The Dime Museum Murders

by Daniel Stashower

  Biggs and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. “See the young swain coming up behind?” he continued, indicating a bluff and hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. “That’s Mrs. Wintour’s younger brother Henry, the family wastrel.”

  “I don’t recall seeing him last night,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have thought so. Wintour couldn’t stand the sight of him, but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He’s just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can’t wait to get his hands on his brother-in-law’s fortune. His sort always makes me want to—well, well! you would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour’s old flame.” He indicated a slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat trimmed with netting.

  “Steady, Dash,” Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.

  “She’s extraordinary,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything to compare.”

  “There are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to her left—who, if I’m not mistaken, is her current beau.”

  I fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. “Who is he?” I whispered.

  “I can’t be certain, but I believe it’s Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a wealthy American bride to shore up his family’s dwindling fortunes.”

  “That fellow is a British aristocrat?”

  “They don’t all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is considered quite a catch, though it’s said he’s not terribly well-endowed between the ears. Still, he’s good-looking enough.”

  I studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the young Englishman. “She could do better,” I said.

  “Could she now?” Biggs chuckled. “Ah—here comes the main attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory.” A tall, thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle, stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about her, as I’ve known professional boxers who appeared frail in comparison.

  “At the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach,” Biggs told me. “That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the marriage didn’t agree with her.” We watched as Mrs. Wintour paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.

  “She’ll play this scene for all it’s worth,” Biggs muttered, “although everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another. She’ll be well provided for, though, and she’ll never want for company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune.”

  “Really, Biggs,” I said, raising an eyebrow at my friend. “The woman is attending her husband’s funeral! Have you always been such a cynic?”

  He gave me a wide grin. “I used to be plucky and high-spirited, Dash, but I found it grated on people’s nerves.” He jerked his head toward the seats. “So there you have it, my friend. The ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne’er-do-well younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?”

  “I don’t know that any of them killed Wintour,” I said, waving aside his facetious commentary. “Certainly the police don’t think so.”

  “Ah, yes!” Biggs said. “The kindly old toy peddler. Let’s not forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches of—”

  “Biggs,” I said, “you really are an ass.”

  “I’ve been hoping someone would notice,” he said. “Seen enough? I have all I need. We really should make our escape now—before the tributes begin.”

  We slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth at Timborio’s, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. “Order whatever you like, Dash,” Biggs said. “The World will see to it.”

  “Oh no,” I said. “That’s quite all right.”

  “You’re a valuable resource, Dash. you and your brother are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police department who’ve been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful Event. If you think I’m letting you roam free, only to be pounced upon by those leeches at the Times, you’ve another think coming.”

  “I’ve already told you everything I can,” I said.

  “Not everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?” He set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was “quite drinkable,” though my knowledge of such things was fairly limited.

  “All right, young Theodore,” Biggs said when the wine had been decanted, “what makes you and the swaggering Harry think you can solve the Wintour murder?”

  “I told you. The police wanted Harry to tell them about the automaton. We’re not trying to solve the murder.”

  “So you said. Forgive me, but everything your brother knows about automatons—or any other subject for that matter—could be printed very comfortably on this wine cork. Your brother could very easily have shared the sum total of his knowledge with the police without pausing to draw breath. He is not, shall we say, a deep thinker. And yet here you are, the faithful brother, racing about trying to scare up information on the Wintour set. This is more than idle curiosity, I think.”

  “Mr. Graff —” I began.

  “Yes, yes,” he waved his hand impatiently. “I know all about Mr. Graff and his charming little toy emporium. That certainly explains why the Handcuff Czar should bother himself in the matter, but what about you, young Dash? Aren’t you getting a bit old to be trailing along in Harry’s wake?”

  “He’s my brother,” I said simply.

  “Dash, I’m aware of that. We grew up together, as you’ll recall. And don’t tell me again how he dragged you from the East River and saved you from drowning. He tells me himself every time I see him.”

  “He did pull me out of the East River.”

  “I know that. But he was also the one who pushed you in, remember?”

  I lifted my wine glass and stared into the bowl. “I know that you and Harry have never gotten along,” I began. “He can be a bully. He can be arrogant—”

  “—if you happen to catch him in a good mood.”

  I set down my glass. “You don’t know him as I do.”

  “Nor would I care to, based on my past experience of him.”

  A waiter arrived with our fish course. I waited until he had withdrawn into the kitchen. “Do you see those doors?” I asked, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

  “The doors to the kitchen?” Biggs asked, spearing a piece of fish.

  “Behind those doors, there will be two or three young boys in shirtsleeves washing dishes over a steaming basin of hot water. Harry and I did that job off and on for fourteen months, usually for five hours at a time, sometimes two shifts a day. At the end of a shift our hands would be so red and shriveled that my mother would rub them with cooking fat. I was twelve years old at the time.”

