The item continued for several paragraphs, detailing the dead man’s long record of philanthropy and public service, but adding little to what Harry and I had learned the previous evening.
“It is an obscenity, is it not?” Harry declared as I lowered the newspaper.
“Tragic, certainly,” I answered.
“It is an offense against decency.” He took an angry bite of his now-perfected toast.
Ah, I said to myself, Harry’s not referring to Wintour’s death. He’s referring to the fact that the newspaper failed to mention his name.
“Strange mischance,” I said, quoting from the account. “They seem to be allowing for the possibility that Wintour’s death was accidental.”
“Ridiculous! The police merely wish to give themselves an excuse if they fail to unmask the murderer.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said. “If Le Fantôme had actually killed Mr. Wintour, I suppose it’s possible that his death might have been an accident.”
“The device might accidentally have fired a poison dart?”
“Suppose some earlier owner had altered the mechanism to shoot a dart instead of a red blotch. Maybe this person wanted it to be a different sort of trick. Instead of marking a card, maybe he wanted to have it puncture a balloon. And maybe the dart wasn’t poisoned at all—or not intentionally, anyway. Maybe it was simply coated with some resin or adhesive that happened to be poisonous. It could have happened that way, couldn’t it?”
“Seems a bit far-fetched,” Harry said.
“Far-fetched? A famous millionaire has been found in his locked study with a dart in his neck. All bets are off.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “It is quite a puzzle. That is why it appeals to the Great Houdini. He is a master of puzzles.”
“When were you planning to unravel this puzzle?” Bess asked. “Aren’t we still working the ten-in-one?”
“Dash will do some scouting around during the day,” Harry told her. “He will be my eyes and ears. Then we will report our conclusions to the police.”
“Harry, I don’t think the police are interested in receiving any further assistance from the Brothers Houdini. Thank you, Mama,” I said, as she set a cup of tea before me.
“You are content to leave Josef Graff in jail?”
“Of course not. But I’m confident that the police will get to the bottom of the crime eventually, and that Mr. Graff will be released.”
“Possibly,” said Harry. He picked up a second slice of toast and resumed the intricate buttering maneuver. My mother, meanwhile, had placed a soft-boiled egg before me.
“There you are, Theo,” she said happily. “Just as you like it.”
“Mama, I told you—”
“That looks delicious, Dash,” Harry said.
“But—”
“So kind of Mama to prepare it for you.”
With a sigh, I picked up the egg spoon she had laid for me. Many times in my career I have allowed myself to be chained and roped and tossed into the frigid waters of the Hudson River. It is an experience I much prefer to soft-boiled eggs.
“Besides,” said Harry, noting my squeamishness with quiet amusement, “you saw for yourself that the police were completely misled by Le Fantôme. It is a wonder they did not handcuff the little doll and cart it off to jail along with poor Mr. Graff.”
“Lieutenant Murray may not have understood how the automaton works, but he had the good sense to call someone who did. He seems very reasonable to me. What’s more, he’s an official detective and you’re not.”
Harry regarded me with genuine curiosity. “Dash,” he said, “you really do think this matter would be better left to the police.” He said it as though the possibility had never occurred to him.
I spooned a cool, gluey blob of soft-boiled egg into my mouth. “Why, that’s amazing, Harry! However did you deduce that?”
“I will ask your indulgence only for one day. This evening, we shall keep Mr. Graff’s appointment with the mysterious Mr. Harrington.”
“No, we won’t,” I said.
“I beg your pardon?”
I swallowed hard as a second greasy mouthful trickled down my throat. “We should leave that to the police. Mr. Graff told them everything he told us. We shouldn’t get in their way.”
“Dash is right,” Bess said. “Besides, Mr. Harrington would hardly carry on with business as usual once he’s seen this morning’s paper.”
“Why not? As I demonstrated last night, Le Fantôme did not kill Mr. Wintour.”
“No,” Bess continued, “but something did, and Mr. Harrington’s deal is off in either case.”
“Which would make him all the more anxious to come to an agreement with Mr. Hendricks,” Harry agreed, “so he will keep his appointment as scheduled. He does not necessarily know that Mr. Graff is in jail. The newspaper did not mention him by name.”
“Harry—”
“Bess,” Harry said, reaching for her hand, “I must try to find this Harrington person. It is the only way of verifying Mr. Graff’s story.”
“I still agree with Dash,” Bess said. “It would be better to leave it to the police.”
Harry released Bess’s hand and folded his arms. “Mama, do you see? My brother and my wife are conspiring against me.”
“That’s nice, dear,” said mother, who never listened very closely when she was cooking.
“I will make a bargain with you,” he said to both of us. “Dash and I will go to the Toy Emporium this evening at the appointed hour. If we catch sight of Lieutenant Murray or any of his men, we will let the matter rest in their capable hands. If not, we will wait to see if Mr. Harrington presents himself. Is that agreeable, or would you prefer to let Mr. Graff rot in jail?”
