The Floating Lady Murder (21 page)

“Yes,” Harry acknowledged. “I suppose you would have.”

“I tell you, Houdini, this thing has got me beat. I’m clever enough to help to create the Levitation of Princess Karnac, but I can’t figure out how Francesca Moore drowned in mid-air.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “It is a bit of a knotty problem.”

“From your side of the bars it’s a knotty problem, Houdini,” Collins said. “From my side, it’s rather more serious.”

“Do you believe him?” I asked Harry, as Lieutenant Murray led us back up the steel stairs.

Harry spent a moment considering his answer. “I suppose I do,” he said, “though I can’t exactly say why. There are so many questions unanswered. Still, I consider myself a good judge of character, and there is something about his story that rings true.”

“I’ll grant you that he seems like a solid citizen,” said the lieutenant, pausing in front of the dispatcher’s desk, “but it still doesn’t explain how Francesca Moore came to be dead.”

“I know,” Harry admitted, “and yet...”

“What?” I asked.

“Well, it’s exactly as Collins said. If I were planning to drown Miss Moore and then throw her from the highest point in the Belasco Theater, I like to think that I’d do a better job of covering my tracks.”

“You fell for that, did you?” asked Murray, leading us toward the front doors. “Hell, that one was already old when St. Paddy was a boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“Houdini, we were never meant to discover that Miss Moore drowned. When a woman falls from a great height— with hundreds of witnesses, mind—and has a broken neck to show for it, most people wouldn’t think to check for water in the lungs. But Doc Peterson isn’t most people.” The lieutenant pushed open the front doors and led us outside onto the marble steps. “Think about it. So long as we believed that she died in the fall, Collins’s story would have held good. We’d have concluded that the whole thing was an accident. The drowning is what knocks his story to pieces. He never figured on us finding out about that.”

“I’m still not convinced.”

“That bothers me, Houdini. That worries me a lot.”

“Lieutenant, you have to admit—”

“Look, Houdini,” the lieutenant said sharply, “I appreciate the fact that this Collins is a friend of yours. And I can understand how it might come as a bit of a blow to find out that he’s a murderer, especially with you being such a fine judge of character and all. But he’s the killer, and I’m going to prove it—one way or another. If I were you I’d find something else to worry about, like finding a job. I don’t think Mr. Kellar will be taking his show out on the road any time soon. Good morning, gentlemen.” With that, he stepped back into the precinct house and closed the door behind him.

Harry and I walked along Delancy Street in silence for a few moments. “Small steps,” he said, after a moment. “Everything in small steps.”

“What?” I asked.

“We have a busy day ahead,” he announced, starting off briskly in the direction of the elevated train.

“Harry, Lieutenant Murray wants us to stay out of the way.”

“Lieutenant Murray has already made up his mind that Collins is guilty. I have not. Therefore, our paths are not likely to cross.”

“But what can we do?”

“If we proceed from the hypothesis that Mr. Collins is telling the truth, then it stands to reason that someone else is responsible for the death of Miss Moore.”

“You’re no longer blaming the restless spirit of Kalliffa?”

“I am compelled to set that theory aside for the moment.” He turned a corner onto Orchard Street. “I believe that if we were able to discover how Miss Moore was killed, we should soon find out who killed her.”

“Makes sense.”

“Lieutenant Murray laid out two very distinct possibilities—a jealous lover or a rival of Mr. Kellar’s. Since he believes Mr. Collins is the villain, he is obviously leaning toward the former. I favor the latter. There can be no other explanation for the sensational manner in which she was killed.”

“I’m not sure I entirely agree.”

“I thought you might not. That is why I am assigning you to look into the young lady’s background.”

“Her background?”

“We know very little about Miss Moore. I believe there may be some clues to be had in a thorough investigation of her past. Are you still acquainted with that newspaper fellow? What was his name again?”

“Biggs. Harry, you know perfectly well that his name is Biggs. Are you never going to forgive him for that bad review?”

He pretended not to hear me. “The newspaper archive at the
New York World
is perhaps the finest resource of information in the city. I want you to see what you can discover about Miss Moore—particularly her years with the Kendall Brothers.”

“Harry, it seems unlikely that there would be much information in the newspaper morgue. The Kendall Brothers are strictly bottom-rung.”

“It is a fool’s errand, actually. But I see no other means of convincing you that Miss Moore was simply a pawn in a larger plot against Mr. Kellar. Therefore I must allow you to eliminate
the hypothesis that she was the sole victim. At the same time, you might look through the Kellar file and discover if you can isolate anyone who might be harboring a grudge against him.”

“Kellar’s file will be massive! It could take all day!”

“That will give me just enough time,” Harry said.

“Enough time for what?”

“Enough time to deal with this,” he said, stopping abruptly before a large theatrical poster. It showed a trim, dapper man in a tailcoat, gesturing extravagantly at a ghostly figure that appeared to be hovering above the heads of an enraptured audience. “Servais Le Roy presents his greatest mystery yet!” the poster announced. “The Mystery of Lhassa—a woman floats in the empty space!” A slash-panel pasted along the lower corner read: “Debut tomorrow evening!”

“Well, I’ll be a fish on a bicycle,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“Servais Le Roy is in town, performing a Floating Lady illusion.”

“Indeed.”

“He and Kellar usually avoid each other like the plague.”

“Indeed.”

“So the timing is...suggestive.”

“Indeed.”

“Harry, what are you going to do?”

