Who Done Houdini (25 page)

Holmes insisted on going first. “When you come down, land with your knees flexed, hands clasped together, and arms extended in front of your chest. If you fall, you'll fall forward, so you'll have the wall to support you. I should be able to judge the distance to the floor as I go, so you'll know how far it is.”

I helped him lift his legs through the aperture, then supported his torso as he inched his way inside. Finally he was dangling with only his chin hanging on the bottom of the flange, one hand holding on to the metal and the other tightly gripping mine. Only then did I noticed how slight my friend had become. Slight, perhaps, but certainly not fragile.

“Oh,” he grunted, “don't forget to take those idiotic shoes off. You don't want to break your ankles when you land.”

Those were his last words before releasing his grip.

I held my breath, waiting for a fearful crash or scream of agony. Instead, a loud whisper wafted through the opening. “Have no fear. It's less than twelve feet to the floor.”

Twelve feet sounded like Everest to me. I pushed my legs through the opening and wriggled backwards until my feet dangled over nothingness. Then, remembering Holmes's instructions, I took a deep breath and pushed off.

I got a brief sensation of floating before I landed in a crouch. My feet felt as though they were shattering. Otherwise, as Holmes had said, I merely squatted more deeply as my forearms and elbows bumped against the wall. I bounced backward, landing on my derriere.

“Made it,” I whispered, stumbling to my feet and shaking my poor aching dogs.

“Excellent,” he whispered back. “Stay where you are for a moment while I get my bearings.”

I had no difficulty staying put. I had no idea where I was, or where I was going. And my feet hurt, besides.

“Excellent. I believe I've found the door.”

I headed in the direction of his voice. Wood scraped against concrete, and I felt a warm breeze against my face. Otherwise, we still were in total darkness, soundless as a tomb.

I took a step forward and bumped into something that turned out to be Holmes. In the silence, his testy whisper sounded like an angry shout. “Enough needless collisions. Grab the hem of my cape.”

“Fine with me. Do you have any idea where we are?”

“According to my calculations, we must be directly beneath the kitchen. I followed the cellar wall to the door. A right turn should bring us to the stairway. Before we continue, I have a slight chore to tend to.”

With that I felt him reach into his trouser pocket. A Lucifer flared to illuminate several large packing crates. Holmes headed for one before shaking out the match.

“I'll need your assistance,” he whispered. “Watch your step.”

The warning proved vain. I bumped into the crate and landed on the floor.

“I can plainly see you're too clumsy for this kind of work,” Holmes said. He lit another match. “Help me push this crate around to block the doorway. Since we can't leave through the coal shute, I want to be sure no one can enter that way and escape back into the house.”

Once again we were plunged into darkness.

I heard the cellar door close. “Push, my good man.”

I did.

“Now, let's find our way to the stairway.”

I have experienced his navigational skills on many occasions and would confidently follow him to Timbuktu, or anywhere else I needed to go. Eagerly seizing the bottom of his cape, I said. “Lead on.”

He moved confidently for several feet with me in tow, then stopped. I felt him turn, and heard the sound of cloth rubbing against wood. He had found the stairway with his foot.

“Voila.”

My mind finally kicked in. “There's a huge window in the back door. Since we can't see it from here, there must be another door at the top of the stairs that's closed. I could open it. Even ambient light would be better than this mud.”

“Indeed,” he murmured. “Excellent suggestion, Wiggins. I'm weary of playing blind man's bluff, and any natural light would be preferable to striking a match. The decision is entirely yours, my friend.”

I had already made up my mind. I found a handrail with my right hand, held out my left in front of me, and noiselessly climbed the risers.

After what seemed an eternity, my lead hand found the door. With a bit of fumbling, I located the knob. Taking a deep breath, I turned it and stepped back.

My heart skipped a beat in surprise. Bright moonlight poured in through the window. Startled, I leaped aside into the minimal darkness the partly open cellar door still provided.

Heart pounding, I took a deep breath, I turned to look down the stairway, certain I'd see Albert Becker leering at me in the distance. I sighed in relief. Though barely visible, another door stood some distance away from the bottom of the stairs. Closed.

