Jaime Robledo

by Jaime Robledo

All performances and public readings of WATSON AND THE DARK ART OF HARRY HOUDINI are subject to royalties. It is fully protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America, of all countries covered by the International Copyright Union, of all countries covered by the Pan-American Copyright Convention and the Universal Copyright Convention, and all countries with which the United States has reciprocal copyright relations. All rights are strictly reserved.

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ORIGINAL PRODUCTION NOTES Watson and the Dark Art of Harry Houdini originally premiered at Sacred Fools Theater Company, Los Angeles, California on June 21, 2013.

Originally produced by Brian Wallis

Cast: Scott Leggett as Dr. John Watson Joe Fria as Sherlock Holmes Donald Thoms-Cappello as Harry Houdini Carrie Keranen as Violet Hunter Eric Curtis Johnson as Mycroft Holmes Cj Merriman as Mary Morstan Watson Graham Skipper as Sigmund Freud/Pike

Ensemble – Lisa Anne Nicolai, Mandi Moss, Brendan Broms, Aaron Mendelson, and Perry Daniel

Director – Jaime Robledo Assistant Director – Monica Greene Associate Producer – Abraham Benrubi Stage Manager – Suze Campagna Assistant Stage Manager – Dana DeRuyck Composer – Ryan Johnson Production Designer – Michael James Schneider Lighting Designer – Matt Richter Costume Designer – Linda Muggeridge Stunt/Fight Coordinator – Andrew Amani Movement Consultant – Natasha Norman

CHARACTERS 5F, 7M HARRY HOUDINI / HERLIHEY: Mid 30s-mid 40s; The world’s greatest magician. He is a dark unsettling presence. Must have a passable Irish brogue (plays a secondary role as Lt. Herlihey). Magic skills are not a requirement but a magician/escape artist is preferred in the role. VIOLET HUNTER: Late 20s-mid 30s; A strong willed governess who captures Watson’s attention and affection. 5 STAGEHANDS: Ages 18-50; 2 male and 3 female; all ethnicities. The ensemble will play a variety of roles including Bess Houdini and are the driving force of this physically demanding piece. Movement and dance training are a plus, but not required. JOHN WATSON: Late 30s-mid 40s; The bumbling porcine sidekick turned hero in the first “Watson” is now a tortured soul in this tale. SHERLOCK HOLMES: Late 30s-mid 40s; Watson’s brilliant colleague; arrogant and brash. Must be a skilled physical comedian. SIGMUND FREUD / LANGDALE PIKE: Late 40s-early 50s; Must have exceptional comedic timing and a passable Austrian and High British accent. MYCROFT HOLMES: Early 40s; Sherlock Holmes’ older smarter brother. He is quick witted, irritable and a sloppy dresser. MARY WATSON: Late 20s-mid 30s; Watson’s wife. Movement training is a plus. Must sing.

SETTINGS Various locations in and around London; The docks of Liverpool; The RMS Cedric; Various locations in and around Coney Island.

RUNNING TIME 1 Hour, 45 Minutes

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PROLOGUE: A KILLING A tremolo string quivers unnervingly as the lights come up on a round candlelit table. SEVERAL PEOPLE sit at the table; their backs to the audience. A WOMAN is in a seat set apart from the table, her back to the audience. The lights come up on the one figure facing forward. It is HARRY HOUDINI, 30s, dark and commanding. HOUDINI There is death in the clouds, There is fear in the night For the dead in the shrouds, Hail the sins turning flight. And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-alter Fungous and white. Lights up on SIGMUND FREUD, 50s, sitting in a chair on the other side of the stage from Houdini. Two STAGEHANDS flank him with mirrors. FREUD To no gale of Earth's kind Sways the forest of oak, A MAN at Houdini’s table shifts in his seat. HOUDINI attempts to calm him. MAN I don’t believe it! HOUDINI Mr. Holmes, please! FREUD Where the sick boughs entwined By mad mistletoes choke A small pool of light illuminates JOHN WATSON, early 40s, standing alone center stage. He clutches a worn red diary. HOUDINI continues his ritual. WATSON For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk. FREUD Ein poem. Spooky. WATSON A poem, Doctor Freud. Dark and foreboding. Rife with pain and fear. I don’t know from when or whence it came. There’s nothing in the literature. Those words… those words chill me to the bone. FREUD Und zis is how you choose to begin your next tale. WATSON I didn’t know another way. It’s as good a place as any to start, I suppose. FREUD You are ein poet und didn’t even know it.

