Chapter 5

In a matter of minutes we were on our way to Grace Hospital.

In Detroit, the downtown folds in on itself along the river, and nearly everything is within walking distance, though more people seem to be driving motor cars every day. Lusty young people crowd the saloons on Friday and Saturday nights, and weekend days attract whole families. I always find it amazing that a one-time site for a circus, now long abandoned, should become such a bustling gathering place. The Statler Hotel, where Houdini stayed on his last visit, was near the hospital, less than a block from the Garrick Theatre.

In the cab, Holmes sat forward in his seat carefully observing his surroundings. My friend’s remarkable facility to instantly take in every detail, then as quickly forget it when it is no longer of any importance, remained strong as ever.

“I expect Houdini’s ambulance followed much the same route on the fateful night.”

“Yes. It’s the quickest way.”

“Why do you suppose he put off seeking professional help for so long? The pain must have been excruciating.”

I shook my head. “I have no idea, though I know he lived with pain from his escapes most of his adult life, and seldom saw a doctor. He had hundreds of imitators, in Europe especially. Quite a few even claimed to be him. He hunted them all down.”

“The best always have their imitators.”

“Even worse were the ones who tied him so tightly with wires they broke through the skin and muscles, all the way to the bone. Then there were the ones who used locks with plugged keyholes and fouled mechanisms so he couldn’t pick them. The poor man broke an ankle in Albany in mid-October and had to perform on it for all his final shows. Imagine standing for three hours a night on an aching foot.”

Holmes shook his head. “His ankle wasn’t his biggest problem, it would seem.”

“I wonder if he felt he was coming to the end of his stage career and wanted to make sure he made the most of his performances.”

Holmes cocked his head back and closed his eyes in contemplation. “Hmm, yes. I suppose that’s possible. Were there any individuals of particular importance in the audience that Saturday night?”

“Good question. I know Mayor Smith and his wife were there, as were Mr. and Mrs. Henry Ford and son Edsel. I think I heard that Governor and Mrs. Green had come in from Lansing. Any others, I can’t say offhand.”

“I see.”

I recognized Holmes’s expression. It was the same whenever he worked through a vexing puzzle. We didn’t talk for the rest of the ride.

We entered through the hospital’s heavily paned main entrance. A woman wearing a crisp nurse’s hat and friendly smile greeted us. When I showed her my press card, the smile vanished, and she turned her back to us. After an over-the-shoulder look in our direction, she picked up her phone. The call lasted longer than I expected, and Holmes and I traded quizzical glances. At last she hung up and returned. “Mr. Beaufort is on his way here to talk to you. He’s the hospital administrator.”

“Administrator?” Holmes echoed in an angry voice.

“Yes. He’ll answer all your questions.”

I shook my head. “We were hoping to talk with the people who were here when Mr. Houdini was brought in.”

“That won’t be possible,” said a deep baritone voice.

Andre Beaufort, more than six-feet tall and solidly built, stood before me. The perfect palace guard, I expected to see him cross his arms across his chest. Instead he greeted us with a cautious smile and welcoming hand.

Mr. Holmes refused to shake it. I did, and nearly got my fingers broken.

“What do you mean that’s not possible?” Holmes asked sharply. “Aren’t they on duty at this time?”

“I’m truly sorry, but I can’t respond to that, either. All I can say is that the hospital is not allowed to answer any further public inquiries, only those from the police.”

“Has there been an inquest?” I asked.

“That’s something you’ll have to find out from the authorities. I’m puzzled by your belated interest in Mr. Houdini’s death, Mr. Wiggins. He passed away more than a week ago, and we’ve kept your paper abreast of all the developments.”

“Your reports have been sketchy, at best.” I said.

“I’m curious as to why we can’t speak to his care providers,” Mr. Holmes said. “Is there some concern the hospital may face some liability for Mr. Houdini’s treatment here?”

Beaufort glared at him. “None whatsoever. We did everything we could to help him. Unfortunately he was well past saving when he arrived. And to make things clear, it’s Mrs. Houdini who’s responsible for the suppression of information, and not Grace Hospital. Mr. Houdini was removed from here the day after his passing. From what I understand, no one has viewed the body since he died.”

