The Dime Museum Murders

by Daniel Stashower

  He cut himself off as Miss Hendricks returned with a white carnation. “Have you and Mr. Hardeen finished talking about money?” she asked, threading the flower through her father’s buttonhole. “Or was it some other topic too coarse for my delicate ears?”

  “Nothing for you to concern yourself over, my dear,” Hendricks answered.

  “You’re a very exasperating man, Father,” Miss Hendricks said. “Don’t feel left out, Mr. Hardeen. I’ve brought a flower for you, too.”

  “Why—why, thank you,” I stammered as she arranged the flower on my lapel.

  “There,” she said. “You look quite smart now.”

  “Flowers are very lovely,” I said, inanely. Her perfume appeared to be clouding my mind.

  “I’ll tell you another thing about Josef Graff,” Hendricks said as we continued walking. “They’d better let him out of jail soon, because I can’t get my train set-up running. He just sold me a big new locomotive with a double set of pilot trucks, and I can’t get the blasted thing to work. Need him to come up and show me.”

  “Compound gears or worm-shaft?” I asked.

  He stopped short. “Worm-shaft,” he said. “Are you a model train enthusiast, Hardeen? A collector, perhaps?”

  “Hardly,” I said. “But I used to work for Mr. Graff, and I know my way around the switching yard.”

  “Just the man I’ve been needing,” he said, patting his daughter’s hand. “Come along and have a look at my set-up. We’ll give you tea afterwards. Perhaps we can impose upon Katherine to join us, so that you won’t find the experience entirely disagreeable.”

  Mercifully I had fallen a half-step behind them, so that no one saw the bloom of crimson on my cheeks. Miss Hendricks, walking arm-in-arm with her father, appeared to be admiring a row of blossoming trees as if they had amused her in some way.

  We walked on for a time while Hendricks chatted enthusiastically about a line of new trains he expected from “those upstarts at Ivers.” He solicited my opinion of a new type of collector pivot, and wondered idly whether such a device might have some practical application in the nation’s railways. He had just begun to describe the loading ramp of his new lumber car when we reached our destination. “Ah! Here we are,” he announced. “Be it ever so humble.”

  In truth, the structure could only have seemed humble in contrast to the sprawling luxury of the Wintour mansion. Mr. Hendricks’s home proved to be a stately four-story wooden manor with a mansard roof and no fewer than seven brick chimneys breaking the roof line. We passed through a black wrought iron gate and followed a tree-lined walk to the front door, which was opened by a uniformed butler as we reached the top of the steps.

  “Thank you, Becking,” said Hendricks as the butler took his hat and coat. “Mr. Hardeen and I will be in the study.”

  I passed my coat and my trilby to the butler and followed Hendricks into a room off the main hall. Closing the door, he loosened his tie and headed for a sideboard covered with bottles and decanters. “Now, Mr. Hardeen,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “what can I offer you?”

  The study made a dramatic contrast to the room where we had seen Branford Wintour’s body the night before. Where Mr. Wintour’s study had appeared extravagant but sterile, Mr. Hendricks had created a private sanctuary with little regard to appearances. Books lay open on the arms of battered leather chairs. Papers and correspondence were stacked haphazardly on cluttered occasional tables. Stray articles of clothing were draped over the back of a plush sofa. A battered captain’s desk stood in a bay window overlooking the street, its surface barely visible beneath an overlay of documents.

  “Forgive the mess,” Hendricks said. “The house-maid only gets in here once or twice a month. Even that’s too often, if you ask me. Now, what can I get you? I’m having a whiskey and soda.”

  “That will be fine,” I said. Hendricks poured two hearty measures of Walker & Sons whiskey into a pair of glasses, then squirted a stream of aerated water from a tall glass gasogene. “Your good health,” he said, handing one of the glasses to me.

  I raised my glass to return the salute. “This is a splendid room,” I said.

  “Thank you, young man. What do you think of this?” He indicated a low platform that curved along the wall of a corner turret. A bewildering double-horseshoe pattern of model train track covered the surface, with more than a dozen switch-points on the straights.

  “Incredible,” I said. “You’ve merged three different track patterns.”

  “Four,” he said. “I got tired of watching it go around in a circle. This way I can run several trains at once, just as you would on a real railroad.” He took a healthy snort of his whiskey. “Damned silly thing for a grown man to do with his time and money. Katherine says I’m just a boy who refuses to put away his toys.”

  “My brother and I are professional magicians, Mr. Hendricks. Is that any sort of occupation for a grown man?”

  He gave a short, barking type of laugh. “Let me show you the problem with my train.” He stepped over to a wooden box and clicked the lever that sent electricity coursing through the tracks. A set of indicator dials began to waggle impressively.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen this type of train set before,” I said. “Is it new?”

  “It’s not widely available just yet,” he answered. “I have some money in the company.”

  “‘The Minotaur,’” I said, reading the model name off the side of the locomotive. “Isn’t this the same type of train Mr. Wintour had in his study? was this another area where you and Mr. Wintour competed?”

