The Ectoplasmic Man (10 page)

“Well, that’s some relief, anyway.” She looked through the bars at her husband, who was straining his shoulders against his bonds in an apparent attempt to relax his stiff muscles. Mrs Houdini continued, “Have you and Sherlock Holmes made any progress? Have you turned up any clues in our favour? You seem to be the only people in London who believe that Harry is innocent.”

“Holmes is confident,” I assured her. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t discrediting the case against your husband even now.” I went on to describe our encounter with Mycroft Holmes at the Diogenes Club, which seemed to interest Mrs Houdini greatly.

“Mycroft Holmes?” she asked. “And he works at Whitehall, you said? Very well. Harry, I’ll be back in an hour or so. Franz will be here at two. Dr Watson, I hope to see you when this business is concluded. I’m off to Whitehall.”

“But Mrs Houdini,” I said, “Mycroft Holmes is—” But the resolute woman was already at the far door, calling for the guard to let her out.

“You may as well save your breath, Dr Watson,” Houdini told me. “Bess is determined to clear my name even if she has to speak to the prime minister himself. If your Mycroft Holmes is anywhere in London, she’ll find him.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I suspect she’s let herself in for more than she knows with Holmes’s brother.”

“Maybe not, Watson. I have a brother of my own, you know. His name is Theo. Theo Hardeen, the Wizard of Handcuffs.”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with the name,” I allowed.

“No one else is either, Doctor, that’s Theo’s problem. And those people who do see him remember him only as Houdini’s brother. I know he dislikes that, but Mama always said — Mama! Thank God she didn’t live to see me like this! Can you imagine? It would have killed her. She was so proud of my success, so proud. And now” — Houdini lowered his eyes — “they say I’m a crook. How can I prove I’m not? I never did a dishonest thing in my life. I earned everything I ever got. Try telling that to your Inspector Lestrade, or to your Mycroft Holmes of the British government.”

“You’ll be free soon, Mr Houdini. Sherlock Holmes will vindicate you. You can go to the Diogenes Club and tell Mycroft just what you’ve told me.”

“At one of your exclusive British clubs? Hah! I’m a master at getting out of things, Dr Watson, not getting in. There are some walls even I cannot pass through.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No? Dr Watson, my father was a rabbi. I am a Jew. My real name is Erich Weiss. How many American Jews do you suppose one finds in your British clubs, dining with the earls and dukes?”

I considered this for a moment, then I recalled something which Mycroft Holmes had said the previous evening. “Mr Houdini,” I hesitated, “Mycroft Holmes said, that is, I believe he said that your father was a... a murderer.”

Houdini gave a choked cry and twisted violently in his bonds. “A murderer! My father! Had you known, Dr Watson! He was the gentlest spirit I ever knew, a holy man!” Houdini paused here, breathing heavily. With an effort, he brought his emotions under control. “My father was forced against his will to fight a duel of honour, after which he fled from Budapest to America so that he would not be persecuted. That is why he was so determined to raise his sons as Americans, though he never truly
understood American customs, or even the language. That is why I am proud to be an American, in spite of what you British say about us. And can you doubt it? Look at what has happened to me here! Accused of a crime I did not commit, the master of escape rots in jail! Hail Britannia!”

Having delivered himself of this diatribe, Houdini hung his head as if exhausted. After a few moments he recovered himself and raised his head to look at me. His eyes had glazed over once more, and he spoke in absolutely lifeless tones. “Perhaps you had best leave me now, Doctor. Soon it will be time for the guards to let me up for my exercise and meal, and then I will be trussed up again. Tell Sherlock Holmes I am still here. The Great Houdini is still in jail.”

I could not bring myself to meet his eyes as I rose to take my leave.

^*
In fact, it was at least the fourth time.