“Why such secrecy?” Mr. Holmes asked. “It sounds as if someone is trying to keep something from the public.”

“Make of it what you will. I’ve heard that Mr. Houdini’s brother has taken possession of all of the stage props and books, and Mr. Houdini’s body was sent back to New York in his stage coffin. As to what happened after the show Saturday night, that information will have to come from the police.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Holmes said in an icy tone. “We appreciate your help. Come along, Wiggins.”

Beaufort stood in place and watched us leave the hospital.

“Things get more intriguing all the time, don’t they?” I said lightly.

Mr. Holmes squinted. “Indeed, but if good Mr. Beaufort thinks we can’t come up with other ways to find out what we need to know, he’s sadly mistaken.”

 

At 4:30 that afternoon, I was at my desk finishing my article for the morning edition when the teletype machine in the next room came to life. As a beat reporter for the Free Press, I had a direct link with the downtown police precinct. I immediately turned on radio station KOP for further details. The Detroit Free Press and Detroit News also have their own stations, WCX and WWJ respectively, and I once jokingly asked why people would pay a nickel for our papers when they could get their news by radio for free. The first reports of Houdini’s illness came over KOP at eleven o’clock at night on Halloween Eve.

The new alert had more than the usual interest for me.

Officer McDaniels reports elderly man—I smiled at the words—unconscious on sidewalk in front of Vinton Building at Woodward and Congress. Subject poorly dressed and has no identification. Emergency vehicle called to scene. Subject taken to Grace Hospital Emergency for observation.

I had the number for the hospital in my desk index, but I knew it by heart, having called it so often. GLendale 0090.

“Hello, this is Timothy Wiggins of the Free Press. I cover the police and crime beat. I just got a report of an unidentified elderly man being taken to your hospital. Has he been admitted?”

“Yes,” a female voice answered. Luckily it didn’t sound like the woman who had greeted us on our afternoon visit. “Do you know who he is? He doesn’t seem to be able to tell us.”

“I think it may be my uncle. Does he have an English accent?”

“Yes. Sort of like yours.”

“Then I’m sure his name is Ralph Howard—at least that’s the way it’s spelled. It’s pronounced ‘Rafe.’ He left the house without telling us where he was going this morning, and we haven’t heard from him since. We’ve been worried about him. What’s his condition?”

“He’s awake and alert, though he seems quite agitated. We thought he might have had a heart attack or stroke, but all his vital signs are fine.”

“Would you kindly ask him if ‘Rafe’ is his name? I’m sure he’ll answer to it. If it is, please call me back, and I’ll be down to pick him up later on this evening.”

“His doctor wants to keep him under observation for the night, but we should be able to release him sometime tomorrow.”

I paused before continuing. “I’m sure he won’t want to spend the night alone, and he can be rather difficult. Assuming it is Uncle Ralph, would it be permissible for me to stay overnight with him?”

“I’ll have to ask the doctor, but I’m almost certain it will be. May I have your phone number?”

“RAndolph 8911. Please see he gets a private room. I’ll bring a draft for the hospital charges with me when I arrive.”

Ten minutes later I got the call. The elderly man was indeed “Uncle Ralph.” The doctor said I’d be welcome to stay the night with him.

After handing my article to Harold Mitchell for final editing before going to press, I called Violet to let her know I wouldn’t be home that night. I knew what would happen. She tee-heed in excitement and demanded I tell her everything to the tiniest detail when I returned. My shin still hurt where she kicked me, so I promised I would.

Remembering the receptionist might still be on duty and recognize me, I pulled the slouch hat I kept at the office low over my eyes, then bundled myself in the bulky Chesterfield to help to disguise my size. Charlie Hoffman covered his mouth and snorted when he saw me.

The weather had turned colder since that afternoon, but not yet wintry. I hoped I wasn’t too conspicuous. Strolling at a leisurely pace to kill time, I still got to the hospital in fifteen minutes.