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WATSON Herr Freud— FREUD cuts him off with a wave of his hand. A WOMAN stands up at Houdini’s table, incredibly upset. HOUDINI attempts to console her, but she buries her head in another man’s shoulder. A SECOND MAN stands, clearly angry, grabbing Houdini by the lapel. The lights fade out on them. FREUD If you are here, mit me, there is clearly something very wrong mit you. Zis is what you wanted; to open zis up. You are moving on. You are creating something from nothing. Zis is what you wrestle mit. So… thrill me. WATSON slowly opens the diary and reads. FREUD recedes into the shadows. Watson flips back to the first page of his diary and reads directly to the audience, while the lights slowly, hauntingly illuminate the stage. WATSON And so it began, a decade since I published my last work, darkness would pierce the light and threaten to snuff it out for good. For you see, one could never make their living wading into the blackest recesses of human nature without the Cimmerian shade reaching up and pulling one down into it. Most tales begin with a bang. Ours, dear friend, would begin with a scream. A high pitched scream rips through the air as A YOUNG WOMAN bolts onto the stage in a panic as if being pursued. Large foreboding shadows seem to snake across the set framed by the framed wooden lattice of an amusement park. An array of Edison bulbs hang from the ceiling like a chandelier. Along the back wall is a scaffolding structure supported by black steel and wooden beams, like the innards of a demented amusement park ride or the underside of a boardwalk. These beams are lined with incandescent light bulbs. There are two stair units that begin at the top level and meet on the bottom of the stage. A grid of steel beams hover above the stage connecting to an exposed catwalk. The WOMAN runs to one side of the stage but is blocked by two STAGEHANDS wearing dark shirts and black vests. She backs away and attempts to exit the other direction but is thwarted by two more stagehands. The four assailants closing in on her, pushing her back until she makes a mad dash for the VOM. She is grabbed before she could escape and tossed back into the center. ANOTHER enters from the top level, making his way down the steps as the woman makes one last ditch effort to break free. She is thwarted and tossed back into the scrum. A STAGEHAND steps in, reaching up an empty hand and stabs downward to her stomach. He pulls away and takes with him a long crimson ribbon, releasing it to the ground. The lights turn red as the whole scene becomes slow motion. The OTHER STAGEHANDS have a go, each raising up and plunging an empty hand into the WOMAN, pulling back a ribbon.

