The Ectoplasmic Man (23 page)

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Did you recognise the butler?”

“No, he was someone we’d laid on for the reception, but he left promptly.”

“Not before he had deposited a visitor.”

“What?”

“As the tea-trolley was rolled in, Kleppini was crouched on the lower shelf, hidden from view by the table linen. When the trolley passed behind this sofa, Kleppini quickly stepped out and hid there. There he remained until the four of you had completed your business and left the room, locking him inside with the letters.”

“It can’t be, Holmes!” Lord O’Neill insisted. “We’d have known if there had been anyone else in the room!”

“It’s true,” the prince agreed. “What you say is just too fantastic.”

“Is it?” came the disembodied voice of Harry Houdini. “Or is it simply” — he stood up from behind the sofa — “hard to believe?”

Mercifully, I had been forewarned of this dramatic entrance. I had been present as Holmes rehearsed the effect with both Houdini and the butler. Thus, I was able to observe the startled expressions of the prince and Lord O’Neill as Houdini appeared in their midst. Both men were thoroughly astonished, but while the secretary remained so, the prince soon recovered himself and broke into appreciative applause.

“I took the liberty of inviting Mr Houdini,” Holmes said, “because I thought a dramatic illustration of my theory might be in order.”

“Mr Holmes, this is highly irregular,” Lord O’Neill said nervously. “We’ve been discussing extremely sensitive matters—”

“Nonsense!” The prince cried jovially, rising from his seat to shake Houdini’s hand. “We are deeply indebted to Mr Houdini for the happy resolution of this matter. I am glad of the chance to express my gratitude personally.”

“I’m honoured if I have been of service,” said Houdini grandly, giving a low bow.

“There now, that’s enough of that,” the prince said good-naturedly. “Do have a seat. All of London is awaiting your return to the stage. I’m only sorry for the unpleasantness of the interruption. But at least you came through it with your ribs in one piece, eh?” He smiled from Holmes to me. “Now, Mr Holmes, we’ve seen how Kleppini got into the room, how did he manage to get back out again?”

“It may come as a surprise, but Mr Houdini has explained that however impenetrable a safe may be from the outside, it is easily sprung from the inside.”

“That’s true,” Houdini affirmed.

“Then why,” I wondered aloud, “did Franz hire Kleppini at all? Surely Franz knew a good bit about locks from his years with Houdini; he could
have broken out of the safe. Why didn’t he carry out the plan himself?”

“Simply because Franz was too large a man to conceal himself in milk canisters or under tea-trolleys. He required the services of a much smaller man. Kleppini’s known antipathy for Houdini made him the logical choice.” By now Holmes had managed to get his pipe lit, and he sent a few curls of smoke up towards the ceiling. “If Franz had been a bit smaller we may never have solved this case,” he admitted, “for it was Kleppini who sent the threat to Houdini which first drew us to the matter, and it was Kleppini who left the untenable pattern of footprints here in the study, and it was he who was finally tricked into repeating the crime. Hardly an auspicious criminal career!”

“Perhaps not,” Lord O’Neill said worriedly, “but what are we supposed to do with him now that you’ve caught him? We can’t very well bring him before a judge, suppose he tells what he knows?”

“The judge would find it singularly uninteresting,” Holmes assured him. “I have questioned Kleppini closely; although he overheard some of your discussion of the papers, he never knew what they were.”

“Then our secret is safe,” said the secretary, casting an uncertain glance at Houdini.

“I’m very good with secrets,” the magician told him. “It is necessary in my profession.”

“I suppose that answers my questions about the theft, at any rate,” the prince said. “Kleppini was brought onto the grounds in a milk can, wheeled into this room on a tea trolley, and all the while everyone thought he was down in Brighton, owing to that aeroplane of his. Is that it?”

“An admirable precis, your highness.”

“My blushes, Mr Holmes. But tell me, where does Wilhemina come into all of this?”

“Do you mean the Countess Valenka?”

The prince nodded.

“The countess’s murder is perhaps the most curious episode of this entire business. Watson” — Holmes turned to me — “when you spoke with the countess at the Cleland, did she say or do anything which seemed unusual?”

