Who Done Houdini (15 page)

 

Chapter 21

W
e spent the rest of the day devising and evaluating our strategies. Violet's scheme, involving kidnapping, won my vote in two categories: the most creative, and most impractical. There indeed were windows in Croydon's house, but no obvious back doors. Furthermore, though I was still quite athletic for my age, I had never acquired the skills necessary to perform as a human fly.

Rose's idea was to call Margery out on an errand. Far less creative, but more practical. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to distract the bodyguard.

I wasn't surprised when Holmes remained close-mouthed about his stratagem. He began by making a phone call to Boston General to find out if Dr. Croydon would be at the hospital the next day.

His lips pulled into a tight smile as he listened to a somewhat lengthy reply. Then he hung up. “Some very interesting news. Not only will Dr. Croydon be away from Ten Lime Street tomorrow, he's leaving in the morning to attend a conference in New York regarding pathogenic blood diseases. It seems Doctor Croydon was the attending physician when Calvin Coolidge, Jr., son of your president, died in June of 1924. There weren't any medicines strong enough to save him.”

“I remember that,” I said. “Calvin, Jr., had played tennis without socks and got a blister on his toe. It became infected. He died days later from erysipelas. I've read the president remains heartbroken to this day.”

“Is there any chance Margery will be going to New York with the doctor?” Holmes asked.

“I have the answer to that,” Violet said. “She's giving a speech to a local Spiritualist society tonight at the Bell in Hand on Union Street. They're holding their meeting there to celebrate Prohibition.”

“What time is that?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“Then I'm sure Sir Arthur and Lady Jean are already planning to attend,” Holmes muttered. “This may be an opportunity in disguise.”

“Is there any chance Becker will be staying with Margery while Dr. Croydon's gone?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” Rose said, making a sour face. “For one thing, he isn't a very appealing specimen of manhood. For another, there really isn't anything he can do to further her career.”

“Even if he's not sleeping with her, I'm sure he's lurking somewhere near,” Holmes said with a wry smile. “He knows we'll contact her sooner or later. Put simply, she's bait. All he has to do is bide his time.”

“That could work to our advantage,” I said. “If he's fishing for us, he won't want anyone else around when we decide to nibble. All we have to do is steal the worm out from under his nose.”

“Indeed, Wiggins,” Holmes said cheerfully. “Though I doubt Mrs. Croydon would very much like being termed a worm. This is delightful, my friend. Becker knows we know what he's up to. It's playing chess against Moriarty once again. We'll just have to see who is the better chess player. I'm placing my wager on us. Now to work.”

 

For the opening move
, Holmes
had me draw a sketch of Albert Becker. I had not drawn a caricature for several weeks, but, with Holmes's and Rose's assistance, we came up with a good likeness.

“Now we need to turn this drawing into fifty copies,” Holmes said. “I understand a miraculous new printing process will do just that.”

“It's called mimeography,” I said. “It's not that new, nor is it all that miraculous. The hotel will know where to find printers that use it.”

“Then I'll call room service and have them take care of it. How would you like to be in charge of recruiting the Lime Street Irregulars?”

“Me?”

“Yes. I'm far too old for such matters. You'll need a costume, of course. I should have kept the cap with earflaps you bought for me. That and a scarf around your face would make a good disguise.”

“Ha ha,” I said in a mirthless voice.

“I recommend you find an older boy to be your sergeant to gather and pass on intelligence to you. He'll help you do the recruiting, too. I'll be the paymaster, of course. Will fifty cents apiece per day to our agents be enough, do you think?”

“You can buy almost any boy in Boston for a week for fifty cents.” I said. Years melted away and all the pleasures of my London boyhood returned in strength. “The Croydons live in a pretty exclusive neighborhood. It may not be easy for our Irregulars to get information.”

“Boys are still as cunning as they were when I needed them in your day, Wiggins. You never let me down.”

“This'll take time. What if Dr. Croydon returns before we're done?”

