Read The Ectoplasmic Man for Free Online Page A
Authors: Daniel Stashower
off to meet this perceived, very likely imagined danger. It is like something in one of Watson’s tales, all bluster and no substance.”
Mrs Houdini’s face grew ashen. “Is this the legendary Sherlock Holmes? I can’t believe it! You are refusing to act because of your personal dislike for Harry, or some... some deeper prejudice. I had hoped that you would be above such behaviour.” She walked briskly across the room and snatched up her hat and cloak. “I can see that I have wasted my time here. If anything happens to my husband it will be upon your head, Mr Holmes. Good day to you both, gentlemen.” With these words, Beatrice Rahner Houdini turned her back on us and left the room.
Holmes and I sat for some time without speaking. The longer I considered Mrs Houdini’s tale, the more I became convinced that her fears were valid. “Holmes,” I said at last, “why are you so unwilling to act? How can you be so certain that there is no danger to the man?”
Holmes said nothing.
“I cannot share your complaisance,” I continued. “I trust that you will not mind if I attend the theatre tonight?”
Holmes reached across for his violin. Placing it carelessly upon his knee, he began scratching out a peculiar and haunting melody.
“Holmes, you are insufferable!” I cried. “Houdini’s life is in danger!”
Still he said nothing.
As I left for the theatre two hours later, he was still playing the same haunting tune.
* When Holmes finally did retire he moved to the south of England to spend his declining years as an apiarist.proceedings, for he rarely spoke of abandoning his practice. In earlier days he woul have extinguished his frustration with cocaine, the fiendish addiction which had once threatened to check his remarkable career, so it was with some relief that I saw him turn instead to the chemical deal table, where a malodorous experiment awaited him.
* As told in “The Adventure of the Dying Detective”.
Four
H OUDINI P ERFORMS
T he Savoy Theatre, alive for the evening’s performance, had regained some of its remembered grandeur; but my mind was too clouded with apprehension to take any note of the more congenial atmosphere. Surely this Kleppini fellow intended some harm to Houdini, but how would I detect it, much less prevent it? These and other concerns worried me until a familiar voice broke into my befuddlement.
“Watson! You seem in a daze, old boy! Or are you simply avoiding an old friend?”
It was Thurston, with whom I often shot billiards at my club. Recently he had led me into some poor investments, and we had been seeing less of each other. But as he was accompanied by his wife, whom I had never met, I was obliged to exchange pleasantries with them.
“Come to see the talk of all London, eh Watson?”
“Well, yes I—”
“He’s quite a showman, this Houdini. Two days ago I saw him nailed up in a packing crate and dropped into the Thames. He was out in no time. Should have heard the crowd cheer; you’d think he’d walked on water!”
“Indeed, I’ve been—”
“And he’s quite attractive, for an American,” said Thurston’s wife, who was far from the most prepossessing woman in the room.
“In fact I’ve—”
“Yes indeed, we’re in for quite an evening. Quite an evening.”
The conversation ran in this vein for several minutes until the first bell signalled us to take our seats. Mine commanded an excellent view of the stage, but as I peered about, alert for anything that seemed amiss, I feared that if disaster lurked onstage I should be too late to avert it.
The orchestra struck up a bright tune, and Houdini strode briskly into the footlights. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, spreading his arms to the audience, “often we magicians are accused of having tricks up our sleeves. Let me put a stop to that right now, like this!” He tore the sleeves right off his evening jacket and threw them into the front
Mrs Houdini’s face grew ashen. “Is this the legendary Sherlock Holmes? I can’t believe it! You are refusing to act because of your personal dislike for Harry, or some... some deeper prejudice. I had hoped that you would be above such behaviour.” She walked briskly across the room and snatched up her hat and cloak. “I can see that I have wasted my time here. If anything happens to my husband it will be upon your head, Mr Holmes. Good day to you both, gentlemen.” With these words, Beatrice Rahner Houdini turned her back on us and left the room.
Holmes and I sat for some time without speaking. The longer I considered Mrs Houdini’s tale, the more I became convinced that her fears were valid. “Holmes,” I said at last, “why are you so unwilling to act? How can you be so certain that there is no danger to the man?”
Holmes said nothing.
“I cannot share your complaisance,” I continued. “I trust that you will not mind if I attend the theatre tonight?”
Holmes reached across for his violin. Placing it carelessly upon his knee, he began scratching out a peculiar and haunting melody.
“Holmes, you are insufferable!” I cried. “Houdini’s life is in danger!”
Still he said nothing.
As I left for the theatre two hours later, he was still playing the same haunting tune.
* When Holmes finally did retire he moved to the south of England to spend his declining years as an apiarist.proceedings, for he rarely spoke of abandoning his practice. In earlier days he woul have extinguished his frustration with cocaine, the fiendish addiction which had once threatened to check his remarkable career, so it was with some relief that I saw him turn instead to the chemical deal table, where a malodorous experiment awaited him.
* As told in “The Adventure of the Dying Detective”.
Four
H OUDINI P ERFORMS
T he Savoy Theatre, alive for the evening’s performance, had regained some of its remembered grandeur; but my mind was too clouded with apprehension to take any note of the more congenial atmosphere. Surely this Kleppini fellow intended some harm to Houdini, but how would I detect it, much less prevent it? These and other concerns worried me until a familiar voice broke into my befuddlement.
“Watson! You seem in a daze, old boy! Or are you simply avoiding an old friend?”
It was Thurston, with whom I often shot billiards at my club. Recently he had led me into some poor investments, and we had been seeing less of each other. But as he was accompanied by his wife, whom I had never met, I was obliged to exchange pleasantries with them.
“Come to see the talk of all London, eh Watson?”
“Well, yes I—”
“He’s quite a showman, this Houdini. Two days ago I saw him nailed up in a packing crate and dropped into the Thames. He was out in no time. Should have heard the crowd cheer; you’d think he’d walked on water!”
“Indeed, I’ve been—”
“And he’s quite attractive, for an American,” said Thurston’s wife, who was far from the most prepossessing woman in the room.
“In fact I’ve—”
“Yes indeed, we’re in for quite an evening. Quite an evening.”
The conversation ran in this vein for several minutes until the first bell signalled us to take our seats. Mine commanded an excellent view of the stage, but as I peered about, alert for anything that seemed amiss, I feared that if disaster lurked onstage I should be too late to avert it.
The orchestra struck up a bright tune, and Houdini strode briskly into the footlights. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, spreading his arms to the audience, “often we magicians are accused of having tricks up our sleeves. Let me put a stop to that right now, like this!” He tore the sleeves right off his evening jacket and threw them into the front