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The WOMAN weakens with each blow and is left near lifeless, desperately crawling from danger. The FINAL STAGEHAND has now made his way into the maelstrom, pulling away the woman to her knees by her hair. The STAGEHANDS back away into the darkness leaving the two of them alone. As if performing a magic trick, he pulls up his right sleeve and flashes his open palm before reaching around the woman’s neck. With a single violent motion, he slices her throat raining down a shower of red confetti. He keeps her from hitting the ground, laying her carefully on her back. The lights fade and we transition to WATSON. WATSON (CONT’D) It was this brutal incident that would spark the tale I call Watson and the Dark Art of Harry Houdini. The tabloids would have a field day with these shocking acts and would attract the attention of a once great detective. For you see, with no one to chronicle his exploits, the man once considered the greatest mind in all of London would languish. His greatest nemeses would not be villainous masterminds of prior adventures, but the sleaze and sloth of the city’s streets. The STAGEHANDS bring in the scenery for the next scene. A stagehand is dressed as a BOBBY and is being interviewed by the oily sleaze merchant, LANGDALE PIKE (played by the same actor who plays Sigmund Freud), quite the Dandy, sharpening his pencil with a small knife. A DEAD MAN is sprawled on the floor next to a toppled chair; crimson ribbons emanating out from under him. BOBBY Nothing to see here, Pike. Your kind is not wanted. PIKE Pleeeeassse, call me Langdale, yes? BOBBY We don’t need you picking this poor soul clean afore we got the chance to investigate. PIKE I only want to shed light on the situation. So perhaps I may ask you some questions, yes? BOBBY No. PIKE Good. Now, Scotland Yard seems to have its hands full, yes? A spate of grisly murders throughout London; five to be exact. All unsolved, yes? Yes? Anything? For the record? With a flourish, PIKE pulls out a pen and pad, awaiting an answer. BOBBY (nervously) Was that… one question? PIKE Nothing? Yes? No? Very well. I happen to know from a little bird that Scotland Yard has elicited the help of a one Mr.—

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SHERLOCK HOLMES, late 30s, enters carrying a leather bag. HOLMES Sherlock Holmes? London’s aviary class is dead on the mark for once. Pike. PIKE Holmes. HOLMES Constable. BOBBY Holmes. HOLMES Langdale. PIKE Yes? HOLMES Who are you with these days, Langdale? Manchester Guardian? The Times? The Telegraph? PIKE Those rags no longer see fit to hire me. I work for myself now. HOLMES A softer roll of toilet paper, then? PIKE Must you be so cruel? HOLMES I gather it’s quite fragrant. Nothing emanates from the sploot-hole of Langdale Pike without being masked in an aromatic bouquet. Constable, have you secured the scene? BOBBY The scene? HOLMES Of the crime. BOBBY Alleged crime. I was supposed to do that? HOLMES Yes. Have you done any investigation here at the scene? BOBBY I blew my whistle. He blows his whistle. HOLMES muffles the sound. HOLMES Shhh. We don’t want to attract any more unnecessary attention constable, now do we? BOBBY Don’t we?

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HOLMES shakes his head, “no.” HOLMES Now that THAT is settled, I want to disabuse Mr. Pike here of his ill informed notion that this murder— BOBBY Alleged— HOLMES Alleged murder may purportedly be connected to a certain potential series of so-called murders here in London Town. BOBBY How can you tell, Mr. Holmes? HOLMES Observation. Simple observation hand in hand with the science of deduction. This gentleman, lying before us was not murdered. In fact, I believe it quite the opposite. Constable, my bag. PIKE The legendary Sherlock Holmes deigns to demonstrate his skill after all these years. If it were press you were seeking, then press you will obtain. HOLMES Constable, hand me what I ask for precisely as I ask for it. Be prepared to be astounded. The BOBBY crosses to the bag and pick sit up. Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” begins to play. The music gets louder and more intense as HOLMES deconstructs the crime scene. He takes a deep breath and dives in. Upon first blush, one might assume the victim was murdered. See here, the hands cut, a gaping wound in the chest and the uncomfortable position of the body suggesting he didn’t land there by choice. If you believed this was foul play, as Mr. Pike does… you’d be a blasted idiot. Hand lens. The BOBBY hands him a magnifying glass. The chest wound is jagged and irregular eliminating most blades as a murder weapon. Tweezers. The BOBBY hands him tweezers. Observing closer, one will notice traces of an unusual guest. Not unusual around this time of year, but unusual to reside in a wound. For you see, besides my expertise as a self taught chemist, tobacconist, practitioner of Baritsu, and master of various and sundry disguises, I am also an amateur student of botany. Jar. The BOBBY digs around in the bag unable to find the jar. Jar! PIKE Christ on a Banger, give it here. PIKE snatches the bag and produces a jar. HOLMES snatches the jar away. Rude.

