Who Done Houdini by Raymond John

Germans no longer are our enemies.”
    â€œNo. But they certainly aren’t our friends, either. Many Germans think the generals and the Kaiser’s government betrayed their country by signing the Versailles Treaty. Not only are they angry, they want revenge. Mycroft’s certain they intend to get it. He says all they need is a leader and a cause, and they’ll create the greatest menace the world’s ever faced.”
    â€œSo why are we returning to the library?”
    â€œI need to confirm some things about our spiritualist. I also need to get a copy of Frankfurter Zeitung and some other German newspapers. If what I suspect is correct, we will be making a return trip to Baker Manor tonight.”
    I waited for further elaboration, but he didn’t say anything more. I stopped in front of the library. “If you’re looking for a German newspaper, there’s a newsstand just around the corner from the Free Press building.
    â€œI may be a bit late. I have to find a carpenter before I come to meet you.”
    I blinked. “A carpenter? What on earth for?”
    â€œSecurity, dear friend. Security.”
    We agreed to meet in the paper’s morgue when he finished. The paper’s receptionist would tell him how to find it.
    When I got to the third floor, Andy Norris, our photography expert, immediately took the camera with him into the darkroom. Andy had been instructed by Mr. Scripps to give top priority to any photos I gave to him for processing.
    That left me with time to begin my first notes for my article or articles about our investigation into Houdini’s death.
    Charlie Hoffman had moved into my desk so I garnered an unused reporter’s notebook from the storeroom and found a place to sit in the morgue. No dead people, just old newspapers.
    An hour and a half later, Mr. Holmes rapped on the door. If possible, his face was even darker than it had been when I left him. “As I feared, we have work to do, Wiggins,” he said with a sigh.
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    Violet was more than happy to play her part in our “work-to-do” by calling the social editors of the Free Press and the News.
    I listened in bemused silence to an entirely new voice as she spoke. “Yes, Miss Warren, this is Myrtle Van Dyke, Mr. Baker’s secretary. We’re holding a very special séance tonight, and we’d like you to send someone to cover it. We guarantee it’ll be very newsworthy.”
    Short silence.
    â€œYou will? Thank you so much. We’ll be expecting you.”
    She hung up. “There you are, Mr. Wiggins,” she said in the same voice. “Both papers are sending representatives. Please may I go, too?”
    â€œDo you have a hundred and twenty dollars squirreled away you haven’t told me about?”
    She stuck out her lower lip and reverted to her own voice. “You know I don’t.”
    â€œEven if you did, I really don’t think you’ll want to be there tonight, my dear. Mr. Holmes and I will be very busy, and I regret to say you’d only be in the way. It’s too late to get you a seat, anyway.”
    â€œWhy is he looking so unhappy? He hasn’t said a word since you got here. All he does is sit and read the newspapers he bought.”
    â€œHe won’t say. It has something to do with Mr. Baker’s past and what he may be doing with the money he’s taking in from the séances. He promised me I’ll know everything by the time the night is through.”
    â€œThen you’ll absolutely have to tell me, too.”
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    When the sun set at 4:47, we were parked along Eight-Mile Road just beyond the driveway to Baker Manor. Complete darkness was still half an hour away and none of the guests had arrived, though they would shortly.
    I felt both foolish and excited in my black sweater and trousers. The black mask sitting in my lap reminded me of the infamous hangman, Jack Ketch. Luckily, no one could see us. The