T
HE
C
OUNTESS IS
I
NDISPOSED

F
rom Scotland Yard I went directly to the Cleland Hotel, where the Countess Valenka had taken rooms. Seeing Houdini in such a state had given me an even greater desire to bring this unhappy matter to a close as quickly as could be managed. As I alighted from my cab before the Cleland, I resolved that if the countess knew anything at all which would hasten this conclusion, I would not withdraw until I had discovered it.

The Cleland is one of the smaller, more private hotels of the kind which have now grown lamentably scarce. Operated for more than a century by successive generations of the Cleland family, the hotel is known for its hearty Scots hospitality and for its justifiably famous haggis.
*
I often had occasion to lodge there during my student days, and it is some indication of my boisterous youth that I am remembered there still. Happily, the staff bears me no ill will, and upon enquiry I was politely directed to the countess’s suite of rooms on the third floor. I recall wondering, as I was taken up in the lift, why the countess had forsaken the fashionable hotels in the Strand for this more reclusive and modest dwelling. Perhaps she had grown weary of society, I thought, or perhaps she did not wish her movements to be observed.

^*
Haggis is a Scottish dish made from the lungs, heart and other offal of a sheep or calf, mixed with suet, oatmeal and seasonings, and boiled in the animal’s stomach. One supposes that Watson’s Scottish heritage enabled him to tolerate it.

In the antechamber of the countess’s rooms I was met by a diminutive German handmaiden who, though she was clearly well-bred, spoke a rather tortured and unwilling English. Attempting to communicate the nature of my visit as best I could, I quickly discerned, amid a great flurry of answering gestures, that the countess was indisposed.

The reader will understand that from a very early age I was taught that the right of a woman to find herself suddenly indisposed is sacred and inviolate. Under normal circumstances I should have immediately taken my leave, but the thought of Houdini languishing in his cell pressed me to continue, even at the risk of indelicacy. Using a series of grave facial expressions and gesticulations, I somehow managed to impress the great importance of my visit upon the countess’s attendant, and she, with a beautifully eloquent shrug, agreed to present my card to her ailing mistress.

The handmaiden had scarcely left the room before the sound of a most animated discussion issued forth from the countess’s bedroom. Though I did not intend to eavesdrop, I could not fail to note that one of the voices undoubtedly belonged to a gentleman. I need hardly point out that a gentleman in the bedroom of a proper lady is acutely irregular. A moment later, the bedroom door opened and Herr Osey, the German diplomat, stepped out.

“Ah, my dear Dr Watson,” he said in his careful English, “how good it is to see you again! A most unexpected pleasure!”

“Yes,” I replied with some asperity, “most unexpected.”

“I see that you are, ah, surprised to find me here, Doctor. You must
allow me to explain.”

“I require no explanation, Herr Osey,” I said. “I wish only to speak to the countess.”

“But that is impossible!” he cried, throwing up his hands. “The countess is very ill! That is why you found me in her boudoir, Doctor. Do you understand? She will not allow anyone else near her until her private physician arrives from München.”

Here again I was treading on very thin ice, for Herr Osey was a highly placed German official. But I did not need Sherlock Holmes to tell me that there was a good deal more here than met the eye, so I continued to press my suit.

“I am sorry to learn that the countess is unwell,” I said, “but I must see her. I wish only to ask her a few questions on behalf of Mr Holmes. A man’s freedom may depend upon it.”

“It is quite impossible,” Herr Osey said firmly.

“Then I shall wait here until it becomes possible.”

He eyed me carefully. “A gentleman would not insist.”

“There are many things which a gentleman would not do,” I said pointedly, nodding towards the countess’s chamber, “but you forget that I am also a doctor, and may be of some assistance.”

“But I’ve already told you, she refuses to see any British doctor. She will see only her personal doctor.”

“That’s absurd!” I cried. “If he is coming all the way from Munich it may take a week for him to arrive. I’m certain that I can be of some use to the countess in the interim. If she does not wish to see me, so be it. But I should prefer to hear that from her own lips.”