I wanted to take the steps three at a time, but I still came down slowly and as far away from the surprising illumination as I could manage. The chauffeur's door could open at any moment.

Holmes gave me a hearty slap to my back. “Well done, Wiggins. Are you ready to storm the dragon's lair?”

“Not yet,” I replied, surprised he still was so strong.

With light, I now wanted to find a weapon. Everywhere I looked I saw outlines of packing crates and shrouded figures I took to be statuary, but nothing else. At last I spied a barely visible push broom leaning against a support beam. I couldn't prevent an evil smile as I unscrewed the handle and took a practice swing. Babe Ruth had nothing on us.

“I am now. Lead on.”

Destiny seemed to be upon us as we reached the door. Taking another deep breath, I swung the rod behind my ear like a batter waiting for a pitch. “Open the door,” I whispered.

 

Chapter 40

T
he knob turned without a sound. I leaned forward, arms twitching with anticipation. With a vigorous push from Holmes, the door swung open. I swung wildly.

And connected with air. Other than an open wardrobe and an unmade bed strewn with clothes and magazines, the room was empty.

“Where in blazes is he? The so and so is Houdini incarnate.”

“By ‘so and so' you must mean male offspring of a female canine,” Holmes said with a sour look. “Unfortunately, I have no idea.”

He strolled to the bed and hoisted a long red-and-white knit scarf with two fingers. “Scarlet, if my memory serves me. Harvard's school color.”

“Lucille said Becker took a scarf from the doctor's room. I wonder why he left without it.”

“A totally irrelevant point. All that matters is that he's eluded us once again. He must have fled before the police arrived.”

Eyes closed, I held up two fingers.

Holmes noticed my expression. “What is it, Wiggins?”

I first saw a fleeting glimpse of Sheriff Peabody at the Bradford Farm, but it passed quickly. Then a much stronger memory took over. I watched Margery at the front door to answer the bell. Then I envisioned the officers filing in one at a time and removing their shoes.

Why should I remember that?

I gathered up the scene again, this time concentrating on watching Margery's movements, especially her hands.

Then I remembered! She had unlocked the door from the inside with a key! Unless Becker had a key to the front door, which he clearly didn't when he first arrived, he couldn't have left that way. The only alternative possibility was so remote it wasn't worth consideration. Lucille was too obviously unnerved when we confronted to have omitted telling us she had given him hers.

“He's still within our grasp,” I said. “There are only two ways out of the house. Margery had to open the front door with a key, so he couldn't have left that way. And, as you recall, the back door was locked when we came down the fire escape to enter the basement.”

Holmes's eyes lit. “Brilliant, Wiggins.”

“I know,” I said, enjoying a rare victory. “And not only that, I'm willing to give substantial odds that the back door can be and Herr Becker is somewhere in the back yard.”

“Then I suggest we find something for our feet. My toes are still trying to thaw from our last trek across the tundra.”

We settled on wrapping them in underwear from the bottom of the chauffeur's wardrobe.

“To the siege,” Holmes said.

I hadn't seen him move as quickly since we were together at Baker Street, as he darted up the stairway. And I was a mere step behind all the way.

At the top of the stairs, we both stopped in our tracks at the sounds of voices—clear and very close. I quickly sorted them out as belonging to Sir Arthur, Margery, and Violet chatting merrily away. Realizing we hadn't been discovered, Holmes gallantly stood aside to let me turn the latch on the back door.

Spirits soared as the door moved outward when I pushed on it. Bending low, we slunk out into the yard. The bright moonlight easily showed there was no one in sight.

My first glance showed a tranquil snow-covered arc from the right side of the house to the gate in the distance. As Holmes closed the back door, I whispered, “I'll check the gate.”

An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, and some tiny land creature scurried away from me as I dashed forward, but everything returned to dead silence as I reached the gate. A thin layer of undisturbed snow on the path meant no one had come in or left for some time. Even so, I still felt a jolt of pleasure when I turned the handle and found the portal locked.

Waving a thumb in the air, I rushed back and whispered a victorious shout. “He's here somewhere!”

Instead of a show of pleasure, Holmes seized my shoulders and roughly shook me. “Then calm yourself, Wiggins. Your blood is running high, so we must proceed with extreme caution. We already know he's highly dangerous, and we have no idea what else he may have found in Dr. Croydon's room.”