“The hospital said he won't be back until the end of the week. That gives us four days.”

 

A bell tinkled a merry
warning as I opened the door to the nameless basement level grocery on River Street. A large display case filled with a king's ransom of sweets at the front of the store was the first thing that caught my eye. It meant there were children in the neighborhood. I eyed the liquorice pipes with especial interest. I fancied them myself.

The man behind the front counter noticed. “Afternoon. Anything I can get you?”

“Give me a dime's worth of the pipes. My grandson really likes them.”

He dropped ten into a paper bag. “Anything else?”

“Not now, thanks. Actually, I'm looking for a young man to help me move some boards onto my trailer. You know anyone who might want to earn a dollar for a few minute's work?”

“Heck, even I'd work for that.”

“I'm afraid you're too old for the job, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Sam Albright's twelve, so he should be big enough to be able to help you. He lives just down the block.”

“Would you mind calling his mother to see if he'd be interested.”

“Got a nickel?”

I handed him one, grinning.

A large rectangular wooden box with sizable pieces of metal bursting out of it hung on the wall next to counter. The grocer cranked the handle. “Hi, Bernice. Andrew eight two three four.”

I bit off the handle of one of my liquorice pipes. I never chewed them. They were just the right size to suck.

“Hi. Is that you, Sam? Your mother around?”

I stood on one foot and then the other. I always hated to have to listen in on a conversation.

“She's not? Well, that's okay. I wanted to talk to you anyway. There's a man here who needs help loading some lumber. He says he'll pay you a buck. You interested?”

The grocer nodded at me. “He'll be right over.”

 

We met near
the schoolyard
two blocks away from Lime Street. The day was still warm, and just a thin wisp of smoke seeped out from the building's smokestack. Seagulls hovered like oddly angled marshmallows against the cold gray sky.

Sam seemed surprised I had neither a car nor lumber but didn't really care. All he wanted to know was what he had to do to get his dollar.

I took a copy of the sketch from my bag and showed it to him. “Have you ever seen this man?”

“No. Who is he?”

“His name's Alfred Becker. I think he's staying with Dr. Croydon. Do you know Dr. Croydon?”

“Of course . Everyone does.”

“Good. Do you know those fellows playing football?”

Seven boys—nine or ten year olds, I guessed—were tossing a football around. One even wore a leather helmet and a blue jersey, the others, grass-stained denim and sweatshirts.

“Yeah. I know 'em.”

“Have them come over. We'll want to ask them, too.”

Sam trotted over to them, and they eagerly followed him back. They all looked interested to find out what I wanted. I passed out copies of the drawing.

None had seen Becker.

I reached into my pocket and passed a nickel to each of them. “Bring the picture home with you and ask your Mom and Dad if they've seen him. Your friends and brothers and sisters, too. Do any of you know Dr. Croydon?”

Four of them nodded.

“I think he knows the man in the picture.”

“I don't like Dr. Croydon,” the boy in the helmet said in a quiet voice.

“Why?”

“His son Mitchell was my friend. He came from England and talked like you. The doctor had adopted him and had him sent here. Mitchell played baseball and football with us, and came over to my house after school just about every day. Mom really liked him. One day he told me he was afraid of the doctor and wanted to run away. After that, he just disappeared and no one knew what happened to him. My mom asked the doctor, and the doctor said he had sent Mitchell back to England, but he wouldn't give her his new address. She says she's going to tell the police.”

“I think she should. Does anybody else know anything about Mitchell or Dr. Croydon?”

A red-haired boy in a large gray woolen shirt raised his hand. “Mitchell told me he thought there were other boys who had lived in the doctor's house. He found clothes that weren't his, and a boy's ring with a ‘T' on it. The doctor got real mad when he saw Mitchell wearing the ring, and almost tore Mitchell's finger off to get it.”

“Dr. Croydon sounds as if he may not be a very nice person, but the man in the picture is even worse. If you see him, or find out anything about him, tell Sam. Don't go anywhere near him. I'll see you get a quarter.”