Herr Osey faltered, evidently seeking further arguments to dissuade me, but seeing that I remained firm he had no choice but to consent.

“Very well, Dr Watson, I will see what I can do.” I stood at the window until Herr Osey reappeared to take me in to the countess.

“She really is feeling quite weak,” he said. “I don’t know what it is that you wish to ask her, but I’m afraid she may not be able to speak at all.”

Indeed, I was not certain myself just what it was that I wished to ask the countess, save that I was to determine the state of her affections for the prince. This would have been a tricky business even under the best of conditions, but now my task was complicated by her apparent ill health and by the unexpected presence of the German diplomat. I have some experience with women, as Holmes is so fond of reminding me, but this situation was quite foreign even to me, and I had no idea of what to expect as Herr Osey ushered me into the countess’s presence.

As we passed through a set of French doors, I was immediately struck by the outlandish decor of the chamber in which I found myself. Clearly the countess had imported all her own furnishings, for they in no way reflected the stolid tastes of the Cleland. Neither was the effect at all European, but rather an uncomfortable blending of oriental and Egyptian fancies. Colourful paper lanterns depended from the ceiling, delicate vases, scrolls and fans filled every shelf and table surface, and at the centre of the room stood a four-fold painted silk screen which showed a large silvery spider luring a moth to its doom.

“Have a seat, Dr Watson,” said Herr Osey, closing the doors behind us, “the countess will join us in a moment.”

I stepped further into the room and was all but overwhelmed by the thick atmosphere of sweet incense which poured forth from at least three pots.

“Good heavens!” I cried. “This smoke can’t be doing her condition any good! Let me open a window at once!”

“Please do not do so, Doctor,” came a feminine voice from behind me. “I find the aroma so very soothing.”

I turned about and found myself in the presence of one of the four most exotic women I have ever run across. The ivory miniature in Herr
Osey’s pocket-watch was but a pale suggestion of the reality, for this was a face that would have thoroughly eviscerated a younger man. Her hair, though pulled back in a severe style, was dark and lustrous, like the brown eyes which were large enough to accommodate both fervour and ideation. A high forehead and strong facial lines gave her a mien of proud self-possession, which was only slightly marred by a perceptibly misdirected nose.

“I am the Countess Valenka,” she said, stepping across the room, “and you, of course, are Dr Vatson. Vat a pleasure it is to meet you! Can you forgif me for keeping you vaiting?” Her accent was thick but pleasing, giving stress to odd syllables.

“It is I who must beg to be forgiven,” said I, “for intruding upon you in your present condition.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she cried, arching her slender neck. “I am vell enough. Nichlaus tends to exaggerate my little ailments beyond all reason.”

“Even so,” I said, “I am a doctor, and if you are feeling unwell I may be able to provide some assistance.”

“That’s very kind, Doctor. Please do not take it amiss if I refuse. It is not that I lack confidence in your medical skills, but simply I vould not care to discuss my condition vith a stranger.”

Herr Osey stepped forward. “There, Dr Watson, the situation is just as I told you. The countess wishes to be left alone. Will you leave with me now?”

“Vait, Nichlaus, I did not say that.” She gave the diplomat a reproving look. “I vould not think of sending the doctor away so abruptly. After all, it is not often I receive so distinguished a visitor. Imagine! The author of the Sherlock Holmes stories!” She looked back at me. “Ve read your stories in Germany, you know. You haf many, many readers in my country. No, I vouldn’t think of sending you avay, Dr Vatson. Please do sit down.”

I took a seat near the window while the countess arranged herself
on a low divan. She wore a close-fitting floral kimono and Japanese bedslippers, which echoed the Eastern flavour of the room, and as she propped herself up on a pile of silk cushions, I noticed a heavy chain of agate and jade about her neck.

“And now ve are comfortable, Doctor, you must tell me everything about this beastly friend of yours, Mr Sherlock Holmes.”