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HOLMES And what we have here are traces of the Santalales order, the Viscaceae family, in the Latin known as Viscus Album; the common name for mistletoe. If the good Constable had done the smallest bit of investigative work, he’d realize we were standing under a tree; the quite common poplar which is often host to the hemi-parasitic mistletoe. Bandage. PIKE produces a bandage from the bag. PIKE Where are you headed with— HOLMES A few yards away is what might appear to be a weapon, a dull knife, but there is not a trace of blood upon it. Instead it is a sap, a poplar sap from a freshly cut bough… a bough which is over… there. Yes. Freshly cut, the end covered in blood. A second examination of the victim reveals a smudge on the mouthal area with the faint odor of castor oil and beeswax; the woman’s lip of stick. Doubtful this gentleman wanted to effect full feminine lips, I would deduce the Casanova was engaged in the carnal pleasure of kissing; what one might do under the mistletoe. Seeing as it is the wrong season, he did not heed the old lyric “When you sing Christmas in July, you rush the season." Now, a single set of footprints from a small pair of women’s boots lead to and away from the chair and to and away from the body. The chair has a broken leg, and the various skid marks reveal it slid in one direction and the body in another. So in all probability, nay, possibility, nay certainty, this was an accident. The music ends as HOLMES strikes a triumphant pose. He breaks out of it. The music and lights change. The VICTIM animates; a STAGEHAND enters backwards and the accident is recreated backwards with the help of another stagehand in slow motion, then forward in real time. The blood, a red ribbon, goes back into and then comes out of the chest wound. Pike, pay attention. The victim, in a romantic gesture bucking tradition made the fatal error of placing a rickety chair on a rickety box in order to cut down of bough of mistletoe for his paramour, which was just out of reach. Why the need to cut down a bough for a kiss under the mistletoe when they were already under it, remains a mystery. You may chalk it up to the foolishness of love, if you’d like. So, the chair leg snaps, the victim falls separating the branch covered in the poisonous shrub from the tree. He hits the ground, knocking the knife in one direction; impaling himself with the Lloyds of London end of the branch. The panicked lover rushed to his aide, making the fatal error of removing the branch, intensifying the bleeding, speeding up the effects of the poison and guaranteeing his death. The woman, Millicent Staunton, the name gleaned from the love letter I just now pilfered from his person ran towards those flats over there. No murder, no tabloid chum for you to throw toward your ravenous readership, merely an act of love gone horribly awry and the sickeningly sweet irony of literally dying from a broken heart. Simply observed. Simply deduced. Simply— BOBBY Elementary! HOLMES Bollocks. PIKE Yes.

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ACT I

CHAPTER 1 THE LONG, COLD TRAIL The lights shift to WATSON as the STAGEHANDS dismantle the prior scene, moving the box over and setting a single chair in front to create a Renault Black Cab. A STAGEHAND stays behind as the DRIVER. WATSON Left to take the scraps the Metropolitan Police dropped from its plate, only one man could make Sherlock Holmes feel any lower. Lights shift to reveal MYCROFT HOLMES, 40s, already sitting in the taxi. HOLMES groans. HOLMES A Renault? Gone foreign, I see. MYCROFT Automobiles are the way of the future. Why travel the city behind the arse of a hoofed beast when we can ride in style… the French way. HOLMES What do you want, Mycroft? MYCROFT Morning to you, my relation. HOLMES Hello, brother. MYCROFT Care to come with? HOLMES No. MYCROFT Despite being in the form of a question, this was not our quest. Get in the taxi. HOLMES gets in the taxi. The taxi starts, providing a bumpy and uncomfortable ride. I find the automobile to be a much more pleasant ride, than the old Hansom cabs. Luxurious isn’t it? HOLMES What brings you out from your dank hole at the Diogenes Club, lesser Holmes? Now that you’ve been named Royal Liaison to the Metropolitan Police, you’ve grown tired of the taste of tobacco and old man testicles. MYCROFT You would know the taste of old balls.