“Of course not, but—”
“In the meantime, Dash, you must do a favor for me. you are still friendly with that newspaper gentleman?”
“Biggs? you know perfectly well that I’m still friendly with Biggs.” He was referring to a childhood friend of ours who now worked the city desk at the New York World. We had renewed our acquaintance during my brief flirtation with a career in journalism, and he occasionally planted a friendly notice about Harry or me in the theatrical columns. Even so, he and Harry had never gotten along.
“I want you to go down to his office and see if you can come up with anything more about the Wintour case. The police may not wish to pool information, but the men of the press are every bit as diligent at gathering facts, and far less difficult about sharing it.” He took a slurp of tea. “The press is a most valuable institution, if one knows how to use it.”
I couldn’t really see any objection, especially since Biggs was usually good for a racing tip or two. “That seems fair enough,” I said, reaching for my hat. “I’ll meet you at Huber’s after work.”
“Just a moment, Theo,” said my mother. “Have you finished your egg?”
“Yes. Delicious. But I must run now.”
“A moment, my son. I have a surprise—a magic trick of my own!” She reached out a frail hand for the china egg cup. “Voila!” she said, whisking it away with a flourish. A second egg had been concealed in the hollow stem of the cup. It wobbled onto its side and rolled lazily towards me.
“God!” I cried.
“Marvelous, yes?” said my mother. “Harry brought me a whole set. Now you can enjoy your first egg without worrying that the second one should get cold!”
“Wonderful, Mama,” I said, weakly.
Harry just sat back and grinned.
I caught a streetcar down to the offices of the World and found Biggs toiling over an angled compositor’s desk. He looked, as always, as though he had just been roused from a deep sleep. His wavy red hair rose and fell at odd angles from his head, and shadows ringed his pale blue eyes. The drowsy appearance also extended to his clothing. He wore a baggy gray tweed suit with an open waistcoat and loosely knotted wool tie. Such attire was considered rather too casual by the older, more conserv
ative rank of newspapermen, but Biggs considered himself part of a new, more progressive breed of journalist. He often told me that a good newsman was required to blend in with “just folks.”
“Dash, you old codworm!” he shouted when he saw me lingering in the doorway. “Just the man I’ve been longing to see! I’d planned to go looking for you at your mother’s place this afternoon.”
“You wouldn’t have found me,” I said, tossing my trilby onto a battered stand in the corner. “I’m at Mrs. Arthur’s boarding house now.”
“I know,” he admitted, “but the last time I called on your mother she served me the most extraordinary piece of lemon cake. Sent me into raptures. I was rather hoping—”
“It’s blackberry torte today,” I said. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Why? You know perfectly well! All of New York is buzzing about the Wintour murder! you and that crazy brother of yours were right there on the spot! The police have the place locked up tight now. We sent our best man with a fat wad of bribe money, but he couldn’t get past the roundsman on the door. So come on, Dash. Tell me all.”
I pulled up a chair and gave Biggs a brief sketch of the crime scene while he made notes on a block of paper. He interrupted me every so often to ask for a clarification or an extra bit of detail, and I did my best to supply the answers. “All that money,” he said when I’d finished, “and he gets done to death by a toy!”
“Perhaps not—”
“Well, whatever. The police will sort it out soon enough. In the meantime, the World will keep its readers informed of the ‘diligent perspicacity’ of our Lieutenant Murray.” He scribbled a few more notes and then set down his pen. “So why have you come, Dash?” he asked, lacing his fingers behind his head. “You’ve made my job quite a bit easier, but I suspect your motives lay elsewhere.”
“I was hoping for some background on Mr. Wintour,” I said. “I know he made his money in toys, but—”
“Juvenile goods,” Biggs said. “He was very touchy about being called ‘The Toy King.’”
“Juvenile goods, then. I’d just like to know a bit more about the man.”
Biggs regarded me with interest. “Why, Dash? Is there something you haven’t told me? I know you’re concerned about this fellow Graff, but you really can’t expect—”
“It isn’t every day that I find myself at a murder scene,” I said. “I’m curious about the man’s history. Perhaps it’s ghoulish of me, but as things stand now I feel as if I’ve walked in on the third act of a play.”
“That’s the journalist in you,” Biggs said, hopping down off his stool. “It was a mistake for you to follow your brother onto the stage. Follow me. I’ll turn you loose in the crypt.” He led me through a warren of offices to a dim basement chamber arrayed with row after row of dusty wooden filing cabinets. “Malone would have pulled the active file for the obituary,” Biggs said, working his way toward the back of the room, “and of course all the notes from last night will still be upstairs, but there should be plenty of background material left.” He pulled open a creaky file drawer and withdrew a fat sheaf of yellowed documents. “Enjoy yourself, Dash,” he said, handing me the file. “I’ll be back for you in an hour or so.”