I sighed in relief when I found a different receptionist at the desk. A young blonde woman, well-doused with Evening in Paris, snuffed out a cigarette before handing me a clipboard and pen. A new-fangled tall radio set behind her desk blared out a turkey trot. It was the first time I had ever heard music over the airwaves and wondered if this would be a major part of that fascinating invention’s future. Turning down the loudness, she said, “Your uncle is in E wing, room 611. Please sign in on line five.”

I scribbled a signature, making it as illegible as possible. I didn’t want Andre Beaufort to be able to read it if he checked the guest roster. I knew I would likely become persona non grata at the hospital if he discovered it was me. That’d end my crime beat with the paper for sure.

“I’ll have an attendant escort you, Mr. . . . Uh . . . I’m sorry, what does that say?”

I smiled. First hurdle cleared. “Higgins. Jimmy Higgins.”

She held the board closer to her eyes and turned it from side to side. “Oh, yes. Mr. Higgins it is. You won’t be able to get to his room alone. Visiting hours haven’t started yet.”

As she spoke, the door behind her opened and a young man in white appeared.

“Allen, please escort Mr. Higgins to 611.”

A long walk and an elevator ride later, Allen pointed to a closed door, his finger to his lips. “He may be sleeping. I’ll look in on him first.”

He gently rapped on the door and opened it. Seconds later he gestured for me to follow.

“Uncle Ralph” lay propped up on the bed in a sitting position. He threw me a sharp look and set the copy of the Saturday Evening Post on the bed next to him. “It’s about time you got here, nephew,” he said in a suitably irascible tone.

“Hello, uncle. You had us worried.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with me. Why are they keeping me here over night?”

“Don’t you remember being brought here by ambulance?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Allen shuffled his feet nervously. “Have a good night,” he mumbled before ducking out.

I shut the door. “So far, so good.”

Holmes rubbed his hands together. “Better than good, old friend. The ambulance attendant was in a chatty mood to ease my ride to the hospital. He says he was with Houdini when he was brought in. He also told me Dr. Charles S. Kennedy, Houdini’s surgeon, is the attending physician tonight.”

“How do you expect to learn anything from him?”

“Professional pride, dear fellow.”

I wasn’t sure if I knew what he meant, but at that moment the nurse came into the room. “I’m nurse Preston and it’s time to take your temperature, Mr. Howard.” She made a gesture in my direction. “You’ll have to leave for a minute or two.”

Impossible to hide a smile, I got up from my chair. The nurse pulled the curtain around the bed.

Seconds later, Holmes bellowed, “What do you intend to do with that?”

“I’m sure you must have had your temperature taken before, haven’t you? Roll over on your stomach.”

“I will not! I’m perfectly capable of taking my own temperature. Now give that to me.”

I heard sounds of a scuffle.

“Don’t. That’s not . . .”

I couldn’t suppress gagging and laughing at the same time, so I made a dash for the hallway. After several peeps through the door I finally saw the curtain pulled away from the bed.

Both Holmes and the nurse were beet red.

“I apologize for my uncle,” I stammered. “He isn’t used to hospitals. It’s too bad all the patients aren’t as nice as Mr. Houdini was.”

It was a shot in the dark.

“He was. Everyone in the hospital was excited that he was a patient here. I’m sure we all must have looked in on him at one time or another.”

“Were you ever his nurse?”

“No.” Her voice turned wary. “And I can’t tell you who was. We’ve all been sworn to secrecy.”

“I can understand that,” I said. “I’m sure the poor man must have been in terrible pain.”

“We all felt sorry for him. After surgery, he woke up early in the morning and tried to get out of bed, saying it was important to get back on stage to finish his act. He was so agitated when he heard everyone had already left the theater, it took three attendants restrain him.”

Eyebrows raised, Holmes and I traded satisfied glances. Nurse Preston had managed to maintain medical confidentiality and at the same time tell us all we wanted to know.

“Is there anything I can get for you?” the nurse asked. “Do you need some fresh water?”

“I’m quite fine, thank you,” Holmes said.

“Then . . . I guess I’ll be on my way . . .” she said in a halting voice. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.” She paused and averted her eyes. “I’ll have to get another temperature later.”

“I’ll be counting the seconds to your return,” Holmes said dryly.