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HOLMES Hardly. Yours stare at you blankly in the mirror, ancient and grey like a wizened Chinaman laying on his side in an Opium den. That’s right. Let that image wash over you for a moment. MYCROFT That’s quite enough. Just keep quiet for the rest of the ride. HOLMES Make me. MYCROFT I shall. HOLMES Shalln’t you? MYCROFT Fine. If that’s the way you’d like it. HOLMES Yes. Fine. You choose. MYCROFT Fine. The Game of Pi. HOLMES The Game of Pi. Your serve. MYCROFT Three. HOLMES Thirty-one. MYCROFT Three hundred fourteen. HOLMES Three thousand one hundred forty-one. MYCROFT Thirty-one thousand four hundred fifteen. MYCROFT starts throwing out random numbers to distract HOLMES. HOLMES Three hundred fourteen thousand one hundred fifty-nine. HOLMES just keeps repeating the number three. MYCROFT struggles. MYCROFT Three million one hundred forty-one thousand five hundred ninety-two. MYCROFT repeats the number four.

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HOLMES Thirty-one million four hundred fifteen thousand nine hundred twenty-six. HOLMES shouts random letters. MYCROFT Three hundred fourteen million—forty-one— million. HOLMES Incorrect! You are incorrect. HOLMES licks his forefinger and reaches for MYCROFT’s ear. MYCROFT I concede. I concede! Just don’t do it— HOLMES Victory! Older, smarter brother my arse. MYCROFT Defensive, are we? HOLMES You’re the one who is the one— MYCROFT Enough of this childishness. In all seriousness, brother, there is a matter of great import ahead of us. TAXI DRIVER Baker Street. 221 B. The taxi screeches to a halt. MYCROFT and SHERLOCK exit. STAGEHANDS remove the chair and box and assemble Baker Street. MYCROFT Now, Sherlock. Before we head in, I don’t want you to do what I think you might do, which is “flip out.” The lights shift to 221 B BAKER STREET. WATSON is reading a newspaper. The headline reads “RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN?” And towards the bottom “HOUDINI CONFOUNDS THE CONTINENT!” Watson peeks over the top of the paper. WATSON Good day, Holmes. HOLMES (to Mycroft) Why is he here? Mycroft, really? Did you know about this? About him? Or did he just show up? (Holmes collects himself) Watson. Good day. It’s been… WATSON Ten years?

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HOLMES Ten years. Please, make yourself at home… again. This return is quite a smack in the gob. I suspect you’ve outgrown your literary circles as you have outgrown Baker Street. WATSON My literary circles ended when I walked out that door— HOLMES When you high tailed it to Queen Ann Street. I figured you left your key. Unless you’ve managed to jimmy the lock. WATSON Mrs. Hudson let me in. HOLMES Hudson? That hot flashing bag of night sweats and spider veins! WATSON No need to get cross with her. Mycroft sent for me. Told me to meet you here. MYCROFT I wanted you both here… for this. MYCROFT produces a leather briefcase. HOLMES Wait a minute. Wait one… minute. Is this a birthday, surprise? MYCROFT No. HOLMES My birthday was months ago, but Watson stopped sending me cards years ago and you got me another hat. I have four of them. I don’t even hunt, what would I do with another deerstalker? You keep buying them, I keep wearing them and all of a sudden, people will start to think it’s my “thing.” MYCROFT It isn’t about your birthday. HOLMES (indicating the briefcase) Then what’s that? MYCROFT Perhaps I shouldn’t. HOLMES Go on. You called me all the way back here and got me in the same room with him. The interest is piqued. Give it. Give it, Mycroft. Here. Here! HOLMES grabs at the suitcase, but is thwarted by MYCROFT. WATSON snatches it from the both of them taking it to the table and opening it. WATSON Damned children. What was Christmas morning like at your home.

