The Dime Museum Murders

by Daniel Stashower

  Harry continued to list my failings as we rode the Sixth Avenue elevated down to Broadway. He kept talking as we got off and walked five blocks south. He finally ran out of steam when we reached Graff’s Toy Emporium.

  Graff’s was a narrow shop front in a row of dull-red brick buildings, with a wood-framed display window crammed with rag dolls, hobbyhorses, pinwheels, and every other sort of gimcrack and gewgaw. As boys, Harry and I would sweep the floors and wash the windows just for the pleasure of spending time there. Even then, my brother had little patience for tin soldiers, cloth bears, or any of the other more conventional playthings. At the end of an afternoon’s work—when the floors and door handles were gleaming—Harry always made straight for the wobbly green case where Mr. Graff kept the Delmarvelo Magic Sets.

  The Delmarvelo “Young Conjurer Deluxe” set came in a sturdy pine box with a hinged top. On the lid, a brightly painted label showed a boy-magician enthralling his friends and family. The boy wore a black cape and top hat over his Little Lord Fauntleroy playsuit, and the table in front of him featured a bowl of fire, a houlette of cards, and a winsome bunny who seemed to be winking broadly. The boy’s audience was divided equally among well-scrubbed children, whose faces glowed with admiration, and dignified adults in evening dress, who looked on with gentle approval. My eye always came to rest on a particular girl in the front row, whose blond curls were gathered up in a red bow. She had her hands clasped together and pressed against her cheek, with her head tilted just so, gazing at the boy-magician with frank adoration.

  Sometimes, if we had done our work especially well, Mr. Graff would let us take the display set into the back room for an hour or so. Harry would click the metal latch and lift the lid with a quiet note of awe, as if uncovering a holy relic. Inside, the tricks were carefully arranged on a bed of straw. I need hardly say that there were no fire bowls or winking bunnies in the Delmarvelo set, but there were several good-quality tricks made of lacquered wood, richly colored in burgundy and black with Chinese detailing. There was a set of rice bowls that neither one of us ever quite mastered, an excellent set of cups and balls, a vanishing wand with break-away tips, a rising card effect, and a double-double coin tray. My favorite was the tiny wooden ball vase, with its delicate fluted stem and bright red polished ball. The effect was simple: the ball was placed into the cup of a small wooden holder and a close-fitting cap was lowered over it. When the cover was lifted—behold!—the ball had vanished. I’ve done a great many wonderful tricks since then, and Harry and I once caused an elephant to vanish from the stage of the New York Hippodrome, but I can’t recall any effect that gave me quite the same feeling of accomplishment.

  “Dash,” Harry said as we paused outside the shop. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve said?”

  “Sorry,” I answered, returning to the present. “Was it important?”

  “Never mind. I don’t know why I trouble myself.”

  I peered through the window into the darkened shop. “Harry, are we really doing any good here? I don’t want to raise Mrs. Graff’s hopes for nothing.”

  “It will not be for nothing,” he said sharply. “You may be assured of that.”

  Harry rang a bell that sounded in the apartment upstairs. We saw a fluttering of the curtains at the second floor window. A moment later the glow of an oil lamp was visible in the shop. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Graff as she made her way to the door. She was a broad, sturdy woman with a lot of spare flesh that always seemed to vibrate in accordance with her moods. Her face, normally red and smiling, now appeared pinched and drawn, and her shoulders appeared to sag under the strain of her misfortunes. Nevertheless, she brightened at the sight of the pair of us waiting in the entryway. “Ehrich! Theodore! It is so good of you to come and see me!” She gathered us both in a rib-snapping embrace.

  “It is good to see you, Mrs. Graff,” Harry gasped as the last particles of air were squeezed from his lungs.

  “We’re sorry to call so late in the evening,” I managed to add.

  “My boys! My boys!” She released us and stepped back, beaming over us both. “Let me look at you! See how big you’re getting! Theodore, so tall! Ehrich, so broad!”

