Harry Houdini Mysteries by Daniel Stashower

this evening will be of interest.”
    Mrs. Clairmont was tall and slender, with long hair of brilliant white. With her pleasing high cheekbones and sparkling gray eyes, it was plain to see that she had been a beauty in her youth. Like her son, she had an easy, gracious manner that went a long way toward putting us at our ease. Though Harry and I could not have been the sort of young men she was accustomed to receiving in her home, there was nothing in her manner to hint that we were unwelcome.
    “Allow me to introduce my brother, Mr. Sterling Foster,” Mrs. Clairmont was saying, indicating a stooped figure near the fire. Sterling Foster made no move to acknowledge our presence. He stood at the far end of the room with a glass of whiskey in hand, glowering at us as though we might have been debt collectors. Like his sister, he had bright eyes and strong features, though the broken veins tracing his bulbous nose spoke of a more dissolute lifestyle.
    “I don’t see why I have to participate in this foolery,” he grumbled. “Lucius Craig can go and hang himself for all I care.”
    “Where is the mysterious Mr. Craig?” I asked, scanning the room.
    “He is upstairs in my late husband’s study,” Mrs. Clairmont answered, ignoring her brother’s grousing. “He requires a period of silent meditation before a demonstration. We shall wait here for the others.” She signalled to the butler, who moved forward with a tray of wine glasses.
    Kenneth and I each accepted a glass while Harry busiedhimself examining a shelf of books. “Is wine not to your liking, Dr. Weiss?” Mrs. Clairmont asked, noting that Harry had not taken a glass. “We have other spirits, if you would prefer.”
    “Thank you, no,” my brother answered. “As a medical man, I prefer to keep my mind clear.” He tapped the side of his head, indicating the fine and presumably delicate organ operating within.
    “What a shame,” said Mrs. Clairmont. “It’s a most unusual vintage.”
    The ringing of the door chime interrupted Harry’s reply, and a moment later Brunson appeared to announce a pair of fresh visitors.
    Dr. Richardson Wells was a dark-haired giant of a man, with a swag belly but powerful arms and shoulders. His skin had a coppery tinge that spoke of much time spent out of doors, and he appeared uncomfortable and somewhat confined in his formal attire. Mr. Edgar Grange, by contrast, had a pallid, drawn face that appeared never to have seen the light of day and the languid manner of a man unused to physical exertion of any kind. Kenneth had mentioned that Grange had taken over the family’s business concerns in the months since Jasper Clairmont’s passing, and it took no great feat of imagination to picture him hunched over a ledger volume, tallying up a column of figures.
    “Ah! Grange! There you are!” called Sterling Foster in a voice thickened by whiskey. “Need to speak to you. Most urgent.” With this, Foster shuttled the lawyer into a corner for a whispered conference. Judging by the sharp gestures and grim expressions, the subject under discussion was not pleasant.
    “Weiss, eh?” Dr. Wells was saying to my brother. “What sort of practice are you in, sir?”
    “Practice?” Harry asked, adjusting his monocle.
    “I’m a general practitioner, myself,” said Dr. Wells. “Had a country practice for many years.”
    “Yes!” Harry’s head bobbed eagerly. “I am also a general practitioner.”
    “Ah!” cried Dr. Wells. “A kindred spirit! Where did you do your practicals?”
    A spark of fear began to show in Harry’s eyes. “Europe,” he said. “Budapest, to be precise.”
    “Budapest? How very interesting! I can’t say I know much about Hungary. It must be fascinating!”
    “Dr. Weiss was just telling me of the most fascinating article he saw in The Lancet ,” said Kenneth Clairmont, endeavoring to save my brother from himself. “It had to do with the vasomotor changes in tabes dorsalis and its influence on the