I found a seat atop a wooden crate and sat down to read. I confess that I found little of interest. There were a handful of admiring profiles describing Mr. Wintour’s progress from office boy to magnate, and still more articles that gave details of his various civic interests and contributions. The phrase “pillar of the community” got repeated airings, as did the descriptive “reclusive millionaire.” I noted a handful of names that seemed to recur several times—Mr. Hendricks, Dr. Blanton, and various other business associates and fellow benefactors—but apart from that I discovered little worth mentioning to Harry.
I had closed up the sheaf of papers and was preparing to leave when a clipping from Aubrey McMillan’s society column caught my eye. It was dated three years previous, in April of 1894, and announced the engagement of Branford Wintour to Miss Katherine Hendricks, the only daughter of his longtime business associate Mr. Michael Hendricks. The wedding was to take place the following June.
I reached into my pocket for the clipping I had torn from that morning’s paper. In the fashion of the day, it told me only that the deceased was survived by Mrs. Branford Wintour. It seemed to me, however, that I had heard Mrs. Wintour’s given name mentioned the previous evening, and that it was not Katherine. Margaret, was it? Mary?
Biggs returned to find me still puzzling over the clipping. “What do you have there, Dash?” he asked.
I showed him the engagement notice. “Do you know anything about this?”
“Come on, Dash,” he answered, “surely you remember—oh! Of course! You’d have been out of the city. Making bunnies vanish in Toledo or some such. Quite the scandal, that was. The society drama of the fall season.”
“What happened?”
“It seems our Mr. Wintour had a bit of an eye for the ladies. While he was courting Miss Hendricks—a surpassingly lovely woman, by the by—he was also carrying on a bit of a pash with the Screech.”
“The Screech?”
“I take it you’ve not met Mrs. Wintour?”
“I have not had that pleasure.”
“Her voice is said to excite amorous feelings in barn owls. Quite the domestic martinet, as well. Can’t keep staff, they say. Her father shoveled coal for a living, so she’s thought to be a bit short on the social graces. Quite a looker in her own way, but I wouldn’t have taken her over Miss Hendricks. See here—,” he stepped over to a distant file drawer and riffled the pages for several minutes, eventually producing an announcement of Miss Hendricks’s presentation ball. A pen-sketch of the young woman accompanied the article, showing a lovely, heart-shaped face with lustrous lashes and a fragile mouth.
“Apparently she wanted to go on the stage,” Biggs said, “but her mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’d have done well with that face.”
“Not any stage I’ve ever played,” I said. “She’d stop the show.” I looked up from the image. “So how did Wintour come to throw her over for someone called the Screech?”
“Destiny forced his hand. Seems he and the Screech were discovered taking the country air together on the eve of his own engagement reception. He tried to hush it up, but Michael Hendricks got wind of it and called the wedding off. Hendricks also severed his business partnership with Wintour, though it seems that Hendricks got the worst of the arrangement. Meanwhile, Wintour tried to salvage his social standing by marrying the lady whose honor he had stained.”
“Sounds like a fairly miserable outcome for everyone.”
“Yes, well, perhaps Mr. Wintour found some consolation in his three-million-dollar fortune, his mansion on Fifth Avenue, his private railway car, his—”
“All right. I get the point.” My eyes rested again on the sketch of Miss Hendricks. “Tell me, whatever happened to her?”
“Oh, she won’t be long on the market. There’s some British lord squiring her about town now. After her fortune, they say.” He read my eyes. “I think she may be just a hair out of your league, Dash.”
My face must have gone crimson. “You may be right,” I said, with a cough. “In any case, much obliged.” I stood up and reached for my hat.
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Dash,” Biggs said. “I’m on my way to cover the Wintour service at Holy Trinity. You’re welcome to come along if you wish. you can carry my pencil.”
“A funeral service? Already?”
“Apparently the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry.”
“But the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly. There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical examination.”
“My thought exactly,” Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. “All the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case, it’ll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined up in a row. New York
society wouldn’t dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just take you to lunch afterwards.”
Biggs chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. “New York wasn’t meant to hold so many people and buildings,” Biggs said, gazing up at the church’s soaring Gothic tower. “Soon they’ll have to start putting them all underground.”
We climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don’t happen to correspond with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones, and introduced me to various reporters from the Times and the Herald. I slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might call on them to publicize Harry’s next engagement—should he happen to secure one.
Biggs motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle. “The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to be desperate for capital. And there’s his good wife Nora—look at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She’s much admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders, although said to have a weakness for French wines. Who’s that behind her? The little fat fellow with the battered top hat?”
“That’s Dr. Blanton,” I whispered. “He was also there last night.”
“Ah! So that’s the good doctor. The Screech’s lap-dog. I’ve heard all about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour’s delicate nerves. No doubt he’s been kept on the go since the unhappy event.”
The Dime Museum Murders Page 8