  “I have embarked on a rigorous course of personal conditioning,” Harry said proudly. “I am developing my musculature in a systematic and scientific manner.”

  “How nice,” Mrs. Graff said, as if admiring a child’s finger painting. “And you, Theodore? Are you still in newspaper school?”

  “Journalism,” I said. “No, I’ve been traveling with Harry and Bess for the past few months, getting involved with the act. I may—”

  “You should continue your studies, Theodore. Josef always says—Josef—” her face clouded as she recalled her husband’s predicament.

  Harry took her hand and gently led her to a chair. “Mrs. Graff,” I said, “we don’t wish to upset you, but can you tell us a little bit about what happened? When the police came?”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “I do not know what I can tell you, Theodore. We were eating our supper when the police came to the door. Such a racket! They dragged Josef away in a wagon. I was down at the police station for two hours, but I could learn nothing. Nothing that made sense, at any rate. They say he killed a man! My Josef, a murderer! He won’t even lay traps for the rats, this is how big a murderer he is!”

  “Did you know Branford Wintour?” Harry asked.

  “Our best customer,” Mrs. Graff said. “Although he doesn’t come to the shop anymore. Josef goes to see him whenever something special comes along. Mr. Wintour has always been a perfect—no! Is that who Josef is supposed to have killed? Ridiculous!”

  “Have you seen Mr. Wintour lately?” I asked.

  “No. But his man—what is his name?—Phillips, I believe. Phillips has been here three times in the past week.” She gripped a corner of her shawl and twisted it around her fingers. “Mr. Wintour, dead? This is terrible news. How did he die?”

  “I’m not entirely certain,” Harry said. “Did your husband have a special deal brewing with Mr. Wintour? Was he handling something very unusual?”

  She nodded. “He was quite secretive about it, Ehrich, but I know there was a very special item involved and that he expected to earn a large commission. He said he was going to buy me a winter coat.”

  “Do you have any idea what the item might have been?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever see the man who was selling it?”

  “A queer bird. He would only come to the shop at night. I never saw him.”

  “Never?”

  “No. Josef always asked me to wait upstairs when he came.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mrs. Graff, have you ever heard of Le Fantôme?”

  “No.” She looked at Harry’s face and then at mine. “Ehrich, why are you asking me these questions? What is Le Fantôme?”

  Harry glanced at me, uncertain.

  “We don’t wish to alarm you unnecessarily, Mrs. Graff,” I said.

  “You don’t wish to alarm me? My husband is in jail! How could I be more alarmed?”

  “Very well,” Harry said. “Your husband sold Mr. Wintour a very rare automaton called Le Fantôme. The police believe that this automaton shot Mr. Wintour with a poisoned dart.”

  Mrs. Graff narrowed her eyes at us. “Ehrich, you are joking with me. Theodore, this is not a time for your jokes.”

  Harry said nothing. I looked at my shoes.

  Mrs. Graff’s hands went to her cheeks. “Can they be serious? This is why the police have arrested Josef? A poison dart?”

  “So it would seem,” Harry said. “Your husband is a suspect because he sold the device to Mr. Wintour.”

  “A poison dart?” she repeated. “A gun, I could understand. A knife, maybe. A poison dart? It does not seem possible!”

  Harry began pacing in front of a case of wooden whirly-gigs. “I have demonstrated to the police that the automaton could not have fired the dart, but they have not see
n fit to release your husband. Apparently I failed to convince them.”

  “Harry,” I said, “they only wanted to confirm it for themselves. I told you this before.”

  “No, no,” he said. “The police will only find some other means of laying this crime on Mr. Graff’s doorstep. We must find the true killer and bring him to justice!”

  “Find the true killer? Harry, you’re a dime museum magician! What do you know about tracking down killers?” I had been hoping to inject a note of moderation into the proceedings, but Harry had already moved on to his next rhetorical high note.

