Who Done Houdini by Raymond John Page B

least in my estimation they did.
    We sat at opposite ends of the table in the periodical room. Stories about Houdini already filled three large scrapbooks and Mr. Holmes sat studying them, every so often looking away, only to nod his head and return to his reading.
    As a boy, I remember him sitting in his armchair at 221B Baker Street with the same expression, pausing occasionally to sip from his teacup. He always made sure Mrs. Hudson had milk for me, and at times took my glass to pour some into his Oolong. In all my visits I never once saw him with his violin, let alone playing it, and rarely found him smoking his pipe.
    In other words, I was a victim of a deprived childhood.
    My own endeavours bore little fruit. Mitzi Cornwall, the spiritualist who had gotten the most newsprint, regularly called upon a “familiar” named Oswald. Oswald was a rogue spirit who had been shot dead during a bank robbery and had a bad habit of running a ghostly hand up inside the dresses of the ladies present. Participants always knew of his presence by the screams, although, surprisingly, some women remained silent. Despite his British name, Oswald spoke Polish and frequently visited Hamtramck in his forays around the spirit world.
    Houdini would never have bothered with her.
    A more likely candidate was A.J. Baker. According to an article in the News, his customers had to wait a week before being allowed into the séance room after making an initial payment of seventy-five dollars. That was almost as much as I made in a month. I’m sure the extra time was used to make a full investigation of his victim’s background before the actual performance.
    According to Mitzi, customers paid another fifty dollars on the night of the seance . They were then led into an empty room, seated at a table and told to wait. According to the reporter who attended the séance, Baker made his appearance by “walking through a wall” to occupy his decorative chair. Though she doubted her own eyes, Mitzi could find no semblance of a hidden door or other entrance where he had emerged.
    In the course of the séance, Baker’s turbaned head fell back over the top of the chair and his mouth opened. Then a ghostly voice came from his stomach. The voice addressed each of those present, answering questions from his assistant that only the participant could know. After that, each was given a message from beyond, and all the attendees left the session happy. No one ever seemed to think they had been flummoxed.
    In other words, Baker fit Houdini’s bill for exposure perfectly.
    I pushed my stack of papers aside, then stood and stretched. “Will you be much longer? I’m finished now.”
    â€œI expect I’ve seen all I need to see, also.”
    â€œI’ll call Violet. There’s a payphone in the foyer.”
    Violet had decided to make Mr. Holmes feel at home with a beef roast with Yorkshire pudding, browned parsnips, and rocket salad. I got seeds for the spicy greens in Britain and she grew them in our garden. She had even whipped up a trifle for desert.
    I always wondered at American women’s thinking. Why would a visitor want to eat the same food he could get at home? Wouldn’t a true Yankee dinner be more interesting? After serving him his food, she scarcely gave him a chance to eat a spoonful, regaling him with non-stop questions.
    The first one was inevitable. “Are you really Sherlock Holmes?”
    â€œMy alter ego. I barely remember my real name anymore.”
    Arms firmly planted on the tabletop, she coyly rested her chin on her knuckles.
    â€œHave you ever been married?” she asked sweetly.
    â€œNo, by choice.”
    â€œHave you ever been in love?”
    â€œIf you call deep respect and fond feelings love, yes. I’ve never been sure what exactly it is.”
    Violet’s third degree continued. I let her continue for ten minutes before stepping in to remind her to let him