“Have a good rest.”

We both held our breath until she left the room.

“What do you make of that, Wiggins?”

“Incredible. We know he did finish his act . . . unless . . .”

Mr. Holmes arched an eyebrow. “Unless what?”

“Unless he was planning to expose another fraudulent medium and hadn’t been able to get to it.”

He beamed at me. “Exactly what I was thinking, dear fellow. If so, I would very much like to know who that may have been.”

I felt my blood rising. Everything so far was working better than we could have hoped for. “So would I. We have hours ahead of us. Do you play backgammon? I brought a board and some checkers.”

“I’ve heard of the game, of course, but I’m afraid I’ve never played. I’m sure I can learn it if you explain it to me.”

I laid the checkerboard in front of me and turned it over to reveal a backgammon board. I put the red pieces in their proper places. “Set your checkers as a mirror-image of mine. I’ll get out the dice.”

Learning the movements of the men by the roll of the dice and the building of safe points took but a few rolls. Within fifteen minutes he was playing with the skill of a veteran player.

On our first play with one die each, he rolled a six and I a one.

“Aha! Six-one. I see I can build my seven point. Just try to leap now.”

I didn’t like his tone of voice. Some rolls later he had a lock-out, all six contiguous points in front of him built, and I had one of my pieces sitting helplessly on the edge of the board waiting for a chance to come back in. It was every backgammon player’s nightmare.

I glared at him. “You haven’t been truthful with me, Mr. Holmes. I can tell you’ve played the game before. Undoubtedly many times.”

“I have not, but there’s hardly anything to it. All one needs is a rudimentary knowledge of mathematical probability and an eye for the strategic deployment of pieces, but—mostly—a large dose of luck. The element of luck alone makes the game no match for the skills required to play chess.”

Blood rising, I asked, “What about the occasions when you have alternatively good options? Or alternatively disastrous?”

He shrugged. “Those are out of my hands. Do you wish to concede?”

“Absolutely not! Play on, MacDuff.”

He did, and I got gammoned. All my pieces were still on the board when he removed the last of his. I’d been playing the game for years and didn’t like being beaten so easily by a rank beginner. In my anger I didn’t tell him I had just lost a double game.

“Beginner’s luck,” I growled. “Place your pieces. I want a rematch.”

“This all seems rather pointless,” Holmes protested. “I can see no reason for a player to resign, no matter how hopeless his game may be. All he need do is play on and hope for a miracle.”

I decided it was impolitic to tell him about gammons and backgammons, or the use of the doubling cube that raised the price of losing exponentially every time it was turned, or that contestants usually played for money. Though he was obviously bored, we played on. I won the occasional game. His evening meal arrived at 6:30.

He took one look at the salad greens without dressing, chicken broth, gelatin dessert, and tea and ordered me to fetch him something substantial to eat. The best I could do was a ham sandwich on rye from the automat in the hospital restaurant. I delivered it in a napkin when I returned to his room.

He grumbled with every bite, then finished his tray after he was done with the sandwich. “Hardly enough to feed a partridge.”

“I don’t remember you being such a hearty eater,” I said.

“I get bored when I’m away from my laboratory. When is that damnable physician supposed to be here?”

His mood didn’t improve when I suggested we go back to our backgammon games.

“An utter waste of time, Wiggins.”

“Checkers, then?”

His nostrils flared. “An even bigger waste. I learned all the move combinations years ago so every game will end in a draw or a victory for me. I’m surprised you haven’t done so, too. Why didn’t you bring your chess set?”

I didn’t want to tell him it was because I never could beat him, so I turned on the radio next to the bed. I had been told every single-patient room in the hospital had a radio. With a derisive snort, Mr. Holmes rolled onto his side to catch a nap.

It lasted but a few minutes, ending with a knock on the door.

Not wanting to be seen by someone who might recognize me, I made a dash for the loo. I was glad I did when I heard the voice.

“Good evening to you. How are we feeling this evening?”

“Our dear queen and I am quite well, thank you. Are you Dr. Kennedy?”

Dr. Kennedy sounded as though he was taken aback. “I am. And I take it you are Ralph Howard.”

