“Wretched little creature! I wish I had never laid eyes on it!”
“How did it come to be in your possession?”
An expression of wounded pride crossed Mr. Graff’s face. “I am the leading purveyor of magical apparatus and curiosities in all of New York,” he said with a certain prim dignity. “It is impossible that such an item should appear on the market without coming to my attention.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said my brother quickly. “But exactly how did it come to your attention?”
“A most curious thing,” he began. “I was sitting in—”
A drink-sodden voice from the opposite cell broke in. “My dear sirs,” the speaker began, as if dictating a letter, “I have the honor of requesting a reduction in the level of conversation in and about the vicinity of my present location. Thanking you, I remain, yours et cetera...” the voice resolved into contented snoring.
“That is my fellow inmate,” Mr. Graff explained. “An amusing fellow. As I was saying, I was going over the books in my shop late last night when a gentleman began banging at the door. I told him to return in the morning, but he was very insistent. He claimed to be an importer of antiques, and wished to know if I would be interested in seeing a few items from the collection of Robert-Houdin. Naturally, I—”
“Did he give you his name?” Harry asked.
“Harrington.”
“What did he look like, this Mr. Harrington?”
“He looked quite a bit like you, Ehrich. Very powerful build, dark curly hair. He could easily have done double work for you.”
“Make a note, Dash,” Harry said. “Muscular, dark hair, medium height—”
Mr. Graff broke in. “A little less than medium height, I would have said.”
“Shorter than I, then?”
“Well...”
“And would you say his features were handsome?”
Mr. Graff hesitated and glanced at me. “Ehm...”
I made a note on my pocket pad. “Perhaps not quite as handsome as Harry, Mr. Graff?”
“No, indeed.”
“My dear sirs,” came the voice from the opposite cell. “It has come to our attention that the volume of conversation remains at a level which prohibits a normal and healthful sleep. If such confabulation persists, we shall have no recourse but to consult management. Yours sincerely...” The voice trailed off again.
“And what else did your striking visitor have to say, Mr. Graff?” I continued.
“He told me that he represented a gentleman who possessed items from the Robert-Houdin collection. Naturally I questioned him closely in the matter. From time to time one comes across a handbill from the Palais Royal, and I’ve handled quite a few leaflets from his London appearances, but this gentleman was quite precise.”
“The Blois collection?” I asked. “The one that’s supposed to have been destroyed by fire?”
“Exactly. But he offered no documentation and naturally I regarded the claim with some suspicion. My doubts vanished when he removed Le Fantôme from its wooden case. I have seen a great many treasures in my day. It was I, you will recall, who brokered the sale of Signor Blitz’s diaries. It was I who verified the provenance of Anderson’s ‘Inexhaustible Bottle.’ But this was something else again. I don’t know how long I marvelled over the figure. I was aware that my visitor was growing impatient, but I could not help myself. A Shakespeare folio could not have interested me more. When I had satisfied myself that the figure was genuine, Mr. Harrington asked if I might be able to find a buyer.”
“I can think of dozens of magicians who would be interested,” Harry said.
“So can I,” Mr. Graff agreed, “but only one or two who could afford it. I offered Mr. Harrington a few names, but he suggested that we might do better to deal with wealthy collectors, rather than magicians, as he might have one or two other items for disposal.”
“How many other items?”
“Forty-three.”
“All from the Blois collection?”
“Every one.”
Harry and I looked at each other. “Then it’s true,” he said.
“Yes,” Mr. Graff said quietly. “The collection exists, and Mr. Harrington wanted me to arrange the sale.”
“What did you do?”
“Naturally I sent a message to Harry Kellar. After all, the man is the greatest magician in the entire world—”
“With one notable exception,” Harry said.
“Well, Ehrich, you must admit that Kellar is certainly the most successful magician working today. Your own talents have yet to find their proper audience.”