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HOLMES A nightmare. MYCROFT Marvelous. The first few years. WATSON examines the contents. WATSON Crime scene photographs. Eyewitness accounts. Post-mortem examinations. It’s a case file. MYCROFT Not just any case file. HOLMES starts digging through the contents of the briefcase as well. HOLMES The murders. This is from— MYCROFT Scotland Yard. Yes. They have been sufficiently flummoxed. I had to pull a string or two, call in some favors. But the case is yours— both of yours if you want it. WATSON We haven’t worked together in ages. HOLMES And I couldn’t work with him for ages more. MYCROFT If you want the case then you both work it together. WATSON I don’t— MYCROFT To— HOLMES No, I can’t— MYCROFT —gether. HOLMES and WATSON give in and shake hands tentatively. HOLMES What do you know, so far? MYCROFT Five women all murdered a week apart from each other. Multiple stab wounds with a blade seven to nine inches in length from a variety of angles suggesting either multiple perpetrators or the assailant switched hands during the attack; not likely but not outside of the realm of possibility. The coup de grace coming in the form of slitting the throat. The perpetrator—s took great pains to remove all incriminating physical evidence. No fingerprints, footprints, the blood all localized to the victim. They varied in age and station. None were… defiled.

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HOLMES unfolds a large map of London with five red circles marked on it. WATSON digs, searches through the briefcase pulling out photographs. WATSON They were all left splayed out like this? MYCROFT Yes. Laying on their backs. Arms spread away from the body. The legs shoulder width apart. HOLMES And, these are the locations of each scene. Sybil Dodd found first at the Caledonian Market, then Georgianna Sanford at the base of the Albert Bridge, next was Adela Jameson discovered on the platform of Brondesbury Station, Katherine Bird found a stones throw from Fleet Street, and finally Rose Hopkins on the steps of Saint James’ Church. A pattern, most definitely. but why a Pentagon? Perhaps it’s because it’s a dominant structure in nature. WATSON Let me see this. WATSON puts away the pictures, takes the map and spreads it out on the table. HOLMES All flowers of edible fruit bearing plant are governed by the pentagonal symmetry. It might be a reference to dominance or— WATSON No. HOLMES Please, Watson. I’m deducing. WATSON No. You’re wrong. It’s nothing to do with that at all. Look at the pattern again. First death, Caledonian Market, then southward and west somewhat to the Bridge, then North and west to Brondensbury. We go directly southeast to Fleet Street and then a straight shot westward again to the church. This isn’t a pentagon. It’s a pentagram. And that’s not the worst of it. Located directly in the center of it is Baker Street. MYCROFT Well… HOLMES Bollocks. MYCROFT …shit. HOLMES Bollocks. Would you like to read my palm as well, Watson? Or any other superstition you have at the ready? MYCROFT Well, as much as I’m inclined to poo poo him, there is this.

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MYCROFT pulls out an envelope from his pocket. He hands it to WATSON, who takes it and pulls out a note. He reads. WATSON There is death in the clouds, There is fear in the night. For the dead in the shrouds, Hail the sins turning flight and chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white. A warning. She is now gone as they are gone. Heaven and Earth turn. You must break free and I may be of service. EW. HOLMES Spooky. Give it here. HOLMES takes the letter from WATSON and examines it. WATSON What are you doing with that note? HOLMES Tut-tut. If there’s more to this note than a nursery rhyme, then I’ll uncover it. Just leave it to me. WATSON So what are you telling us, Mycroft? MYCROFT This morning, Scotland Yard received that note; Handwritten, addressed to the both of you without postmark at the same time we received a wire of the details of the latest victim. HOLMES Latest victim? MYCROFT An immigrant. Gertrude Kramer. In much the same fashion as the others. Multiple stab wounds, seven to be exact, the throat ultimately slit suggesting several assailants but inconclusively so, and the body splayed in the same manner. HOLMES Has the scene been examined. MYCROFT Yes and no. HOLMES Yes and no? MYCROFT It has, but not by Scotland Yard? HOLMES Who then? MYCROFT The police department of New York City. HOLMES New York? MYCROFT Coney Island to be specific. Quite the destination nowadays. Now, it’s not much to go on—

