agreed. “And you have travelled with Houdini ever since?”

“Yes, for four years. They have been the best four years I have ever known. Soon these ridiculous accusations against Mr Houdini will be proven false, and he will perform again. He will find that I have everything ready.” Franz looked about the theatre proudly. “All will be ready.”

Holmes stood up and rubbed at the back of his head. “Perhaps you can
help us to hasten that day, Franz. Your capacity here may be of use to us.”

“Of course! I will do anything I can! I would walk to the end of the earth to straighten this matter out!”

“That won’t be necessary. All I require is information.”

“Ask me anything you like.”

“You have been in the theatre every night since Houdini’s arrest?”

“Every night since we arrived in England. Someone must stay with the show at all times. These secrets are the most sought after in all of vaudeville. We must maintain our guard.”

“Excellent,” said Holmes, “and in that time have there been any intruders? Perhaps more accomplished ones than Dr Watson and myself?”

Franz laughed heartily. “Yes, Mr Holmes. You British are no different from the Americans when it comes to Houdini’s secrets. I have not caught anyone, but I have seen the signs.”

Holmes’ eyes grew bright. “What signs?”

“Oh, things not in their places. The coverings disturbed.”

“Any disorder in Houdini’s dressing-room?”

Franz regarded my companion with a puzzled look. “Yes, in fact, though what anyone hoped to discover in there is beyond me.”

“Would you show us what was disturbed?” Holmes asked eagerly.

“Certainly, if you think it’s important,” Franz said, leading us back onto the stage. “Just a moment, I’ll find the light for the backstage area.”

While he went to turn on the light, I stepped over to where my dark lantern had fallen, and it was there that I made a most distressing discovery. Still a bit shaky from Franz’s choking hold, I steadied myself on one of the covered packing crates as I bent to retrieve the lantern. When I stood up I found my hand unaccountably sticky. It was then that I noticed an odour which, as a physician, I knew only too well.

“Holmes,” I said quietly.

“In a moment, Watson. We must see—”

“Holmes.”

“Very well, Watson, what—” As he stepped closer, he too perceived the odour. Without another word he uncovered the crate, but found that it was padlocked.

“Franz!” cried the detective. “We must open this trunk!”

“I cannot, Mr Holmes. That is Mr Houdini’s famous metamorphosis substitution trunk, one of his most jealously guarded secrets.”

Again Holmes withdrew his burglars’ tools and set to work on the lock with a grim determination.

“All right, Mr Holmes,” said Franz. “Don’t do that. You’ll only damage it.” He produced a set of keys and unfastened the lock.

“
Oh istenem! “
he cried, raising the lid. “This is terrible! Terrible!”

There in the trunk was heaped the body of a young woman, hideously strangled with a length of steel chain. The chain had been drawn so tightly about her neck that it bit deeply into the empurpled flesh, and sent crimson streaks upward towards a face of such remarkable beauty that even the ravages of violent death could not entirely disfigure it.

“Holmes,” I whispered hoarsely, “who is this unfortunate creature?”

Holmes turned to me in ashen-faced surprise. “What? You do not recognise her?” He looked again at the figure in the trunk. “Watson, this is the Countess Valenka!”

M
URDER
A
ND
B
REAKFAST

“N
ow let’s see if I can get this clear,” said Lestrade at breakfast the next morning. “The woman in the trunk is the Countess Valenka, that much is certain. But if the countess has been dead all this time, who was Watson speaking to at the Cleland the other day?”

“What can you mean, Lestrade?” I asked. “I’m quite certain that I was addressing the countess herself.”

“And yet you failed to recognise her when you discovered her body at the theatre?”

“Is it any wonder that I did not immediately recognise her in the trunk? After all, there was considerable damage. She had been strangled to death!”

“True, but it’s a very important point,” Lestrade said, reaching across for the eggs. “You see, I don’t believe you ever spoke to the countess at all.”

“I assure you I did!”

“You only
think
you did, Dr Watson. I don’t know who it was that you spoke to at the Cleland, but at that point the countess was already dead, killed by Houdini.”

“You can’t mean that, Lestrade!” I cried.

“But I do! It’s perfectly clear that the murder conforms exactly to my early conjectures — confirms them, I should say. The body was found right in our suspect’s trunk! I should be very dull indeed if I failed to see a connection. Don’t you agree, Holmes?”

The detective set down his teacup. “Let us say I am reserving my judgement.”

“Oh, come now, Mr Holmes,” Lestrade retorted. “Dr Watson himself was unable to fix the time of death precisely, save to confirm that the body had been in that trunk for more than twelve hours. It’s obvious that she was dead before we took Houdini into custody.”

“But I tell you I spoke to the countess the following day!”

“How can you be so certain that you saw her alive, Doctor, when you failed to recognise her dead?”

“But then who did I speak with at the Cleland? If it was not the countess, why did Herr Osey tell me it was?”

“I will ask him when I find him, Doctor. He has been summoned back to Germany on government matters.”

“You don’t find that at all curious? Are you so determined to convict Houdini that you are blind to all other suspects? Why has Herr Osey left the country so precipitously? For that matter, why haven’t you questioned Houdini’s assistant, Franz? He had access to the trunk!”