  “The police have not reckoned with the talents of the Great Houdini!” he cried, thrusting his index finger under my nose. “I will comb this city and roust the evildoers wherever they may lurk! I shall be the scourge of the underworld! Those who—”

  “Harry,” I said quietly. “Why don’t we let someone else become the scourge of the underworld? It’ll be enough if we can convince the police of Mr. Graff’s innocence.”

  Mrs. Graff gave a nod of assent. “I just want Josef home again.”

  “As you wish,” Harry said. He took Mrs. Graff’s hand and pressed it to his lips. “I shall not fail you, dear lady.” He flung his astrakhan cloak around his shoulders. “Come along, Dash! We have a rendezvous with justice!”

  Mrs. Graff looked at me and gave a bewildered shrug. “You’d better hurry along, then,” she said.

  We left the shop and Harry said nothing more until we had worked our way along Delancy Street to the thirteenth precinct station house. As we climbed the marble steps I noticed Harry fumbling in his back pocket. “Just a moment, Dash,” he said. “Oh, that’s all right, then.” He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

  A gray-haired sergeant sat behind the dispatcher’s desk. “Can I help you gentle—why, Mr. Houdini! Is that you?”

  “Good evening, Sergeant O’Donnell,” said Harry. “May I introduce the brother of the Great Houdini?”

  “Call me Dash,” I said. “‘The brother of the Great Houdini’ sounds so formal.”

  “Nice to meet you,” O’Donnell said. “So, Houdini, are you here to go another round in the lockup?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Sergeant. Practice makes perfect.”

  O’Donnell saw the expression on my face and laughed. “You mean he didn’t tell you? Your brother has been coming down here for the past three weeks to get himself locked up in our hoosegow.”

  “Late at night,” Harry explained, “so as not to attract attention.”

  “I thought you wanted attention,” I said. “Why have I been breaking my back to get you locked up at Sing-Sing if you didn’t want attention?”

  “Practice, Dash. The holding cells here were built on the same pattern as those at Sing-Sing.”

  A uniformed officer wandered past and gave Harry a companionable nod. “So you’re a regular down here, is that it?” I asked. “Is that why those officers at the Wintour mansion seemed to recognize you?”

  “I suppose so,” Harry said, “although I dare say some of them recognized me from the stage at Huber’s.”

  “Oh, undoubtedly,” I said. “It’s a wonder they didn’t ask for autographs.”

  O’Donnell had pulled out a heavy binder and was flipping through the pages. “You’re in luck,” he said. “We’ve only got two guests in there at the moment, and I don’t suppose either one will give us any trouble. One’s a drunk, and the other’s supposed to be a murderer, but he don’t look like any murderer I ever saw.”

  “A murderer?” Harry asked with feigned alarm. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “That old bird won’t bother you any. Hasn’t said a word since they brought him down from interrogation. Just sits real quiet like. Caught him crying when I made my rounds.”

  “Well, I suppose it will be all right then,” Harry said. “You don’t mind if my brother comes along? He’s going to time me with his fancy watch.”

  “Why should I mind?” asked O’Donnell, pulling a heavy ring of keys from a desk drawer. “Follow me, gentlemen.”

  He led us down a set of dank steel-beam steps to a metal-studded door with a heavy iron crossbar. He lifted the bar and fitted a large key into a reinforced panel-lock, turning it three times clockwise. The door rolled open on rusty casters, and O’Donnell held it as we passed through, sliding it shut behind us once we were inside.

  The lockup was comprised of only four cells, two on each side, with a wide corridor running down the center. Four bare lightbulbs dangling from ceiling cords provided the only illumination. It took only a glance to see why the warden at Sing-Sing felt so confident about his escape-proof cells. I’d seen my brother pick his way through some of the toughest, most heavily warded padlocks ever designed, but the locks on these cells were beyond his reach—literally. The prison architects had rigged up a sort of extended hasp, so that the lock wasn’t actually seated into the cell door at all. Instead, it was bolted onto the wall a good six feet away, securing a metal cross-beam tight against the cell door. From inside the cell, the prisoner would have no way of reaching the lock. Harry’s skill and practice were useless here—he simply would not be able to get his hands on the lock.