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WATSON’s attention is elsewhere. His thoughts troubled. A faint string plays and we see the shadowed outline of MARY WATSON, 30s, for a brief moment until she slips back into darkness. HOLMES Watson! WATSON Sorry. Coney Island you, say? What’s next then? MYCROFT As is their custom, the body is to be interred within the week. WATSON Leaving no chance for us to examine the body or the scene. HOLMES That may be, Watson, but evidence never truly disappears. It merely recedes. A dead end is just a taller wall to climb. Were there fingerprints found at the scene? MYCROFT No. WATSON Bugger. They’ve barely instituted the practice in the States. The trail has gone cold before we’ve ever started. HOLMES Curious how he managed to pull this off. WATSON He, Holmes? HOLMES The block capitalization, the flourishes of the M, N, U, and Y; the inter-word spacing clearly demonstrative of male handwriting. WATSON That narrows things sufficiently. Let me see that note. HOLMES shows WATSON the note. His text is illuminating. Chant wild in the woods, Yule-altar, lost druid folk. This suggests a familiarity with the occult or perhaps spiritualism. HOLMES Spiritualism? WATSON Or a bastard form of it. I wonder if— No, that would be absurd. Well, he protests to it being a put- on. No, this is too outrageous— HOLMES Spit it out, man.

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WATSON There is a man considered by many practiced in the art of Spiritualism. I heard of him a few years ago as he toured London before a brief engagement at the Alhambra. He brought his magic to Scotland Yard. We see HARRY HOUDINI crowded by STAGEHANDS. They cheer him on as he makes his escape. He was wrapped around a pillar, his hands bound by handcuffs approved by the police. In a mere matter of minutes, he sprung free and became an instant sensation. Lights fade on HOUDINI and the STAGEHANDS. The Mirror challenged him at the Hippodrome to escape from a specially designed set of handcuffs that took five years to create and he freed himself in just over an hour. I was a part of the audience, both times, only to observe. To marvel. He chilled me to the bone with feats of magic and skill. I’d never seen anything like it, or him before. HOLMES Is he still in London? WATSON He’s ended his European run. According to the papers, Houdini is headed back to perform, in Coney Island. HOLMES And what does this escape artist have to do with any of this? WATSON The note. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mycroft, but Harry Houdini is not his birth name. MYCROFT No. WATSON It’s actually Erich Weiss. HOLMES E.W. MYCROFT Elementary! HOLMES Goddammit! I wish people would stop doing that. WATSON I don’t know, Mycroft. The thought of all this. Pentagrams. That note. It’s enough to send shivers down my spine. HOLMES Bugger that superstitious streak of yours. WATSON You mean, religion? HOLMES Religion. Sorcery. Same diff. You might as well pray to a bowl of… I don’t know… Italian noodles.

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MYCROFT Watson. Holmes. Please do pay attention. Your combined expertise notwithstanding, the reason, the ONLY reason you were consulted is because of your inclusion in the note. The little cock up your last book inspired, Watson, damaged both your reputations and you are lucky to be given such a substantial case. Time is of the essence. If the girl in Coney Island is indeed a victim of the same murderer, we can expect at least four more to fit the pattern. HOLMES Four murders. Four weeks left. MYCROFT Book passage to America, gentlemen, and help them solve the case before another poor soul loses her life. HOLMES This is it, Watson. What we need to restore our names. We follow the long, cold trail. WATSON No. No, no, no, no. HOLMES Come now, Watson. We’ll have an adventure. Like old times. WATSON They’re old times for a reason. We don’t do them anymore. HOLMES You don’t do them anymore. You’ve become squishy in your new life. WATSON Life has not been easy, Holmes. HOLMES Mary left you. Forever. Ten years ago. You have moved on, yes? Now come with me, Watson. We have quite the journey ahead of us.

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