“The same. I understand you were Harry Houdini’s surgeon.”

I hadn’t expected Mr. Holmes to move in for the kill so quickly. Obviously, neither had Dr. Kennedy. Caught off guard, the doctor stammered. “Uh, that’s what it says in the papers. And that is all I will say about it.”

“You may be required to be a bit more forthcoming in the future, Doctor. Continental Life Insurance has a sizable policy on Mr. Houdini that must pay a double benefit for accidental death. You can understand that we want to be very sure his death was indeed accidental.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Kennedy said icily. “Then I’ll certainly lodge a complaint with your company. You gained entry to our hospital by feigning illness and now accuse me of malpractice. Your gall astonishes me.”

Mr. Holmes’s tone softened. “I’m making no such accusation, Doctor. I’ve heard rumors from the police that Mr. Houdini’s death was not caused by a ruptured appendix, but may be the result of a homicide. Poisoning, most likely.”

I could imagine the doctor’s eyes widening in astonishment. Finally the pot boiled over. “I’m not supposed to talk about this, but that rumor is patently false. There’s no doubt in my mind that he had peritonitis caused by the bursting of a septic appendix. His whole stomach was inflamed. We flushed it several times with saline solution to clear it.”

I waited for the next exchange. Finally Mr. Holmes said, “Is such inflammation common with peritonitis?”

“It can be.”

“What happened to the appendix after it was removed?”

“I sent it to the hospital laboratory.”

“And they confirmed your diagnosis?”

The doctor sighed angrily. “Absolutely. Now I have nothing more to say.”

Holmes didn’t quit, “Why did you perform a second operation?”

“No comment.”

I heard Mr. Holmes swing out of his bed. I was also sure I heard the doctor take a step backward.

“You knew Mr. Houdini was struck in the stomach between performances in Montreal. Would the blow have been sufficient to rupture the appendix?”

After a moment’s silence, Kennedy, still angry, said, “Possibly. I’ve never heard of such a thing though. All I know is Mr. Houdini should have been hospitalized long ago. By his own admission he had been sick for more than two weeks when he arrived in Detroit.”

“I’ll make my report,” Mr. Holmes said. “You can be sure your name will not come up as the source of my information. As things stand, I can’t see how we can come to any other conclusion than that Mr. Houdini’s death was accidental.”

In a voice so icy it nearly froze me, Kennedy said, “And I will write in my report that you appear to have recovered and should be released tomorrow morning if nothing occurs during the night. To be honest, I’m very tempted to throw you out on your ear right now. I also want it clear I never want you to come within a mile of this hospital again, and will call for your arrest if you do.”

“Quite understandable. I shall not.”

I heard the door to the room slam closed, and stepped out.

“Looks as if you can go back to your nap.”

Still in ill humor, Mr. Holmes turned on his side and soon began to snore. I listened to the radio for a while and slouched in my chair. I must have dozed off myself for I awoke some time later with Mr. Holmes, dressed in robe and slippers, shaking me.

“Wake up, Wiggins. We have work to do.”

I came to with a start. “What time is it?”

“Eleven-thirty. I have heard no one in the hall for nearly an hour.”

I stretched and got to my feet.

“I expect you know where the records are kept?” Holmes said.

“I do. I’ve gone there to get information for my articles on numerous occasions. We do have a trek ahead of us, though.”

“Then let us begin,” he said.

The hallway outside the door was dark. A ways ahead, a light indicated the nurse’s station. I took the lead in case she suddenly appeared.

Fortunately she wasn’t at her desk, and we took the stairway down to the first floor. Opening the door to the hallway, I suddenly didn’t remember which way to go.

“Is there a problem?” Holmes asked in a near whisper.

“A small one.”

I caught sight of a linen-covered window. Pulling back the curtain, I saw the lights along the Detroit River. “This way,” I said heading to the right.

We followed a dimly lit hallway between doors with gilded letters on their windows.

“These are obviously the business offices,” Holmes muttered. “Do we need to worry about security?”

“Somewhat. The hospital has a guard who makes regular rounds. One of his stops is here.” I pointed to a keyhole in the wall next to a door marked “Bursar.”