  “Harry—” I began.

  He winked. “A pretty problem, is it not?”

  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the dim outline of a man in each of the two cages to our right. Both men appeared to be sleeping. I recognized the one closest to us as Josef Graff, whose plump woodcock shape made him easy to spot even in the dark.

  Sergeant O’Donnell ignored both prisoners. “You have your choice of two empty cells this evening, Houdini,” he said as our footfalls echoed loudly against the rock floor. “Which will it be? Your favorite there at the end?”

  “No, this one, I think,” Harry replied, indicating the closer of the two on our left. “I think the bolt and hasp are rusty on the other.” Harry had fallen a step behind the sergeant as they moved toward the cell. As Mr. Graff began to stir from his bunk, roused by the noise of our arrival, Harry turned and raised a finger to his lips, warning the old man to stay silent. Mr. Graff registered surprise at the sight of us, but lowered his head and pretended to be asleep.

  “You know,” said O’Donnell, working on the lock across the corridor, “this bolt feels a little stiff, too.”

  “Does it?” Harry asked. “Oh well, I imagine that the hardware at Sing-Sing is rusty as well. I will prevail, in any case.”

  The lock finally gave and O’Donnell pulled the door open with a creak. Harry stepped past him into the open cell. “You know, Houdini,” the sergeant said, “if you ever do try this at Sing-Sing, they’ll insist on a full body search—just like we give the real prisoners.”

  From across the corridor, Mr. Graff let out a soft groan at the memory.

  “I am aware of this, Sergeant, and I am fully prepared to comply. Would you care to—?” He spread his arms wide.

  “I think we’ll let it pass,” O’Donnell said quickly. He swung the door shut and slid the long cross-beam into place. “I’d better get back to the desk,” he said, turning to me. “Just bang on the bars when he wants me to let him out.”

  “When he—what?”

  “When he wants me to let him out. He usually gives up after three hours.”

  I turned to my brother, who was busy rolling up his sleeves. “Harry? you mean to say you haven’t figured out a way to escape from this cell yet?”

  “It is proving to be more difficult than I thought,” he allowed.

  “More difficult than you thought. Suppose I had set up the Sing-Sing stunt three weeks ago, like you wanted?”

  “The Great Houdini would have risen to the challenge, as he has done so often in the past.”

  “My, but he’s sure of himself, isn’t he?” said O’Donnell. “’Course, he usually doesn’t sound quite so cocksure by two or three in the morning. Enjoy yourself, Houdini.” He turned and let himself out through the main door.

  We stoo
d quietly and listened to the sergeant’s footsteps fade. “Ehrich?” came a whisper from the other side of the corridor. “Is that really you? Theodore?”

  “Of course, Mr. Graff.” Harry came to the front of his cell and dangled his arms through the bars.

  “You have come to release me?”

  “Release you?” I snorted. “Apparently he can’t even—”

  “It would be imprudent to release you just now, Mr. Graff,” Harry said. “That would seem to confirm the accusation that you murdered Branford Wintour. I trust that you did not murder Branford Wintour?”

  “Of course not!” The old man swung his feet off the bunk and walked to the door of his cell. He was wearing a wrinkled windowpane check suit with a gold watch fob dangling from his waistcoat. In happier circumstances he might have passed for a diminutive Kris Kringle with his round head, florid cheeks, and snowy hair and beard. Now, even in the shadowy light of the cell block, the stresses of the day were plain to see. His collar had popped open, his tie was askew, and his face was streaked with tears. “Of course I didn’t kill Mr. Wintour! He was my best customer, and a fine man besides!”

  “I thought not,” said Harry. “Might I ask you to tell me everything you know of this unhappy business?”

  “What’s to tell? There was a knock on the door, next thing I’m in jail. Dragged off in chains, in front of Frieda. In front of the neighbors. Everyone.”

  “I’m sure that was most unpleasant,” Harry said. “Perhaps we should examine the events leading up to your arrest? What can you tell us of Le Fantôme?”