They all ooed at the mention of the king's ransom.

A third boy, teeth wrapped in braces asked, “You gonna to tell my ma if you give me a quarter?”

I strongly suspected he would make a quick, illicit visit to the candy store when paid, but I decided to play along. “I bet you're saving your money to get her a present, aren't you? I won't tell her. It'll be our secret.”

The sun had set and a much colder wind began to blow. The seagulls had departed for a warmer clime. The boys waved at me. “Bye, mister. We gotta go home.”

I gave Sam his dollar. I also gave him a card with our phone number at the Parker House. “Be sure to call me when you learn anything. I have a lot more dollars in my pocket and will be happy to spend them. Oh, and by the way, don't tell anyone how much I'm paying you. If anyone comes to me and asks for more money, our agreement is off.”

 

Chapter 22

M
r. Holmes wasn't in the room when I got back. Neither Rose nor Violet knew where he had gone, only that he had left a few minutes after I did and hadn't returned.

“Darn,” I said, snapping my fingers. “I have news for him.”

Violet straightened a small pile she had torn out of the local newspapers. “I hate feeling useless,” she said. “I wish Mr. Holmes had given me something to do.”

“You seem to be keeping busy on your own. What are all the paper bits about?”

“Everything I can find about the Croydons and the Spiritualists. I didn't realize the Spiritualists actually had churches.”

“That's just what they call their meeting places,” Rose said. “I held my gatherings in my living room. The Baptists and the Methodists really hate the Spiritualists because they think they're stealing their members.”

“Good to know,” I said. “Anyone want a liquorice pipe?”

I got no takers. I fished one out of the bag and stuck the stem into my mouth. “Does this remind you of anyone you know?”

I was a little disappointed when neither of them scarcely looked at me. I decided it was because Holmes hadn't smoked his pipe very much on the trip.

Rose was excited to hear my information about Dr. Croydon's son.

“One of Mr. H's investigators got wind of Mitchell's disappearance months ago,” she said. “Mr. H. followed up, and the Boston police promised to make an inquiry. Months went by, and nothing happened. The British police said they were baffled. Mr. H. said he was sure they were being paid off.”

“Maybe I can talk Mr. Holmes into investigating when he gets back home.”

“That may be the only way to get any results. I'm sure Mr. Houdini never heard about the ring Dr. Croydon's son found. It could be important, but you can be sure the Boston police won't want to cause trouble for a member of such an important family on a child's say-so. Even if they found the ring, it wouldn't prove anything illegal had happened.”

I heard a scratching at the hall door, a rattle. Then the handle turned, and Mr. Holmes walked in. In fine fettle, I might add. “Good evening, everyone. I'm glad to see we're all here. Did you have a successful recruiting trip, Wiggins?”

“Yes. Where have you been?”

“At the library. I needed to do some research I deemed important enough to be worth the risk of being discovered.”

“From your jaunty mood, it looks like you were successful,” I said.

“Quite. For one thing, Dr. Croydon wrote a book,
Surgical After-Treatment,
in 1905. It's mostly concerned with techniques to prevent infections in hospitals after surgeries. Not being able to prevent President Coolidge's son from developing erysipelas must have been a severe blow to the doctor's ego and reputation, even if it wasn't his fault. His wife's fame as a Spiritualist could have been seen as a way to regain some of the family's status. He's the one who insisted she had extra-normal abilities and pushed her into performing séances.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I really don't know, yet. Dr. Croydon is Margery's second husband. Her first was a grocer here in Boston. She had a son, John, with him. She met the doctor when he performed surgery on her. When she divorced, John came with her.”

“Did you also know they adopted a boy from England who mysteriously disappeared when they sent him back?” I asked. “That's my big discovery of the day.”

“I didn't. Very good. I see you've already made some progress.”

I told him the details I learned. Holmes seemed especially interested in Mitchell's discovery of a boy's ring.