  “Dash—”

  “I’m not trying to impress you with my tale of hardship and woe. Plenty of people come from poor families, and lots of them had it tougher than we did. What I’m saying, though, is that Harry always managed to keep his eye on something better. We’d stand there
side by side at the wash basin, and he’d fill my head with stories of the fantastic things we were going to do with our lives—travel the world, have adventures, perform for royalty. Even then, I could always spot a huckster, but my brother was no huckster. He honestly believed that these things were certain to happen. All he had to do, he always said, was to be ready when the time came. So he’d finish washing the dishes and then he’d go home and practice.”

  “That’s the part I’ve never quite understood,” Biggs said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Why did he want to be a magician? Why not an athlete, say, or a captain of industry?”

  “Some boys want to grow up to be president. Harry wanted to be Robert-Houdin. I used to take it for granted—having a brother who could produce cakes from an empty hat, or find coins in my nose and ears. It took me some time to realize that not every family had one.”

  “Dash, I’ve seen you perform. You’re every bit as good a magician as Harry.”

  “Kind of you to say so, but actually I’m not. No one is. I truly believe he’s going to be the most famous man in the world.”

  Biggs shook his head sadly. “Like Kellar you mean? Or Signor Blitz? Dash, these tricks and stunts will only take him so far. Even the best magicians in the world are still only magicians. Who will remember Kellar ten years from now?”

  “I yield to no one in my admiration for Kellar, but Harry is something entirely new.”

  “The escape artist business, you mean? Dash, not everyone shares Harry’s fascination with handcuffs and ropes. I think your brother is betting too heavily on this idea. Will the public pay money to see a man who can—what?—get out of things? It’s a strange notion for an entertainment. People tie him up; he escapes. Frankly, I don’t see the appeal. There’s some novelty, perhaps—like a fire-eater or a circus strong man—but nothing more.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “I do.”

  I took another swallow of wine. “There was a lock-smith when we were growing up in Appleton—before my father brought us to New York. The locksmith’s name was R. P. Gatts, and Harry used to help him take locks apart and put them back together. One day Mr. Gatts let Harry have a big rusty padlock from somebody’s old grain locker. Harry took it home and we found a length of chain somewhere, and that’s the first time I can remember him ever trying an escape. I wrapped the chain around his wrists and cinched the padlock so tightly that the chain actually bit into his wrists. Harry insisted on that—the chain had to be as tight as possible.”

  “And he escaped in a jiffy,” Biggs said dismissively. “Leaving you wonderstruck.”

  “No,” I said. “He didn’t escape that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. But every day for three weeks I wrapped the chain around his wrists and snapped that rusty old padlock into place, and then I’d sit back and watch. One day the neighborhood kids came to the yard to get us for Red Robin, but when they saw Harry struggling with that lock they dropped their sticks and their balls and sat down on the grass beside me. And they came back the next day. Harry pulled and tugged at that chain until his wrists went raw. He kept at it every afternoon until it was time to go in for supper. Then I’d unfasten the padlock and he’d shrug his shoulders and say, ‘Same time tomorrow.’ Some days his arms would be covered with blood and bruises. He never complained. He told our mother he’d fallen out of a tree.”

  Biggs reached for his cutlery as the gamecock arrived. “Still, he did escape eventually, and you were dazzled, and the neighborhood boys lifted him up and carried him through the neighborhood in triumph. Is that it?”

  “No, Biggs, that’s the whole point. I honestly don’t remember if he ever did escape. All I remember is the struggle. That’s where the drama of the thing was. Day after day I sat there on the grass surrounded by our friends and we just watched—mesmerized. These were kids who had no patience for card tricks or coin flourishes. But they spent hours watching Harry—just to see if he could do it.” I smiled at the memory. “He was nine years old at the time.”

  “All right, Dash,” Biggs said, “I see your point. But do you really think that a bunch of kids in Appleton is the same thing as a New York audience?”

  “So far as Harry is concerned, there’s no difference.”

  Biggs fell silent for several moments, fixing his attention on the food. “You still haven’t answered my original question, Dash,” he said after a time. “Suppose that everything you say is true. Suppose that Harry is about to conquer the world with his daring feats of escape. Where do you fit in?”

  “That should be obvious,” I said.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “He couldn’t do any of it without me,” I said, draining my wine glass. “My brother needs an audience.”

  5

  THE WORM-SHAFT MAN

  WHEN I LEFT TIMBORIO’S I STILL HAD A GOOD THREE HOURS before it would be time to meet Harry at the dime museum. I decided that a walk would clear my head. I set off without any fixed sense of a destination and after a time found myself standing outside the Wintour mansion on Fifth Avenue. Taking up a position across the street, I spent nearly an hour watching as expensive carriages rolled up and a series of well-wishers climbed the steps to pay their respects to the widow.

  After a while I rolled a cigarette and began wondering what I was doing there. The answer came to me when I saw Mr. Michael Hendricks and his daughter, the lovely Katherine, coming down the steps from the house. I tossed my cigarette aside and hurried across the street. “Mr. Hendricks?” I called.