Euphoria ended with a thud. “Quite so. Why would he have bolted from the chauffeur's room?”

“I expect he heard the commotion upstairs when the police arrived and decided he needed to find a new hiding place. He may not even have realized there was a back gate when he left the house.”

I freed myself from Holmes's grip to survey the lay of the land. Unless Becker had taken our route through the coal chute and trapped himself in the coal bin by so doing, the only direction he could have moved was to the left of the house. Since the front of the building was connected to the adjoining houses, there was little out of eyeshot from where we were standing. The only impediment preventing a clear view was a large coniferous bush next to the house some ten feet away.

I pointed to it, and Holmes nodded. “Gather up your bludgeon,” he said. “I have a strong suspicion we're going to need it.”

Snow squeaked under our bundled feet as I led us forward in a knee-torturing crouch. When we reached the bush, we halted.

Holmes surprised me by dropping to his hands and knees. Brushing the snow away with bare fingers and breath, he looked up at me with a Cheshire cat grin. An unmistakable shoe print disturbed the snow.

I saluted him with two upraised fists.

Then, instead of getting back to his feet, he turned and continued to follow the new-found spoor like an overly-long basset, belly dragging in the snow, nose millimeters from the ground, and paws burrowing away at the snow ahead of him as he went.

As I watched, I had to swallow hard to keep from laughing. It was a picture worth a thousand dollars to any newspaper or magazine in the world that could afford to buy it.

He disappeared for a moment. Then an arm appeared, gesturing for me to follow.

With a sigh, I shoved my broom handle in front of me and pushed forward with my knees.

I found Holmes standing erect in front of a closed wooden door. A root cellar or storage area for gardening tools, I expected.

“Treed,” I whispered. “Shall we call in the constabulary?”

Holmes shook his head violently and pulled me several feet away from the door before answering. “The obvious action, but I want an opportunity to question Herr Becker in private. Perhaps I'll use a Spanish invention, the bastinado, far more effective than Chinese tortures. Your broom handle will work perfectly.”

I winced. When I had read Don Quixote, I didn't think that having the bottoms of the feet repeatedly beaten sounded so frightening. Then I found out it could kill you.

“Assuming it's possible he's armed and will come out with guns blazing, how do you intend to collar our villain?”

“Ah, Wiggins. You've obviously forgotten my encounter with the venerable Mr. James Oldacre, in the case of the Norwood Builder. Never mind. I'm sure you will remember soon enough.”

The first task was to scour the yard, kicking away snow in search of leaves.

Easily uncovered, they were cold and stiff, but not sodden. Ten minutes labor yielded a knee-high pile beside the wooden door.

Holmes fished his box of Lucifers from his trouser pocket. Before he could remove one, I told him to wait. I remembered a small stack of newspapers sitting on a ledge just inside the back door of the house. They crumpled nicely and nestled among the leaves.

I stood over him as he crouched, shielding him from the wind. The match blazed, paper flared, and leaves quickly began to smolder.

He got to his feet and ran to the opposite edge of the yard. “Fire!”

The back door opened at his second call, and Margery came out. “Who are you? How did you get into our yard? What's going on out here?”

“Nothing to be concerned about, dear lady,” Holmes said blithely. “Just go back into the house.”

“Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes. Now please go back in.”

She didn't move. With a shrug, Holmes again shouted “Fire!”

Seemingly for the first time, Margery caught sight of the billowing cloud. “Good heavens!” she screamed, rushing back inside.

Holmes's next call brought results. The door creaked forward and Albert Becker stepped out, coughing. He didn't see me until the broom handle slammed against his right hand, sending a pistol flying to the ground.

He dropped to his knees, writhing in pain. I kicked the pistol away before he could reach for it. Holmes joined me, pulling the stunned miscreant to his feet. I immediately caught his right arm in the policeman's elbow-breaker I had used on him at the Baker Estate. He hooted in pain, but made no resistance.

I glanced back toward the back door and saw Margery pointing in our direction. I was sure the police would arrive in a matter of seconds.

Holmes opened the door. Instead of darkness, we found a railroad lantern burning brightly atop a bench inside the room.