“I expect Sir Arthur may be able to give us a few more details,” Holmes said. “Another interesting tie-in to our investigation is that Dr. Croydon is very active in the American Eugenics Society.”

“What's that?”

“It's part of a world-wide organization that claims to promote the overall betterment of the human race by the elimination of inferior races and individuals. Many of the richest people in the world are ardent supporters. Even your Oliver Wendell Holmes backed a Tennessee law that would have allowed the sterilization of a family with a history of feeble-mindedness, though the majority of the Supreme Court disagreed. Dr. Croydon's a very close friend of one of the society's founders, Andrew Preston of the American Fruit Company.”

“Preston!” I sputtered. “He's got a worldwide reputation for mistreating everyone who works for him.”

Holmes shrugged. “Working them to death is one of the ways to eliminate inferior races, you know. Getting back to Dr. Croydon—he seemed to be particularly unhappy that Houdini, the man attacking his wife, was Jewish. Margery's dead brother especially enjoyed referring to Mr. Houdini as ‘the dirty kike,' the vulgar term for ‘copulating Jew.'”

I whistled. “It does sound as if he's reading from the same script as Albert Becker.”

The conversation ended with the ring of our telephone. Holmes answered, then held out the receiver toward me.

“Wiggins.”

“Sniggiw, it's Mas.”

I cringed. Why had I agreed to using backward names as codewords, as much as Sam had insisted on it? Then I remembered I had been a boy myself, very much like him, once upon a time.

“I have something to report,” Sam said. “My mother told me a little boy named Tom once lived with Dr. Croydon. She said she used to find him crying on the curb by the doctor's house, and she would bring him a cookie to make him feel better. Then she just never saw him again. She was always afraid to ask if something had happened to him.” He paused to take a breath. “Do I get my dollar?”

“You certainly do. Meet me by the school tomorrow afternoon and I'll give it to you. Have you heard from any of the other boys?”

“Not yet. If I do, I'll call you. Otherwise, I'll see you tomorrow.”

Holmes eyed me expectantly.

“Nothing new about Becker,” I said, “but apparently Dr. Croydon did have other wards. The ring young Mitchell found probably belonged to a boy named Tom.”

“If we weren't so involved in our inquiry regarding Houdini's death, I'd very much like to learn more about Dr. Croydon's history with children. Right now, I'd like to know more about his relationship with Margery and Albert Becker.”

“I can't tell you anything about the Croydons' private life,” Rose said, “but I do know the doctor always sits at Margery's right when she conducts a séance. Mr. H. was sure that was how she was able to perform some of her tricks.”

“Perhaps you should become Margery and put on a séance for us,” Holmes said. “You undoubtedly know more about her than all the rest of us combined.”

“That'd take too much time and work, and you wouldn't learn much from it, anyway. The fact that Dr. Croydon is absent and Conan Doyle will only be around for a short while may work to our advantage. Margery might be persuaded to put on a séance without her husband.”

Mr. Holmes's eyes lit. “Very good, my dear. She wouldn't be alone against a hostile audience. Lady Jean probably would be happy to take the doctor's place.”

Violet got up from her table. “And don't even think of not taking me with you this time. I'm still mad you left me at home when you confronted Albert Becker.”

“Have no fear, dear lady. You're essential to the proceedings. It's Rose I'm concerned about. Margery and Lady Jean may consider her too hostile.”

Rose jumped in immediately. “I agree. I'll spend the time contacting the other investigators. They may have information we don't know about. Unfortunately I may have to run up a large long-distance bill if I do.”

“Don't hesitate to do whatever you find necessary. We have myriads of intriguing possibilities in our investigation, but little hard evidence. Anything you find out could be vital.”

“It may not be too hard to get Sir Arthur and Margery together as it might seem,” Violet said. “She's lecturing tonight, and I wouldn't be surprised if Sir Arthur was intending to attend.”

Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, dear lady. I'll give him a call and find out. What time does the lecture start?”