  He stopped and turned toward me. “Yes? Can I help you, young man?”

  If anything, Hendricks appeared even more gaunt and haggard than he had the previous evening. Seeing him at close range, however, I was struck by the bright energy in his eyes. They gave the impression of an eager boy trapped in an old man’s body.

  “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, sir,” I began. “You see, I—”

  “You’re the young magical fellow from last night,” he said. “You and the other boy—your brother, was it?—the pair of you made quite the fools of New York’s finest, I must say.”

  “I’m afraid my brother can be a bit overly zealous,” I said. “We didn’t mean to leave the police with egg on their faces.”

  “Nonsense! The law needs a bit of humbling now and again. Keeps them on their toes. What can I do for you, young man? Houdini, was it?”

  “Houdini is my brother. My name is Hardeen. Dash Hardeen.”

  He stuck out a hand which, to my surprise, was red and rough like a curtain-puller’s. “Good to know you, Hardeen,” he said, pumping my hand with unexpected strength. “I’m Michael Hendricks, and this is my daughter, Katherine.”

  I raised my hat to Miss Hendricks and she returned a dazzling smile. A more polished young man might have offered a comment on the weather, or ventured some other remark of topical interest. I chose instead to stand motionless with a frozen rictus of a smile stamped on my features, swaying slightly in the autumn breeze. The power of speech had abruptly fled. It would have taken a keen eye to detect an appreciable difference between myself and a lamp post.

  “Mr. Hardeen?” said Hendricks. “Was there something you wanted from me?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, struggling to regain my composure. “I wondered if I might ask you one or two questions about Mr. Wintour.”

  “Are you some type of investigator?” he asked.

  “No, sir, I’m not. And I don’t wish to burden you at such an unhappy time, but a good friend of mine has been detained in this matter, and I’ve promised his wife that I would do what little I could to assist in clearing his name.”

  “Yes,” Hendricks said. “Poor old Josef. Are the police still holding him?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He studied my face, apparently trying to gauge my usefulness. “Hardeen, is it? What sort of name is that? Italian?”

  “Hardly, sir. It’s a stage name. I make my living, such as it is, as a performer. My brother tho
ught it best if I took a different name. He feels there’s only room enough for one Houdini in the world.”

  “I see. Why don’t you walk along with us for a moment, Mr. Hardeen?” He held out his arm to his daughter and I fell in step beside them. “Well, Mr. Hardeen,” he continued after a moment, “I don’t know what I can tell you that you didn’t see for yourself last night, but I’m absolutely certain that Josef Graff had nothing whatever to do with this thing. That man once walked half-way across Manhattan to return four cents to me—a real honest Abe, that one. I tried like anything to put him in my carriage, let my driver take him back home, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said it would end up costing me more than the four cents.” He laughed. “We could use more like him in this city.”

  “You and Mr. Wintour both had dealings with Mr. Graff, didn’t you, sir?”

  “Oh, certainly,” he said. “Though I never felt that Branford got any particular pleasure out of his collection. I sometimes suspected he bought up these things simply to keep me from getting my hands on them. He had quite a competitive streak.”

  “When Mr. Graff came across an unusual item, would he usually let you see it first? Or did he take it to Mr. Wintour?”

  “Me, I would have said. I tried to make it worth his while.”

  “Last night, you appeared surprised that Le Fantôme had been shown to Mr. Wintour without your knowledge.”

  Hendricks stopped walking and reached into a pocket for his coin purse. “Katherine,” he said to his daughter, “would you mind seeing if that flower girl has something for my buttonhole?” He slipped a coin into her gloved hand. It was a transparent device to send Miss Hendricks out of earshot for a few moments, and she frowned at him to show what she thought of it. In spite of her obvious displeasure, she turned without further protest and made her way toward the flower stall at the corner.

  Hendricks watched her go, then spoke to me in a lowered tone. “I admit that I was surprised when I heard about the automaton,” he said. “A real treasure like that—something with so much history attached to it—I would have expected Mr. Graff to come straight to me. When I heard otherwise I was afraid that—I thought perhaps—,” he paused, gazing reflectively at his coin purse. “Well, Mr. Hardeen, I suppose it’s no secret that my business has been going through a stormy patch. That’s why I happened to be at Branford’s place last night. I was hoping we might revive our association in the light of a particularly delicate deal I have in the works. I could have used his—well, no matter. In any event, when I heard that Mr. Graff offered the automaton to Branford first, I was afraid he’d heard rumors of my recent reversals. A man like Josef Graff wouldn’t have wanted to embarrass me. If he thought I couldn’t afford Le Fantôme he would simply have taken it elsewhere. But I can’t afford to let that sort of thing pass unchallenged. Those sorts of rumors—those sorts of assumptions about my finances—could prove highly damaging. Appearances count for a great deal in New York and any hint of—”