Sherlock Holmes and the King of Clubs Read Online Free PDF Page B

Jew whose family had emigrated to the United States when Houdini himself was four years old. Moving to New York from Wisconsin – the home of the Badger Game, Watson reminded himself sourly – the young Weisz had eventually changed his name in tribute to Jean-Eugène Robert-Houdin, the French magician he so admired, and went into showbusiness.
    From vaudeville, where he had mostly performed card tricks, he had gone on to tour the world as an escapologist extraordinare. No gaol could hold him, no straitjacket restrain him, no set of shackles bind him. He had escaped from all manner of prisons, was an accomplished safe-cracker and a year earlier had astounded audiences with what he called his Chinese Water-Torture Cell, escaping from chains and padlocks whilst being suspended upside-down in a glass case filled with water.
    It seemed impossible to believe that this man, who stood five feet, five inches on bowed legs, was the person who had performed so many wondrous acts. At a distance he seemed almost nondescript. And yet here was someone who could walk a tightrope; untie knots with his toes; dislocate his shoulders at will; climb skyscrapers; and hold his breath for more than three minutes at a time. He was an inventor, businessman, a scientist of sorts, philanthropist, magazine publisher, newspaper columnist and author.
    As Houdini passed Holmes and Watson he happened to glance in their direction. The next time he looked at them it was with a frown. He took two more steps, then suddenly turned and came back. His entourage stopped at a respectful distance to watch, but the two women flanking him continued to accompany him as he approached Holmes and Watson.
    ‘It’s Holmes, isn’t it?’ Houdini asked as he came up. ‘Sherlock Holmes?’
    ‘You are, I perceive, a reader of the American edition of the
Strand
,’ Holmes replied.
    Houdini looked surprised. He had dark, wiry hair that was parted in the middle, angular features, sharp cheekbones, and vivid blue eyes.
    ‘I am indeed,’ he replied with a boyish grin. ‘But how did you know that? Do I have some distinctive type of printer’s ink on my fingertips? Or a myopic squint that indicates that I’ve spent more than my fair share of time poring over the
Strand’s
small type?’
    ‘Far simpler than that,’ said Holmes, shaking Houdini’s outstretched hand. ‘Since I make it a practice to keep as low a profile as possible, it is highly unlikely that you have seen a photograph of me. The late Mr Sidney Paget popularized a spurious version of my appearance as an Inverness-wearing pipe-smoker in a deerstalker. He did, however, capture my physiognomy reasonably accurately. Subsequent artists employed by the
Strand
, such as H. M. Brock and Joseph Simpson, have maintained it.’
    Houdini chuckled. ‘Well, I’m sure glad we cleared
that
up.’ Suddenly remembering his companions, he added: ‘Oh, say, let me present my wife, Bess, and my assistant, Miss Frances Lane.’
    A petite woman with dark, curly hair and an impish tilt to her nose stood forward; Bess Houdini was of a similar age to her husband and though homely, she had fine, dark brows, large, well-spaced eyes that showed a sense humour, a strong chin and a smooth complexion.
    Frances Lane was her complete opposite. She was taller by several inches, slimmer and more elegant-looking in a well-tailored , military-style grey coat with a fur hem. Beneath her fetching purple velvet hat, her copper-coloured hair shone richly. Her eyes were sea-green, with a curious upward slant at the corners, and beneath them her cheekbones were high and well defined.
    ‘How do you do, gentlemen,’ she said, her voice deep and confident.
    With introductions out of the way, Houdini – seeminglyunaware that he was keeping his welcoming committee waiting – said, ‘So, what brings you to Austria, Mr Holmes?’
    ‘We are here on holiday.’
    ‘Not business, then?’
    ‘I no longer practise as a consulting detective, Mr