“Me? I am going to do exactly as Lieutenant Murray suggested.”

“What’s that?”

“I am going to ask Mr. Servais Le Roy for a job.”

11

I SPENT TEN MINUTES GRILLING HIM, BUT HARRY REFUSED TO
elaborate on this curious remark. We parted in front of the courthouse after arranging to meet at the end of the day. I rode the elevated train to the offices of the
World,
convinced that an afternoon of fruitless labor lay before me. The prospect was not entirely unpleasant, as my friend Biggs could usually be relied upon for the name of a good pony or two.

I found Biggs slouched over an angled compositor’s desk, as always. He wore his customary grey tweed suit with an open waistcoat and carelessly knotted wool tie, along with the ragged expression of a man perpetually three days behind on his sleep. His wavy red hair seemed to be fleeing in all directions from a bald patch at the back of his head, and dark smudges clung to his pale blue eyes.

“Dash, you old pepperpot!” he shouted when he saw me lounging in the doorway. “Just the man I need to see! Where have you been? Your landlady hasn’t seen you for a week!”

“I’ve been on the road,” I said, tossing my Trilby onto a battered stand in the corner. “We only got back to town yesterday.”

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “you’ve been working with the Kellar show. I know all about that, of course. That’s why I’ve been looking for you. The death of the Floating Lady! The tragedy of the falling star! It’s the biggest story of the year, and
somehow you and the ape man have wound up right at the center of it!”

“You really must stop calling him that.”

“Oh, but I will, dear boy. Just as soon as he stops dragging his knuckles on the ground.”

I sighed. Biggs and my brother had nurtured an intense dislike for one another since boyhood. Biggs had been a sensitive and somewhat fragile boy, while Harry had been a bit of a showoff and a bully. It made for a poor combination. My friend had matured into a fine journalist and a promising writer, while Harry had turned his youthful braggadocio into the cornerstone of his act. It remained a poor combination.

“Pull up a stool and tell me everything you know,” Biggs was saying. “Don’t leave out anything, especially if it’s gruesome.”

“To be candid, I’m not certain that I can add anything to what appeared in your newspaper this morning. The account of Miss Moore’s injuries was rather shocking in its detail.”

“Well, yes. We have a man at the city morgue. But I need you for the background. Come on, young Hardeen. Tell me everything about the accident. From the beginning.”

I sat down and passed twenty minutes or so giving him an account of our actions from our first day with the Kellar company, carefully omitting any reference to the fact that Miss Moore’s death had not been an accident. I took particular care to lavish attention on Harry’s encounter with Boris the lion, which sent Biggs’s pen flying over the pages of his notebook.

“Finally came up against a mouth bigger than his own, did he?” Biggs chuckled. “It was bound to happen one day.”

“It’s not a laughing matter, Biggs. That lion could easily have killed half the company.”

“I know, Dash. I know. And I’ll be certain to cast the Great Houdini in a properly heroic light when the time comes. Tell me, how is Mr. Kellar bearing up? I understand he’s taken it all rather hard.”

“He feels responsible for the death of Miss Moore, as one
might expect,” I said carefully. “She came to harm in his employ.”

“Yes, but I understood that he was thinking of closing the show for good. Leaving the field to men like this Le Roy character.”

“That would be a great loss,” I said, “but I would not presume to speak for Mr. Kellar.”

Biggs eyed me carefully, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Why, Dash Hardeen! You’re holding out on me! When did you get to be so crafty?”

My cheeks reddened. “Mr. Kellar requires confidentiality from his employees,” I said.

“Well, well. Then it can’t be a desire to tell everything that brought you to the offices of the
World
this morning. How may the fourth estate be of service, may I ask?”

“I want to find out a bit more about Miss Moore if I can.”

He gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”

“It may help me to understand how the accident occurred.”

“Balderdash,” he said. “I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Dash. What are you hiding?”

“Nothing, I assure you. I just—”

“Can’t help you, in any case. She’s a complete blank. Not a thing in our files.”

“I may have a better idea of where to look.”

“Oh, really?” Biggs asked, hopping down off his stool. “Are you willing to share?”

I nodded.

“Then let’s head down to the crypt.”

He led me through a warren of offices to a dim basement chamber arrayed with row upon row of dusty wooden file cabinets. “I’ve already been down here this morning,” he said, pulling open a creaky file drawer. “There’s nothing here under the name of Francesca Moore. The unfortunate woman is a bit of a puzzle. Quite an eyeful, I understand.”

“You’ve no idea,” I said. “These are the footlight files?”

“From here to that wall, yes. Everything we have on drama
and the arts, going back forty-two years.”

I reached for the drawer marked with a “K.”

“ ‘K’ for Kellar?” asked Biggs.

“No, ‘K’ for Kendall Brothers. Miss Moore received her acrobatic training with them.”

“Never heard of the Kendall Brothers.”

“I’m not surprised. They’re small-time.”

“How did Miss Moore happen to cross paths with Kellar, then, for all of her surpassing beauty? It’s been some time since he played anything less than the Palace.”

“Mr. Kellar doesn’t engage his own staff. He leaves that to his manager, Mr. McAdow. I can only assume that McAdow keeps an eye on the variety circuits, looking out for rising talent. Let me see...” I thumbed through the sheaves of yellowing documents until I came across the file on the Kendall Brothers. The packet was notably slim, and when I opened it a single newspaper clipping fluttered out.