Harry Houdini Mysteries by Daniel Stashower Page A

sympathetic nervous system.”
    “Indeed! Interested in nervous disorders, are you?” asked Dr. Wells.
    “Isn’t everyone?” said my brother.
    “Well, Kenneth here certainly is.” He clapped Kenneth on the back. “So, you’re keeping up with your studies, boy? They’ve managed to teach you a thing or two in New Haven?”
    “A thing or two, yes,” Kenneth answered.
    “You know there’ll always be a place for you with me, if you should want some seasoning when you finish. I could use a pair of fresh legs on my rounds.”
    A cloud passed over the young man’s face. “Well, I’m not certain that will be possible in the present circumstances.”
    “Nonsense!” cried Wells. “You’re a born sawbones. Never saw anyone with such a ready grasp of anatomy. It’s been that way since you were a pup.”
    “See here, Wells,” said Edgar Grange, extricating himself from his conference with Sterling Foster, “you know perfectly well that young Kenneth will be joining the family firm soon enough. With Jasper gone, it’s all the more urgent that we have a member of the Clairmont family at the helm.”
    The remark prompted a surly exclamation from Sterling Foster, who moved off toward the sideboard and reached for a whiskey decanter.
    “Gentlemen,” said Mrs. Clairmont in a bright but firm tone,“we agreed that there would be no talk of business this evening. My plans are too important.”
    “Sorry, Augusta,” said Dr. Wells, finishing off his glass of wine. “When are we going to have another go in the spook room, anyway?”
    “We shall be joining Mr. Craig after the meal. Gentlemen, if you will follow me.” With that, our hostess led us through to the dining room.
    “I hope you’ve built up an appetite,” Kenneth said as we made our way down a long corridor. “My mother has a rather exaggerated view of what constitutes a light supper.”
    “So does mine,” I replied, “but as it happens, I’m so hungry I could eat a—good lord!”
    It is fortunate that I did not actually proclaim my willingness to eat a horse, as my hostess would undoubtedly have produced one. In later years, when I had achieved a modicum of fame, I became accustomed to dining in high style at some of the finest establishments in Europe—at considerable cost to my waistline. At that time, however, I had never seen a table laid out in the fashion that awaited us in Mrs. Clairmont’s dining room, nor would I have many more chances to enjoy the lavish gilded-age groaning board style of hospitality. The table was dressed with the finest linen beneath the soft glow of an alabaster gasolier. Each place was set with a square of cloth folded into an intricate crown imperial, and a bewildering array of seventeen pieces of silver. Mrs. Clairmont directed each of us to his place, then Dr. Wells held her chair as she settled herself to the right of the head of the table. The place of honor, I noted, was held vacant.
    Even now, I can still recall the delicious smells that rose from the vast assembly of dishes on offer. Kenneth Clairmont, perhaps noting my perplexed expression, took care to name each of the dishes, adding a word or two of comment so as to remove any further confusion. “Ah! What have we in the soup tureen? Mock turtle! How pleasant! And for the fish course? SalmonRestigouche, I see. A particular favorite of Mr. Grange’s, as I recall. And what about the entrees? There’s a brace of partridges, I see, and a wild duck. Is that Grenadine de Veau? You really must try that, Mr.—er, Dr. Weiss. The cook has a wonderful talent for veal.”
    On and on it went, with Kenneth offering helpful assistance at each stage of the meal, and Harry and myself struggling to do justice to the astonishing bounty before us. Brunson and his staff managed the silver serving platters and rolling carts with unobtrusive skill, although there had been some minor distress as we sat down over a missing chair. Brunson dispatched an assistant to fetch a