“This is so.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Kellar found himself unable to entertain the possibility of purchasing the Blois collection. He has not always had the best of luck with his investments, and it seems his resources are not what they might be just now.” Mr. Graff walked to his bunk and sat down. “So naturally I decided to approach my two wealthiest customers—”
“Branford Wintour and Michael Hendricks,” Harry offered.
“You know Mr. Hendricks as well?”
“We met him this evening.”
“A fascinating man. As I said, only he and Mr. Wintour possess the funds required for such a transaction.”
I looked up from my notepad. “Surely this would also have occurred to Harrington?”
“Obviously,” Mr. Graff said. “But Mr. Wintour and Mr. Hendricks do not open their doors to every passing dealer with a knick-knack to sell. I have dealt with both men many times. They trust my judgement, and prefer to make their acquisitions through me. Mr. Wintour, you may have heard, is especially careful in this regard. He is—was, I should say—considered something of a recluse.”
Harry gripped the bars of his cell. “When we spoke to Mr. Hendricks, he made no mention of having been approached by you.”
“I did not approach him. Mr. Harrington suggested that I meet with Mr. Wintour first to hear what he was prepared to pay for the lot. Then I was to call on Mr. Hendricks and see if he would be willing to raise the offer.”
“A bidding war,” Harry said. “Who knows how high the price might have gone?”
“Indeed. And having set my commission at three per cent, I was naturally eager to find out. I arranged a meeting with Mr. Wintour at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“The last to see him alive,” Harry murmured.
“Certainly not,” Mr. Graff said with some heat. “The man who killed him would have been the last to see him alive.”
“Of course,” Harry said quickly. “It is merely an expression. How did Mr. Wintour respond when you showed him Le Fantôme?”
“He received me with the greatest possible courtesy, as always. He arranged for tea and a platter of herring canapés which he knows I especially enjoy. A true gentleman.”
“No doubt, but—”
“I believe the herring is cured in aspic, which is what makes it so delicious.”
“But the automaton? How did he react to Le Fantôme?”
“He was besotted. He thanked me extravagantly for having brought it to him, and expressed the greatest possible eagerness to acquire the rest of the collection.”
“Did he make an offer?”
“A most generous one, in my view. I would be very surprised if even Mr. Hendricks could have matched it. Of course, I did not even have the chance to contact him before”—he gestured at the dank walls of the cell block— “before I found myself here.”
“Was it your impression that Mr. Harrington would accept Mr. Wintour’s offer?” Harry asked.
“I did not have any means of communicating with him. It seems he had traveled up from Philadelphia, and came directly to my shop from the train station. He had not yet even taken a hotel room. He told me he would return to hear Mr. Wintour’s offer on Wednesday evening at the same time.”
“Tomorrow,” Harry said.
“Indeed.” Mr. Graff cast a forlorn eye at his surroundings. “I do not expect
to be able to keep our appointment.”
“You have told all this to the police?”
“Of course, but I’m not certain they believed me. I was not able to supply much in the way of useful information concerning Mr. Harrington. The police said they would send a man ’round to check the hotel registers, but I doubt if they will locate him.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“In my business, one’s clients are sometimes less than candid about their circumstances. Mr. Harrington is not the first client I have ever dealt with who appeared late at night, so as to avoid unwanted attention. Often they are financially embarrassed, and do not wish to attract the attention of their wives and their creditors. I do not think the police will find Mr. Evan Harrington’s name on any hotel register.”
“Evan Harrington?” I closed my notebook.
“Yes. Do you know him, Theodore?”
“It’s the title of a novel by George Meredith.”
Mr. Graff sighed heavily. “It was probably the first thing that came into his mind. Too bad he was not a fan of Mr. Twain. Those names I would have recognized.” He took out a pocket square and dabbed at his eyes. “And I am likely to remain here until the police locate this man, whomever he might be.”
“Dash and I will find him, Mr. Graff,” Harry said. “You may rest assured of that.”
