Harry Houdini Mysteries by Daniel Stashower

Craig lingered by the music box, swaying to the music with a dreamy expression on his face. “There would have to be,” I said.
    When the rest of us were seated Craig spent a further moment or two fussing over the screens behind his chair, explaining that the arrangement of fabric was needed to form a crucible for his energies. This done, he settled himself between Mrs. Clairmont and Mr. Grange, smiling with happy contentment.
    “Now, then,” he began, laying his hands on the surface of the table, “it is my fervent hope this evening that we shall journey into unknown realms. However, since Mr. Hardeen and Dr. Weiss were not with us for our previous effort, we must again take care that we bring our minds into alignment before we can begin. As with the tuning of a musical instrument, our vital forces must be brought into accord. For the moment, we shall leave the lights as they are, though if we are to ascend to the next level as the séance progresses, we shall have to extinguish them entirely. Do you understand?”
    Mrs. Clairmont nodded her agreement, though my brother—even behind his moustache and monocle—appeared decidedly agitated.
    “I would like each of you to take a slip of paper from this pad,” Craig continued. “Allow yourself a moment or two to clear your mind of all stray impressions, then jot down a wordor phrase on the slip of paper. It should be a thought that comes naturally to mind—do not confuse matters by straining over an old memory or a lengthy maxim. The message should be brief and direct. As I said, this is merely an exercise—a means of clearing the palate before we move on to the main feature of the evening.”
    My brother grew more and more restive during Craig’s remarks. “Brief and direct,” he muttered, bending low over his slip of paper.
    Craig waited for a moment while the others scrawled out their messages. “That is excellent,” he said when each of us had finished. “Now, you would oblige me if you would each add your initials at the bottom of your message. Good. Now, we finish by folding the slips in half, then in half again. Excellent. Let us place the papers in this tray.” He watched as a shallow ceramic tray was passed around the table. “Very good,” he said when the tray made its way back to him. “We are ready to proceed.”
    “I shouldn’t wonder,” Harry grumbled. I shot him a warning glance.
    Resting his hands on either side of the tray, Craig closed his eyes and remained motionless for a moment. Then, without opening his eyes, he dipped his fingers into the tray and withdrew one of the slips of paper. Pressing it to his forehead, he concentrated for a further moment before a smile spread across his features. “A fitting invocation,” he said. “The message comes from our hostess, and it reads, ‘Success.’ I do hope so, Mrs. Clairmont.”
    Craig unfolded the message and set it aside before dipping his fingers into the tray once more. “Here is a message from our friend Mr. Grange,” he said, pressing the next folded slip to his forehead. “It reads, ‘Violet.’ And here is an offering from Mr. Brunson, unless I’m mistaken. His message is ‘Remember the Maine.’ Dear me! How very patriotic! Let us see, I believe this next slip of paper holds a rather longer message. ‘Unnumberedspirits round thee fly.’ A line from Pope, is it not, Kenneth? How does the poem continue? Ah, yes. ‘Unnumbered spirits round thee fly, the light militia of the lower sky.’ Now, then, what have we here...?”
    The demonstration continued in this manner for some moments, with Craig plucking each folded slip from the tray, pressing it to his forehead and, after a moment’s concentration, reading out the words printed within. As he successfully divined each particular message, Craig unfolded the paper billet, scanned the contents to confirm his reading, and then tossed it aside before moving on to the next. I could not help but marvel at the easy,