Holmes pulled the iron latch down into the bracket to lock the door from the inside. “This won't hold anyone out for very long, but certainly long enough. Everyone will need to put their shoes on before they leave the house. I'll clear a space. We need to lay Herr Becker on the floor.”

“This is outrageous,” Becker cried. “What do you intend to do with me?”

Holmes answered in a quiet voice dripping with menace. “Nothing worse than what you would've done to me as your captive.”

At the words, Becker's eyes opened wide. “
Mein Gott!
” he screamed. “
Helf!
”

“I fear only Satan can help you. And he only works when he can avoid blame. Drop to your knees.”

A little tug from me was all it took. Becker slowly knelt, fighting hard to stifle a panicked sob.

“Now face down on the floor. I want you to be able to speak. If you choose not to, well, I've heard it takes but two minutes to suffocate if you can't inhale. Survivors say it's the longest two minutes of their lives.”

“That's murder!” Becker panted. “You'll never get away with it.”

“No one will ever be able to prove it isn't myocardial infarct. Sources tell me you have a weak heart.”

Holmes was making even me squirm.

“We don't have much time. Either you answer me, or you'll choke on your own saliva. Did you order the poisoning of Harry Houdini?”

“No,” Becker grunted. “You fool, everyone knows he died from a ruptured appendix.”

“We know otherwise. You pursued him for more than a year, poisoning him with thallium and making his hair fall out. The fatal dose was administered in Schenectady by your henchman Jurgen Schmidt, when Mr. Houdini was eating at the Stockade Inn. He's admitted to it, and when the police get the autopsy report, they'll have confirmation. We have your briefcase and the newspaper clippings. You will be arrested and tried for murder. You can either be executed, or cooperate with the police. Did Dr. Croydon furnish you with the thallium?”

Becker coughed, but didn't answer. I watched in amazement as Holmes sat on Becker's back. “Well?”

“Can't breathe,” Becker gasped.

“Last chance,” Holmes said. “Tell the truth or die.”

Worried as I was at Holmes's cruelty, I nearly passed out at the loud hammering on the door, and O'Neal's threatening voice.

Becker gurgled, then went silent.

My heart thumped crazily. “I think you killed him!” I said in a normal voice.

The hammering on the door became louder as Holmes arose to a crouch and reached down to feel Becker's carotid. “Yes. It appears you are correct.”

“But why? This was entirely senseless. Even if Becker was brought into court, he couldn't be convicted on a forced confession. Certainly Croydon would never even stand trial.”

He answered in a detached voice. “That's exactly why I did it. I can't explain now. Open the door.”

Hand shaking, I moved the latch. O'Neal and Dr. Croydon stood outside, O'Neal with gun in hand. I stood aside, and he inched in around Becker's body. Croydon and another officer stepped in and shut the door.

“What's going on?” O'Neal asked.

“Mr. Becker was hiding in here, and we surprised him,” Mr. Holmes said. “He had a gun and we had to subdue him. Apparently the shock was too much for his heart.”

O'Neal glared. “If you knew he was here, why didn't you find me? You had no right to interfere.”

“We didn't know he was here until he tried to escape.”

O'Neal snorted. “You were certain enough to build a fire.”

“True. But I also knew Albert Becker undoubtedly was only at mid-level in the conspiracy to murder Harry Houdini. I wanted a chance to find out who the others were.”

O'Neal stared down at Albert Becker's body. “Even if that were true, we have no way to find out now. I'm sure you must already know the trouble you've caused. And if I didn't know what you went through when you were abducted, I'd arrest you for obstruction of justice. Under the circumstances, I won't treat this any differently than an accidental natural death. You say he had a gun?”

Holmes led him to where it lay partially covered in snow.

“That's my three-forty-eight Beretta,” Croydon said. “I keep it in my bedroom. I'm astonished Albert would steal it.”

O'Neal turned to stare at him. “That's only one of the questions I want answered before I leave. I especially want to hear more from you about why he came here in the first place and how he managed to make his way out of the house to here.”

“Surely you can't . . .”

“But surely I can. Ed, will you take the Wigginses and Dr. Claybrooks to their hotel. I'll need to talk to them again in the morning.”