The Floating Lady Murder (2 page)

See how she floats, as though on a gentle zephyr, borne aloft by the hypnotic force of animal magnetism. Please don’t make a sound, ladies and gentlemen, for the slightest disturbance may break the spell
...

The old man stopped outside the parlor door. But would he tell all of it? Would he tell them about Kellar? About the enchanting Francesca Moore? About Servais Le Roy and that astonishing hoop skirt? He hesitated, smoothing his lapels while he tried to arrange the details in his mind. Yes, he told himself, it could work. Besides, who would be harmed if he told the story now, after so many years? All he needed was a hook—a snappy curtain-raiser to catch their attention and hold it. He frowned over the loose thread at his elbow. Ah. Certainly. Very well, then.

You see, young man, Harry and I were present when that famous illusion was created. Oh, yes. No one has ever heard this story before, because it had a rather tragic outcome, I’m afraid. The first time it was performed
—
the first lady ever to float in mid-air
—
well, she died. The trick killed her. How? Well, that’s a very strange thing.

And here the Great Hardeen would allow himself a dramatic pause.
You see, young man, she drowned.

The old man smiled, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward to greet his interviewer.

I’m sorry, Mr. Matthews? Yes, that’s what I said. She drowned. Yes. While doing the trick. While floating. Yes. In mid-air.

Pardon? You’d like to hear about it? Well, it’s rather a long story, and you seemed so interested in that Belle Island Bridge
leap, perhaps you’d prefer if we—no? Very well, but I must warn you that it’s been many years since I’ve thought back on the Floating Lady, and it’s possible that some of the details may have grown a bit muddled. Mr. Kellar made us both promise that we’d keep silent about the matter, out of respect for Miss Moore, so I’ve never had occasion to tell the story before. But it can hardly matter now, can it? They’re all long gone. So far as I know, even Silent Felsden has never—pardon? My apologies. I suppose I’m getting a bit ahead of the story.

I seem to recall that the newspapers were in high dudgeon over the tragedy of the U.S.S.
Maine,
so it must have been January, or perhaps February, of 1898. Times had been pretty hard for Harry and myself. We’d had a brief burst of notoriety the previous year when we successfully escaped from Sing Sing prison, but it hadn’t lasted long. Harry had yet to find regular work of any kind, and was a long way from achieving the worldwide fame he so desperately craved. My job in those days was to serve as Harry’s advance man and booking agent. “You will sort through the various offers and opportunities as they present themselves,” Harry had informed me, “and you will inspect each potential venue to determine whether it will be suitable for the Great Houdini.” To be candid, there wasn’t a whole lot of sorting and inspecting required. I don’t recall that a single offer or opportunity ever “presented itself” in the manner that Harry imagined. I had to go out and beat the bushes. Much of my time was spent knocking on the doors of talent scouts, sitting in the waiting rooms of booking agents, and twisting the arms of theatrical managers. I can’t say I was especially good at it. Every so often Harry pulled a week or so at one of the Dime Museums down around Union Square, and sometimes we’d do a month or two with the Welsh Brothers Circus, but on the whole we lived fairly close to the bone.

I was twenty-one years old at the time, and Harry was two years older. We were barely out of short pants in some respects, but when it came to show business, we felt like old hands.
Worse, we were beginning to feel washed up. Strange as it may seem, in his youth Harry did far better as a magician and circus performer than he did as an escape artist. The “self-liberation” act had yet to find its audience, and Harry had not yet cultivated his genius for self-promotion. Whatever bookings came our way usually owed something to the bright sparkle of Harry’s wife, Bess. There wasn’t a theatrical manager alive whose icy heart failed to melt at the mere sight of Bess. I suppose you couldn’t have called her a beauty in the conventional sense, but there was something about her that just stopped you right in your tracks. Trust me on this.