“Eight o'clock.”

“It's only five-thirty now. We should have more than enough time to make our arrangements.”

The phone rang and Holmes answered. “It's for you,” he said with a nod in my direction. “It sounds like a youngster.”

“Hello.”

“Mr. Wiggins, this is Terry Fields. I was one of the boys you talked to earlier. The one with the braces.”

“I remember you, Terry. I suggested you pass on your findings to Sam, but I'm happy to talk to you, too.”

“Sam told me to call you because it's important.”

My ears pricked. “Did you see the man in the drawing?”

“Yes. I went back by Dr. Croydon's house after I left the schoolyard. Dr. Croydon and this man were talking. The man in the picture is staying at the Milner Hotel.”

My heart started to pound. “Great job. I've got a whole dollar for you when we meet tomorrow.”

“Wow! That's great. Remember, don't tell my mother.”

 

“The Milnah Hotel?”
the driver
parked outside the hotel asked. “That's by the Leatha District and China Town. It's not the Parka House, but it's a nice clean place to stay. It's ova on Cholls Street. You want me to take you theah?”

“Not exactly,” Holmes said. “We'd like you to drive by it. A friend is staying there, and we want to see what the hotel is like.”

“Get in.”

We did, and were greeted by the essence of pastrami. The driver must have just finished his supper. There had to be a delicatessen nearby, and I was dying to sink my teeth into an old-fashioned Reuben sandwich. Almost anything, actually. The expensive fare Holmes kept forcing on us was fine, but even chop suey or chow mein from China Town would be just as welcome.

Once again the insane illogic of Boston's streets played out for our amusement. I had never before heard of moving west by going northeast and doubted I ever would again. Finally, we turned onto a street with traffic. Atlantic Highway quickly took us where we wanted to go.

A canopy with the words “Hotel Milner” rigidly guarded the sidewalk to the hotel. Trees in boxes stood like tiny sentinels along the carpet to the door. In nice weather, guests would sit out on their balconies above the street. Now, the windows were shut snugly, and the flowerboxes stood empty except for the occasional dismal bit of wilted green.

“Stop,” Holmes said.

The driver put on his brakes, then moved up against the curb to park behind a black Pierce-Arrow 33 motor car.

Holmes got out. I followed. The Arrow, one of the legendary “three P” automobiles, had always been my favorite car. The Packard and Peerless were beautiful, too, but I liked the Arrow's canvas roof and the silver archer on the front of the hood. I could never understand why they had two tires strapped to the trunk. Did they really run the risk of a double blow-out? Or were they of such poor quality they could never be trusted at all?

Having had my fix of arrow-envy, I got back into the cab.

“How do you like Bas-ston?” the driver asked.

Under the circumstances, I wasn't much in the mood for small talk. “It's very scenic. I'm from Detroit, so it's entirely different.”

“I s'pose it is. You know why we ah called Bean Town?”

Though I didn't really care, I said, “No. Why?”

“The colonists liked to bake beans in molasses. The name stuck. There's another interesting story about molasses, too. Did you ever hear about the big molasses flood of 1919?”

I snapped to attention. That intrigued me, even though I had to translate every other word he said. “No. What happened?”

“Some company turned molasses into alcohol up the north end of town, right on the sea. They stored the molasses in a huge tank. One day in mid-January they had more'n two million gallons waitin' to be converted. It had been cold overnight, but the next day it warmed up. People say they heard what sounded like machine-guns firin', and then all of a sudden, everything around was flooded with molasses. Men driving wagons in the streets had their horses drowned. Anybody walkin' on the street either got sucked under or swept away for blocks to get up and walk away unharmed. The company had to pay a million dollars in fines. The tank wasn't strong enough to hold that much molasses. I can still smell it sometimes on a hot summer night.”

“That's really interesting,” I said, hoping Holmes would get back soon.

He did—ten minutes later. He was scowling when he got into the seat next to me. “Please return to the Parker House.”