“Well, I hardly know how to answer that, Holmes. Very nearly everything about that afternoon seemed unusual.”

Holmes nodded. “And when you first arrived at the hotel, you were told by Herr Osey that the countess was feeling unwell?”

“Actually, I spoke first with the countess’s handmaiden. It was she who told me that the countess was ill.”

“Ah, yes of course! The maid. But Herr Osey confirmed this?”

“Yes, he was extremely reluctant to give me leave to see the countess at all.”

“Quite so,” said Holmes, “quite so. But at length he was won over by your genial good nature, am I correct?”

“It was something of that sort.”

“But before you were taken in to see the countess, wasn’t there a further delay of some kind?”

“Yes, I was asked to wait while Herr Osey pleaded my case.”

Holmes turned about slowly on his cane. “Watson, did it not seem irregular to you that Herr Osey was allowed into the countess’s chamber when you yourself had such trouble gaining admittance? Where was the maid? Why did she allow any visitor to see her mistress in such a state?”

“It did seem peculiar, now that you’ve mentioned it.”

“And was the maid present during your interview with the countess? No? Did she attend to her mistress or show you out? No? What would have caused her to be so remiss in her duties? The answer, I believe, is that she was at that moment far too busy posing as the countess herself.”

“What?” I cried. “That doesn’t seem credible, Holmes! Do you mean to say I never spoke to the countess at all? It was the handmaiden all the time? I don’t believe it! The girl’s English wasn’t at all good enough!”

The Prince of Wales cleared his throat. “Dr Watson,” said he, “I fear that what Mr Holmes says is undoubtedly true. It was a deception which the countess often practiced. Her maid would entertain visitors, leaving the countess free to roam the city. The girl’s feigned ignorance of English was part of the charade. The two women closely resembled one another and as young girls had been actresses together in the same company. When the countess married, she took her friend for a travelling companion. It pleased them to have this little game with visitors.”

“Then, where was the real countess during all of this?”

“Dead.”

“Holmes, that simply can’t be! If the countess was already dead when I called at the Cleland, why on earth would Herr Osey and the girl try to convince me that she was alive? What would they hope to accomplish, unless the two of them were involved in the murder—?”

“No, no, Watson. It was not like that at all. Let us try to examine the problem from Herr Osey’s perspective. In his view, the countess was merely unaccounted for, and had been for some time. I’m afraid that he suspected an assignation, rather than a murder. Hence, when you presented yourself at the hotel demanding to speak with the countess, Herr Osey believed that her reputation was at stake.”

“Then this entire deception was staged to protect the countess’s good name?”

“Precisely.”

I thought of my surprise at finding Herr Osey at the Cleland, and of the heated exchange which followed. “Then he really is a gentleman, after all.”

“Yes, he is,” agreed the prince, “and he cared deeply for the countess. She was a... a very captivating woman.”

“Well, that may be true,” said Holmes, “but whatever her feelings towards you may once have been, Your Highness, she had resolved to
allow your letters to be sold to a foreign power. Very much like a woman, I should say.”

The man who would soon be George V stared sadly into his cigar ash. “I like to think she wouldn’t have gone through with it,” he said, “and still… who murdered her? Houdini’s assistant, this Franz fellow?”

“Yes. I’ve no doubt he planned to do so from the beginning. He placed the body in Houdini’s trunk in order to add murder to the list of Houdini’s supposed crimes.”

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Houdini said, again bowing deeply towards the prince, “but this part just doesn’t make sense. I can understand Kleppini holding a grudge against me all these years, but Franz? He was always my most loyal follower. Bess and I treated him as our closest friend. Now I find out that he wanted to see me put in prison, maybe even killed! I don’t understand it, Holmes, what was his reason?”

Holmes regarded the American for what seemed a long while, evidently turning over a difficult decision in his mind. “You won’t like what I have to say,” he began haltingly. “It — it concerns your father.”

“My father? How?”

“Does the name of the Baron Rietzhoff of Budapest mean anything to you? No? Very likely not. That was your assistant’s real name.”