One of my duties as Harry’s manager was to keep an eye on the notice columns of the
New York Dramatic Mirror.
That’s where I saw Kellar’s posting, and I suppose that’s how all the trouble began. I read the
Mirror
religiously each morning with my tea and toast, trolling for tips and opportunities, and I would remain a faithful reader for many years, long after I no longer had the need. It was a marvelous paper, filled with column after column of news bits, booking information and “situation wanted” notices. I especially loved the back pages, where the call and response of daily business was played out in tiny snippets.
Toupées manufactured, discretion assured. Stage gowns fitted, credit available. Voice culture lessons, the speaking voice thoroughly trained and developed. Stage dancing, positions secured.
Over time, one could track the waxing and waning of a career or touring company.
Edwin Thanhouser, Light Comedian, At Liberty. Grand Annual Tour of the Brilliant Comedienne Alma Chester, Supported by a Powerful Company of Recognized Artists in a Repertoire of Splendid Scenic Productions. Wanted by Mabel Paige: A Gentleman of Reputation to Work with her in a Sketch for Vaudeville.

Truth be told, it was seldom that I came across a notice that held any promise for Harry or myself. On that particular morning, however, it appeared that our prospects had suddenly brightened. There, on page 28, beneath a booking call for Proctor’s Leland Opera House, was a thick, blocky headline reading: “Oh, You
Wonder!” Beneath it were the words: “Opportunities with the Famous Magician Kellar.” A photograph of the great man stared out at me, with the familiar egg-shaped bald head and clear, searching eyes.

I need hardly say that the name of Harry Kellar was as familiar to me as my own. Without question he was the most famous magician in America, and perhaps the entire world. Indeed, at that time there were many who ranked Kellar ahead of Bosco and Signor Blitz as the greatest conjuror of all history. His staging of an illusion entitled “The Witch, The Sailor, and The Enchanted Monkey” had been the sensation of the previous season, and the catch phrase “Oh, You Wonder!” had been on the lips of every member of his vast audiences.

My heart quickened as I read the small print beneath the photograph. “Staff required for ’98–’99 Season,” it read. “Apply Dudley McAdow, Mgr., 131 B’way.” I folded the paper into thirds and reached for my coat and Trilby. Our troubles were over, I told myself. I felt certain Harry would be overjoyed by this news.

With my heart aglow at the prospect of steady employment, I hurried to my mother’s flat on East 69th Street. In those days, Harry and Bess lodged with Mother as a matter of economy, while I kept a room at Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house seven blocks away. Finances being what they were, it would probably have been better for all concerned if I had stayed at home as well, but I could not bring myself to do so. I felt that a man of twenty-one ought to be cutting the apron strings and making his own way in the world, though my brother held quite a different view. Also, I fancied myself as something of a dashing rake at the time, and I feared that living at home might place unwelcome restrictions on my social life. That particular concern, I regret to say, was unwarranted. Apart from the occasional night of theater with my friend Biggs, and a periodic hand of whist with fellow lodgers at Mrs. Arthur’s, my social calendar was not overburdened. I spent a great deal of time at the library.

I arrived at East 69th Street to find my mother hovering over the stove as always, preparing the cabbages and carrots for a goulash. The air was heavy with paprika.

“My darling Theodore!” Mother called as I came through the kitchen door. “Sit! Sit! I will bring you a plate! You could use a little something on your stomach!”

It was a familiar greeting. In my carnival days I often had occasion to work with a 412-pound man named Hector Armadale. Hector was a delightful fellow and a wonderful storyteller, and it was always my hope that I would find an opportunity to bring him home to my mother, just to see if she would insist that this professional fat man could “use a little something on his stomach.”

“Good morning, Mama,” I said, setting my hat on the sideboard. “Thank you, but I won’t take anything to eat just now. I have already had my breakfast.” I nodded at my sister-in-law, who was stirring a pot of heavy porridge oats. “Good morning, Bess.”

“Good morning, Dash,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “Why are you so bright and eager this morning?”

“I come bearing the promise of steady employment,” I replied, brandishing the
Mirror.
“There might be something here for all three of us!”

“Thank heaven,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Mama and I have been taking in extra sewing, but—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But this could be the solution to all our worries, if only he can be made to see it that way. Where is the justly celebrated self-liberator, by the way?”

“You mean the all-eclipsing sensation of the stage? The man whom the
Milwaukee Sentinel
described as the ‘most captivating entertainer in living memory’?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s still in the bath.”