“Thank you, Ehrich. you are a good boy.”
“What time were you supposed to meet with him?”
“Eleven o’clock, but if he’s involved in this business, I don’t expect he will keep the appointment.”
“We’ll find him in either case,” Harry promised.
“One last thing,” I said. “When you left Mr. Wintour, Le Fantôme remained in his possession?”
“He insisted on it. He indicated that he was going to have it examined to confirm its authenticity. I arranged to collect it from him in the morning.”
“Did Mr. Wintour give you any reason to feel that he might be afraid in any way? Looking back, do you have any reason to imagine he might have feared for his life?”
Mr. Graff stroked his beard before responding. “I do not know if it is significant, but there was a phone call while we were talking. I offered to excuse myself, but Mr. Wintour asked me to wait. I walked away from the desk to give him some privacy. He has a marvelous collection of books, which I took the occasion to admire. I did not hear all of what was being said, but his tone made it clear that it was not entirely pleasant.”
“Perhaps someone was threatening him?”
“I did not get that impression. Mr. Wintour was a very powerful man. Such men make enemies. When he finished the telephone call, however, he said a curious thing.”
“Oh?”
“He said, ‘Graff, my friend, never do business with family.”’
“Good advice,” I said, with a sidelong glance at Harry.
“Possibly,” Mr. Graff said. “But whom can one trust if not family?”
“Very true,” Harry agreed. “And now, if you will excuse us, Mr. Graff, my brother and I should be getting along.”
“Thank you for your time, sir,” I said. “Harry, do you want me to bang on the bars for Sergeant O’Donnell?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Dash.”
“No? I don’t see that the lock has moved any closer while we’ve been talking.”
“Has it not? I think perhaps it has.” He began to unfasten his trousers.
“Harry? I don’t mean to be indelicate, but what—?”
“I have a length of coiled watch-spring strapped to my leg. It should extend my reach just enough to reach the lock, and give me enough flexibility to work the pick.”
“Suppose O’Donnell had searched you?”
“He would have found it easily,” Harry admitted. “That is a problem for tomorrow. First, I must conquer the lock, then I will worry about concealing the spring.” Hugging the wall closest to the lock, Harry extended his right arm through the bars as far as he could reach, which left his fingertips a good yard or so from the lock. He pulled his arm back and coiled one end of the watch spring around the end of a stout, double-diamond lock-pick.
“This should do it,” he said, pushing the flexible steel through the bars and guiding it toward the lock. “By straightening out this spring, I can use it as a reaching rod. you see? It seems to be working.”
Mr. Graff and I watched as Harry eased the end of the heavy lock-pick toward the lock. For a few moments it bobbed up and down like a fishing pole as the metal spring strained beneath the weight. “I must get a feel for the balance,” he said. “There was no way of practicing this beforehand.”
Gradually, I could see that Harry was getting control of the reaching rod. Cautiously, he began guiding the pick toward the keyhole but it repeatedly bounced off the lock plate. “I’m getting closer each time,” he said. “Now, if I can just—if I can just—”
I don’t know how long my brother stood there flailing about in the dim light with that strange piece of metal. Occasionally I heard a dull scratch of metal as the pick bounced off the lock. Sometimes there would be a faint flash as light from the overhead bulbs glinted off the metal spring.
Perhaps an hour passed in this fashion. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the door, and had nearly fallen asleep when a cry from my brother brought me to my senses. “Dash!” Harry cried exuberantly. “At last! The pick is in the lock! Now it should be child’s play to—”
And that’s when the spring broke. Harry watched in mute horror as his lock-pick clattered to the floor.
“Bad luck,” said Mr. Graff.
“My dear sirs,” said our drunken friend in the opposite cell, “once again I feel compelled to—”
“Silence!” Harry snapped.
Mr. Graff and I looked at one another. Not another sound was heard for a good ten minutes or so.