“Franz? A baron? That’s ridiculous! His name was Franz Schultz! His family was wealthy, but he was no baron. And he was from Stuttgart, not Budapest!”

“Yes, that is the story he told to Dr Watson and myself as well.” Holmes looked over at me. “Watson, do you recall what Franz said when we discovered the body of the countess in Houdini’s trunk?”

“Let me see… something in German, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, it was a Hungarian phrase.
Oh istenem.”

“Yes, that is a Hungarian phrase,” Houdini said, “but Franz spoke Hungarian, German, English and several other languages. He had a gift
for it. I don’t see what that proves.”

“It proves nothing. I merely found it suggestive that a man purporting to be a German should use a Hungarian phrase so readily. Considering that you yourself are of Hungarian descent, I thought the coincidence warranted a cable to the Bureau of Police in Budapest. I received a reply only yesterday.”

“What did it say?”

“Yes, Holmes,” the prince urged, “don’t keep us waiting!”

“Watson” — Holmes turned to me again — “after Houdini’s arrest, we paid a call on my brother, Mycroft, at the Diogenes Club. Do you recall what he had to say about Houdini’s father?”

“He said that Houdini’s father was a murderer.”

“That’s outrageous!” Houdini cried. “I told you before, my father was no murderer! How can you say such a thing, and in front of the prince, too!”

“Calm yourself, Mr Houdini,” the prince said. “Dr Watson was only reporting another man’s opinion. He meant no offence.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Houdini, remembering himself, “but you see, I grew up with that lie being spread all around me, and it simply wasn’t true. My father did kill a man in Hungary, but he was forced into it in a duel of honour. That’s why he came to America so late in his life.”

“Houdini,” Holmes said, tightly gripping the knob of his cane, “did you ever know the name of the man your father killed?”

The spark of comprehension appeared in Houdini’s dark eyes, but he shook his head as if to deny it.

“That man’s name was also Baron Rietzhoff of Budapest. He was the father of your assistant, Franz.”

Houdini fixed his gaze upon his hands, which were clasped across his lap. “My father killed Franz’s father?” he asked without looking up.

“I’m afraid so.”

The five of us — the prince, Lord O’Neill, Sherlock Holmes, Houdini and myself — fell silent, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I imagined the man I had come to know as Franz, now revealed as the scion of a noble house, plotting for years on end to bring ruin to the family of his father’s enemy. Then I thought of Houdini, who had made a new life for himself in a new country, and who had known Franz only as a trusted worker and friend. How would Houdini reconcile the loss of his friend with this pervasive desire for vengeance, a vengeance directed against a family whose name he no longer bore?

After a time the prince cleared his throat awkwardly. “Hum! I’ve allowed my cigar to go out. Mr Houdini, may I offer you one?”

“No, thank you, Your Highness,” said Houdini, clearly preoccupied with other thoughts, “I never smoke. It would reduce my lung capacity.”

“You don’t say,” the prince said bemusedly, pausing for a moment in the relighting of his cigar. “Then I suppose I’ll have to curtail my underwater escapes, won’t I?”

“I suppose so,” Houdini agreed distractedly, stepping to the door of the room. “Gentlemen, please excuse me. I must return to the Savoy. Mr Holmes has given me a good deal to think about. I’ll need some time by myself.”

“Harry,” I called, struggling with my cane to get to my feet, “listen to me, please. You musn’t blame yourself for what has happened. It really had very little to do with you.”

He paused for a moment, staring at the heavy door of the Gairstowe vault, and then suddenly he became cheerful. “Oh, I wasn’t referring to that, John. I was talking about this business of sneaking Kleppini onto the grounds in a milk can. It gives me a wonderful idea for an escape! Imagine! An ordinary milk can filled with water! What an escape.”

“It will create a sensation,” I agreed.

“Oh, one last thing,” he said more quietly, turning back at the door.

“Please don’t write about any of this business, John. Not while I’m alive, anyway. It’s just that... well... I’d rather Bess didn’t know the truth. I want her to think that Franz died while trying to protect me. After all” — he gave a broad wink — “the show must go on.”