“He’s running a bit late this morning,” I said, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table. “Normally the smell of Mama’s
porridge is enough to—”

“Actually, Dash, you might want to go check on him.”

“Pardon?”

“He—he’s in training. He’s been in there an awfully long time.”

“Oh.” I stood up again. “I’ll just go and make sure he’s still with us.”

“Yes, run along, Theodore,” Mother said. “Tell your brother his breakfast is getting cold.”

“Among other things,” Bess said.

I hurried down the center hall to the water closet and gave a quick rap on the door. Receiving no answer, I turned the knob and stepped inside.

As Bess had indicated, Harry was having a long bath, as one might have expected from one so fastidious in his personal grooming. What might have struck the casual observer as odd, however, was that my brother was entirely submerged beneath the waterline, and there were large chunks of ice floating on the surface.

I should perhaps explain that it was not unusual for my brother to bathe in ice water. He had recently hit upon the idea of leaping from bridges, fully tied and manacled, in order to win free publicity for himself. It was his hope that a regimen of cold immersions would inure him to the shock of the frigid river waters. At the same time, these long sessions in the family bathtub gave him an opportunity to build up his lung power.

I glanced at my Elgin pocket watch and waited as two minutes ticked past. How long would Harry stay down? How long had he been down before I arrived? I perched on the edge of the tub and stared down at my brother. His eyes were closed, his hands were clasped across his stomach and his expression was entirely peaceful. A tiny trickle of air bubbles escaped from the corner of his mouth. I looked again at my watch. Three minutes.

I took off my jacket and unfastened my shift cuff. Reaching down, I dipped my hand in the water and tapped my brother
on the shoulder. Harry opened his eyes and let out a watery cry of delight, sending up a rush of air bubbles. “Dash!” he cried, breaking the surface abruptly. “Did you see me? I believe that may have been a new record!”

“Harry, you need to be a bit more careful,” I said, noting the bluish tinge of his lips. “How long have you been in there?”

“Oh, not long,” he said carelessly. “But that was certainly one of my better sessions. I believe I might have stayed down there another minute or two if you hadn’t startled me. It’s a question of mind control, really.” He rose dripping from the tub and reached for a towel. “I’ve been reading the most fascinating little monograph about the fakirs of India. It seems that they can suppress their breathing altogether when the conditions are right. What did they call it?
Kakta? Kafta?
Never mind. I understood what they were driving at. It has to do with the power of the mind.” He vigorously towelled himself dry and slipped on a robe. “It seems that if one can learn to focus the mind’s energy upon a single—say, Dash, what are you doing in here, anyway?”

“I’m the only talent agent in New York who makes house calls,” I said, thrusting the
Mirror
notice at him. “Cast your eyes on that!”

“A job?” Harry asked. “At last! I was beginning to think I’d never—” He snatched up the paper and scanned the item. “What?” he cried, his features darkening. “Impossible! It won’t do at all!”

“But—why—?”

“I wouldn’t even consider such a thing!” He tossed the paper aside. “The very idea is preposterous!”

“But Harry—?” I picked up the paper and looked again at the Kellar notice, wondering if there had been some mistake.

“Not at present, in any event. That sort of thing might do for you, Dash, but the Great Houdini must look elsewhere.”

I followed him down the hall to his bedroom, where he persisted in giving voice to his ill opinion as he dressed in his
familiar black suit, starched white shirt and red bow tie. The peroration continued as he led me back along the corridor to the kitchen. We arrived just as mother was serving up a steaming bowl of porridge oats, a dish I have never been able to tolerate. I noted with rising alarm that a place had now been set for me.

“Sit down, boys,” Mother said, pouring out a fresh pot of tea. “It will be cold soon.”

“Mama,” I said weakly. “I told you that I’d already had breakfast at Mrs. Arthur’s.”

“And did Mrs. Arthur give you a nice cup of wheat grass tea?” Mother asked sweetly.

“No, but—”

“Was there a slice or two of brown toast?”

“No, but I—”

“And does Mrs. Arthur give you fresh cream with your porridge?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“Then you haven’t had breakfast.” Mama touched the back of my chair and beamed at me. It was a smile that would brook no resistance. “Sit, Theodore,” she said.