“Well, Harry,” I said at last. “It’s getting quite late. Shall I call for Sergeant O’Donnell?”
“Indeed not,” my brother said. “If you would be so good as to hand me the lock-pick, I shall begin again.”
4
TURNING THE TIP
HARRY MADE THREE MORE ATTEMPTS TO ESCAPE FROM THE LOCKUP that night, and failed each time. He kept his arms folded and his mouth shut when Sergeant O’Donnell finally came to release us, and would not even return my “good night” when I dropped him at home. I hoped a night’s sleep would restore him to his usual bull-headed arrogance.
In those days, Harry and Bess were living in my mother’s flat on East Sixty-ninth Street, an arrangement that appealed to him for two reasons—it was cheap and it kept him close to Mama. There would have been room for me, too, but I fancied myself as a bit of a man about town, and imagined living at home might cramp my style. I kept a room in Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house, only seven blocks away, where I very occasionally enjoyed an evening of whist and cigars with my fellow lodgers. Apart from this, I might just as well have been living in a monastery.
Harry and Bess were seated at the breakfast table when I arrived, while Mother busied herself at the stove. Harry still looked a bit crestfallen.
“My darling Theo!” Mother called as I came through the kitchen door. “Sit down! I will bring you a little something!”
“No, thank you, Mama,” I said, removing my trilby. “I have already breakfasted with Mrs. Arthur. Good morning, Bess.”
“Hello, Dash,” my sister-in-law said. “You boys were out a bit late last night, weren’t you?”
“Speak to your husband about that,” I answered. “I would rather have been home sleeping.”
“You say you’ve had breakfast?” Mother asked. “It cannot have been enough. you look thin! Sit!”
“I’m fine, Mother. I’ll take a cup of tea, if there is any left.”
I sat down at the breakfast table while she began clattering around in the cupboards. I couldn’t tell you how many days began that way in those years, with Harry and Bess sitting at their pl
aces and my mother darting from table to stove. I once had occasion to visit Professor Einstein at his laboratory in Princeton, and I must report that it seemed quite a modest affair compared with my mother’s kitchen. She never used one pot where three would do; she never finished serving one meal before starting preparations on the next. One navigated the room as though crossing a busy thoroughfare, bobbing and weaving amongst the simmering goulashes, cooling breads, whistling kettles, and clattering cake pans. Many times I would call at the house on a summer afternoon to take my mother for a drive, only to find that she could not leave her stewpot and basting spoon. “You go along, Theo,” she would invariably say. “The pot needs minding.”
As for my brother, he was never happier than when our mother was clucking over him. He sighed with satisfaction whenever she placed a dish of his beloved Hungarian pepper roast in front of him. His face glowed as she poured out his tea, giving him a peck on the forehead as she did so. From my vantage across the table, however, I would often see a flicker of despair pass over my sister-in-law’s face whenever Mama tucked Harry’s napkin under his chin, or cut up his kippered herring into bite-sized pieces. I resolved that it would be different for me, if I were ever fortunate enough to marry.
I had arrived just as Harry was buttering his first slice of brown toast, an operation of enormous delicacy. Harry required three coatings of paper-thin butter slices to achieve the required perfection, and each of these had to be spread to the very edge of the bread—but not beyond—in precise, surgical strokes. “Have you seen The Herald?” Harry asked, pausing in his exertions long enough to pass the newspaper to me. He had folded the front page to an item in the third column.
Wealthy manufacturer Branford Howard Wintour, the reclusive patron of the arts, was found dead at his home late yesterday, the apparent victim of a bizarre poisoning. Police would not confirm whether a strange mischance or a sinister murder plot had claimed the life of the famed businessman.
Mr. Wintour, a collector of rare toys, evidently succumbed to the deadly toxin while examining a recent acquisition. As of last night, the nature and source of the poison were unknown. Although police would not confirm foul play in the matter, a suspect has been taken into custody.
The Dime Museum Murders Page 7
