Daniel Stashower - Harry Houdini Mysteries: The Dime Museum Murders

THEDIME

MUSEUM

MURDERS

A HARRY HOUDINI MYSTERY

DANIELSTASHOWER

AVONBOOKS, INC.

1350Avenue of the Americas

NewYork, New York 10019

Copyright 1999 by Daniel Stashower Published by arrangement with theauthor Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-94465 ISBN:0-380-80056-X www.avonbooks.com/twilight

Allrights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book orportions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by theU.S. Copyright Law. For information address Avon Books, Inc.

FirstAvon Twilight Printing: December 1999

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Ifyou purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that misbook is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold anddestroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor thepublisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Couldit really be that time of the year again? Another Halloween, already?It must be, the old man told himself. There were reporters in thedownstairs parlor, and that only happened at Halloween.

Howlong had it been now? Twenty-seven years? Twenty-eight? Yes,twenty-eight. It hardly seemed possible. Harry had been dead fornearly three decades.

Evennow, the old man was particular in matters of dress. He had spentfifty-three minutes polishing his black Riderstone wing-tips thatmorning, applying a second coat of EverBlack with an oil-soakedchamois, and buffing the stitch-work with his late wife's eyebrowpencil. His best suit, the double-breasted tick-weave, got a vigorousbrushing, and his black onyx shirt studs received a last-minutespit-shine. A brisk dousing with Jenkinson's Lime Pomade completedhis toilette. On his way downstairs, he paused at the mirror. Not badfor a man of eighty-four. In the old days, they called him "Dash."

Seatedin the parlor, he waited quietly for the interview to begin. Thephotographer, a man named Parker, fussedand clucked over his light meter while the reporter glanced at hisnotes. Matthews, he said his name was. Call me Jack.

Verylittle changed about this ritual from year to year. The camerasseemed to get smaller, and the reporters younger, but each interviewcrept along in the same weary way. One year, there had been a manwith a moving picture camera, crouching beneath a black cloth whilehis hand turned a crank. Another year there had been a recordingdevice with two large spools of silver wire. Matthews, a plump-facedyouth with thinning ginger hair, seemed content with the traditionalpad of paper and a well-chewed pencil.

Alwaysthe same questions* though. Tellus what you remember about your brother, Mr. Hardeen. If your brotherwere alive today, Mr. Hardeen, what sorts of escapes do you supposehe would be performing? Can you tell us how he made that elephantvanish, Mr. Hardeen?

Andevery year, come what may, the big wrap-up question: Doyou suppose, Mr. Hardeen, that your brother will ever make good onhis promise to send a message from the spirit world?

Hehad not yet made up his mind how to play the interview this year. Fora few moments he considered reprising his Wily Codger routine fromthe year before. This entailed a great deal of thigh-slapping andmany repetitions of the phrase "1 kid you not, Sonny Boy ..."It played well and traveled wide, bringing a harvest of clips fromall over the mapLouisville's Courier-Journal, Toledo's EveningBee. Hecouldn't remember them all, but they were in the press book.

Orperhaps he would give them the Wistful Trouper. This involved lengthypatches of misty-eyed reminiscence about gaslit stages, Bertrand'sAlum Face Paint, and the great days of the sideshows and dimemuseums. He had a heartwarming anecdote about Emma Shaller, theOssified Girl, that could always be counted on for three or fourcolumn inches.

Parker,the photographer, was now frowning over a troublesome shadow. The oldman folded his legs and ran his hand across his shirt front, checkingthe red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. There had been atime, the winter season of 1931-32, when his show traveled with 612props. Today, he needed only one. Tellme, Mr. Hardeen, thereporter would ask, wereyou and your brother close at the time of his death? Atthis, the old man would sit back in his chair as if surprised by thequestion, and impressed by the reporter's insight. Clearing histhroat, he would begin to answer but then stop himself, as thoughseized by a sudden rush of feeling. He would smile faintly and shakehis head at thissuch emotion! After so many years!andclutch at his handkerchief to dab his moistening eyes.

Andhere was the beauty of the thing. As he plucked the red silk from hispocket, a small metallic object would fall heavily to the floor,perhaps rolling to the reporter's feet. I'msorry, at my age it's difficult to bend wouldyou... ? Thereporter would pick it up. A heavy gold medallion with a strangeinsignia. Didthis belong to your brother, Mr. Hardeen? Andthe Great Hardeen would fold his hands and allow a wry smile to playacross his lips. Ina sense, young man.

Yousee, it's a memento from the very first time that Harry Houdini everdied.

I'msorry? Well, Mr. Matthews, it's a long story, and I know that you andyoung Parker want to get back to the city. Maybe some other?

No?You want to hear it? Well, let's see how much of it I remember. I'venever told this story before. In fact, they made us swear an oath onthe Wintour family Bible, which was a bit of a laugh, if you mustknow. The Brothers Houdini, sons of Rabbi Mayer Samuel Weiss, takinga solemn vow on a Bible. But we gave our word and I've held to it. Iknow Harry did, too. Never even told Bess, so far as I know. Still,there's been a lot of water under the Williamsburg Bridge since then.I read the other dayin the Herald, you'llbe gratified to hearthat Lady Wycliffe has finally passed. Thelast great society hostess. Folded her last napkin, you might say.I've kept my mouth shut all these years out of respect for her. Shewas a fine woman, and she deserved better than that goggle-eyedbastard she

ButI suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Would you mind drawing thoseblinds just a bit? My cataracts. The light, it troubles me a bit.

Thankyou. Now, gentlemen, you're certain that you'd like to hear aboutthis? You don't? Very well.

Itmust have been September, or perhaps October, of 1897. I turnedtwenty-one that year. Harry would have been twenty-three. My brotherwas going through a rough time. He'd worked like a dog, but try as hemight, he couldn't quite break out of the small time. He was strictlya novelty acttraveling circuses, the midway, that sort ofthing. He and I had done an act together from the time we were kids,but that changed when he married Bess. From that point on, she didthe act with him and I did the booking and advance work. Truth betold, the duties were pretty light. There wasn't a tremendous demandfor appearances by the Great Houdini at that stage, but I was alwayson hand, behind the scenes. Nowadays you would call me a theatricalagent andpay me a fat commission. Back then, we literally worked for food.

We'dbeen travelling quite a bit that yearsometimes with the WelshBrothers Circus, sometimes with the Marco Company. We did all righttrailing through such places as Cherokee, Kansas and Woonsocket,Rhode Island, where people seemed grateful for most any form ofentertainment. Harry's escape act hadn't quite taken shape yet, buthe did a passable magic routine. He fancied himself a mastermanipulator, and billed himself as the "King of Kards."Bess worked as his assistant, and also pulled an occasional spot as asinger. "The Melodious Little Songster," we called her. Shehad a wonderful voice andI don't mind telling youshewas easy on the eyes.