“I take it you brought your tools, Wiggins. I hope you haven’t forgotten your skill with locks.”

Before I could answer, I heard whistling beyond the door to the lobby. It seemed to be coming towards us. I dashed for one of the unmarked doors and turned the knob. Locked. Grabbing my astonished friend by the arm, I pulled him toward the second unmarked door. This one opened. I pushed him inside, with me a step behind. The door to the janitor’s closet closed just as the door to the hallway opened.

The whistling stopped.

Had I left something behind?

In a panic, I grabbed the door knob just as whoever was in the hallway tried to turn it. Luckily the knob was at its locked position and it didn’t move with me holding it in place. The guard, or so I assumed, tried two more times before giving up. Then, once again, the person returned to whistling “I’ll See You in My Dreams.”

Rather badly off-key, I have to say.

I kept my ear pressed closely against the door and took tiny breaths for several minutes, listening for movement in the hallway. Finally I heard the door to the lobby open and close.

Even though the coast was clear, I waited in silence another two minutes before turning the knob and stepping out.

Mr. Holmes’s disposition remained testy. “That was uncomfortably close. I shouldn’t like another such fright again tonight.”

“It was no stroll in the park for me, either, my dear sir. I hope we can finish our task without further incident.”

Pressing my ear against the lobby door, I heard a radio playing. It had to be the one next to the reception desk. The guards, all members of the Detroit Police, kept it tuned to KOP in case emergencies were referred during the time they were working at the hospital. It undoubtedly had announced Houdini’s arrival on the fateful night. Most likely, the officer was just a few feet away.

“This won’t do,” I mumbled.

“Shall we return to the room?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“No. I have a better idea.”

He watched as I took out my pick from my pocket. I chose the door marked Public Relations and unlocked it.

The room had a large square desk, several filing cabinets, and walls full of photographs. The phone was all that interested me, and I dialed the hospital number.

To my relief, the guard answered. “Grace Hospital Security Desk.”

“Hello. This is Doctor Wheeler. I’m on third floor and I thought I heard a strange noise in the hallway. Would you mind coming up to investigate?”

“Not at all. I’ll be right up.”

Mr. Holmes stood leaning against the door. I joined him.

The radio turned off. I waited until I was sure he had time to get on the elevator and cautiously opened the door.

The lobby was empty, and the records office stood ten feet away.

Mr. Holmes patted me on my back. “Well done, Wiggins. I see you haven’t lost any of your ingenuity over the years.”

“Thanks, but we won’t have much time. I have no idea how to find the chart we want.”

“Hopefully it will be located in alphabetical order.”

As feared, the door to the records office was the least of our problems.

The shades to the office were drawn and the room as black as a priest-hole at midnight. I fumbled for the light switch. Turning it on, I let out a groan. I had forgotten the battery of files standing six feet high around the entire office.

Finding the right file drawer for the “Hs” by trial and error took longer than I hoped. The “HO” section ended with “Hopkins.”

“Any suggestions?” I asked.

“I see there are many records sitting on top of the cabinet. Perhaps the one we want hasn’t been put away yet.”

I doubted it would be among them and, unfortunately, was proven correct. We had wasted more than ten minutes, and I wondered how long it would take for the guard to return.

“Maybe the hospital doesn’t keep his file with the others,” I said.

Mr. Holmes had moved to another cabinet. “These are files for the various physicians. You don’t suppose . . .”

He stopped short at the sound of someone moving in the lobby. My worst fears were confirmed with the sound of the radio. Not only did we not have Houdini’s medical file but we were trapped in the office until the guard made another inspection round.

After remaining frozen in place for what seemed an eternity, I tiptoed to stand next to Mr. Holmes.

The first drawer creaked when we pushed it back in.

With a shrug we opened the drawer beneath it. A large manila marker with the name Leonard Kennedy stood at the front.

I squatted and began to finger through the files. One was turned backwards. Turning it around showed the word Confidential in block letters on the front. Instead of a name it had 10/30/26 written at the top.

There was no disguising whose file it was.

We both whirled at the sound of the door opening in back of us.