“Don’t worry, Dr Watson. I always make certain of my facts. Herr Osey’s summons was official. I confirmed it myself. As for the assistant, he makes a poor suspect. He had neither the motive nor the opportunity. I looked into that story he told you, it’s all true. He is what he says he is. What’s more, he fainted dead away at the sight of the body! Don’t you see, Doctor, the assistant’s presence at the theatre is the final proof of my theory. This man Franz would have detected any intruders to the theatre, just as he did you and Holmes. Therefore, no one could have placed
the body in Houdini’s trunk without his knowledge. No one, that is, but Houdini himself. So you see how neatly it all comes together.” Lestrade sat back and dabbed at his lips with a napkin.

I looked at Holmes in despair, but the detective remained silent.

“Look, I’ll explain from the beginning,” Lestrade continued. “We already have Houdini for the theft of the Gairstowe papers. Now this countess — another German, mind you, and a theatre person to boot — turns up dead in his trunk. I suppose I shouldn’t tell you this,” he leaned forward confidentially, “but it is my understanding that the murdered woman was very much involved with the documents which are now missing.”

“You don’t say?”

“It is so. No doubt that is why Houdini had to kill her.”

“But to place the body in his own trunk! Surely only the clumsiest of murderers would dispose of a body in this fashion?”

“He probably knew we’d never look in that trick trunk of his. Or, more likely, he planned to move the body later but was taken before he could do so.” He stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s probably it.”

“But why murder the countess at all?”

“I suspect she was in on the theft. Perhaps she was threatening to expose Houdini. We are looking into the possibility that they were... acquainted.”

“Surely not!” I cried. “Houdini’s wife assures us that he is a most devoted husband.”

“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” Lestrade gave a knowing wink. “Look, Doctor, I’ll spell it out plain as day. Even if there were no footprints, we should have soon reasoned that Houdini was the only person at Gairstowe House capable of penetrating the vault. Now we find this Countess Valenka’s body in his trunk. And how was she murdered? By a chain wrapped tightly around her neck, and locked in place with
one of Houdini’s own padlocks. Suppose, Dr Watson” — Lestrade threw down his napkin and began to pace the room — “suppose that you were to murder someone in this manner. Say you and I have robbed a bank, and have just now returned to Baker Street to divide the proceeds. At some time in the course of our negotiations, you become angry with me and decide to kill me without delay. You cast about for a weapon. In your case, a scalpel or even a poison might come to hand. But suppose you were Houdini, and our argument were taking place down at the Savoy? You see a length of chain from one of your escapes lying close by. You snatch it up and wrap it about my throat, but then what happens?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Think, man! Here you are, strangling me with a chain,” Lestrade bulged his eyes and made alarming noises in his throat. “It is horrible to see! You’ve never killed a man before. You suddenly realise, ’Oh no! I am killing my old friend Lestrade!’ Still, though you cannot bear to look at my face, you decide to go through with the murder. You pull the chain tight and lock it fast.” He pantomimed this motion. “This allows the constriction of the chain to finish me off. But observe, Watson, in the course of locating and fastening the lock, you must surely have taken one of your hands away from my throat. This means that you maintained a choking grip on the chain with only one hand, even against my struggles. May we not assume, then, a murderer of great strength? Might we also assume highly developed coordination, and, I think it safe to say, a functional knowledge of locks? Our friend Houdini possesses all three traits, does he not?” Lestrade picked up his teacup and smiled expectantly at Holmes and myself. “It all makes perfect sense, do you see?”

“What about the mud?” asked Holmes.

“The mud?
The
mud?”

“The mud which made the footprints in Lord O’Neill’s study. Where does the mud fit in?”

“Holmes, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

“On the contrary, I have followed you closely. I simply wish to know what provisions you have made for this highly disconcerting mud.”

“I fail to see the importance of this mud, Holmes. I have presented what I believe is the correct solution of the case, and you are off on a wild tangent. Very well then, the mud was left by Houdini’s shoes, if I must state the obvious.”

“How did Houdini’s shoes come to be muddy?” Holmes asked, warming to the subject.

“I expect he stepped in a puddle,” Lestrade said brusquely.

“Inside of the house?” Now it was Holmes who began to pace. “In order to get from the main ballroom, where Houdini performed his conjuring tricks, to Lord O’Neill’s study, one passes through two hallways and up one flight of steps. I have examined these areas, and saw not one mud puddle.”

“He must have stepped outside.”

“Why?”

“To allay suspicion. To be seen leaving the gathering.”

“All right, Lestrade, suppose we accept this premise as fact. We are still faced with three insurmountable difficulties. The first involves the trail of muddy prints in the study.”

“Holmes! Where is your mind? It was not a trail, it was more of a grouping.”

“Ah! But it should have been a trail. Instead we found nothing leading into or out of the study; only a distinct, isolated grouping of prints behind the desk. You see the problem.”

Lestrade did not reply.

“Second, as I have tried repeatedly to impress upon you, I am certain that the mud came from nowhere within the confines of the Gairstowe estate. In fact, I cannot place the mud at all. So, we must assume that Houdini left the
gathering, travelled to some distant point where he muddied his shoes, and then returned — perhaps walking on his hands so as to avoid leaving a trail. Why should he do this? How did he get past the guard?”