  “Trains? Hardly.” He stood for a moment, listening to the hum and crackle of the tracks as they warmed up. “As a matter of fact, we tried several times to develop a model train set of our own, but I’m afraid it never came to very much. After we dissolved the partnership, neither one of us pursued the venture.” He twisted a dial on the control box. The locomotive emitted a whistle blast and its firebox began to glow. “A shame, really. Branford was the best damned businessman in the entire city. Who knows what we might have done.” He pressed a plunger-button and a black locomotive slowly inched forward, gathering speed as the reach rods and draw bars loosened. “My wife hates this train set,” he said. “She’s convinced I’ll burn the whole house down one day.”

  “It looks as if your grounding wires are more than adequate,” I said. “I think Mrs. Hendricks can rest easy. Tell me, were you surprised when Mr. Wintour invited you to dinner last night?”

  “Surprised?” He watched as the train gathered speed on a straight section of track, heading into a double-switch plate. “Yes, Hardeen, I suppose I was. But in a town this size, it was getting difficult to carry on avoiding one another. I’d often see him across the room at a restaurant, or reading a newspaper at the club. At first we pretended not to notice, but after a while it began to seem pretty damn silly. I supposed he felt the same way—or so I hoped, at any rate. So I was quite pleased by the invitation.”

  “Did you have a chance to speak with him?”

  “No, sir, I did not. He never came out of the study after Nora and I arrived. We were kept waiting in the morning room.” He watched as the locomotive clattered over the switching plate and promptly derailed, plowing straight into the side of a wooden boxcar. “Damn. Just painted that, too.”

  “I think I see your problem,” I said. I stripped off my suit coat and crawled under the platform. “Switch off the power for a minute, would you?”

  He tripped the power lever and the hot buzzing ceased. “You know,” he said, “I was quite looking forward to seeing Branford again.” I heard the sloshing of his whiskey glass. “It’s so rare that I meet someone who shares my interests. I was looking forward to telling him about my trains. Nora thought I was building up my hopes for nothing, though. About working together again, I mean.”

  I rolled over onto my back and tinkered with a loose ground bolt. “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Branford’s wife. I’m afr
aid she doesn’t care for me.”

  “Or Miss Hendricks, I would imagine,” I said from beneath the platform. I couldn’t see his face, but he took a moment to reply.

  “Hell,” he said. “I suppose that’s no secret. Bran was supposed to marry Katherine some years ago. He was smitten with her, and she was fond enough of him, though she thought of him more as an uncle than a husband, I’d venture to say. In any case it seemed a really splendid idea to the pair of us, sitting over port and cigars in the Century one night. We never spoke directly of the business advantages, but it was clear that we’d be uniting the two empires, as it were.”

  I crawled out from under the train platform to find Hendricks addressing his remarks to his whiskey glass, his face a study in remorse.

  “In my own defense, I never forced the matter on Katherine,” he continued. “She seemed quite keen on the whole thing. I think Bran may have filled her head with queer ideas—giving her some sort of role in the company or some such. My daughter holds many peculiar views. Reads a great deal of Susan B. Anthony and the other one. What’s her name? Elizabeth Cady Stanton. In any case, at least Bran took the time to listen to my daughter when she spoke, which is more than I can say for this pompous young ass who’s squiring her about at the moment. Anyway, my daughter’s engagement soon came to grief, as you undoubtedly read in the society pages. Why any right-thinking man should leave my daughter at the altar is beyond my ken.” He set down his glass. “I’m talking rather a lot, aren’t I?”

  “Not at all, sir,” I said. “I apologize if I’ve broached an unpleasant subject. I believe I’ve found the solution to your other little problem, though.” I switched the train set back on and sent the locomotive hurtling toward the troublesome portion of the track. It cleared the turn easily and stayed on course for two more high-speed circuits.

  “My God, Hardeen!” Hendricks cried. “You’re a genius!”

  “Hardly, sir. I just loosened two of the bolts holding the track onto the table. There wasn’t enough give. The vibration was causing the train to jump the track.”

  “Damn it, I tried that. I got too much sway from side to side. The train still derailed.”

  “I compensated for that by replacing these bolt-pins with match sticks. The wood is soft enough to absorb the vibrations but it still controls the wobble.”

  Hendricks put his face close to the switch-plate and examined my jury-rigging.

  “It’s not exactly picturesque,” I said. “You may want to paint—”

  “Brilliant!” he cried. “Just brilliant! Have you any training in this area?”

  “Training?”

  “Engineering background? That sort of thing?”

  “I’ve toured with a traveling circus for months at a time. Believe me, when you’re stuck in Wichita with a broken hinge on your drop-trap, you get pretty good at fixing things with whatever’s at hand.”

  Hendricks watched as the train eased past the turn and headed for the straightaway. “I may have some work for you, Hardeen,” he said. “I just might, at that.”

  We sat together in that room for the better part of two hours, drinking his whiskey and playing with his train. He reminisced a little about his younger days with General Sherman’s XV Corps at Vicksburg, and I talked a bit about touring the backwaters with a medicine show. Sometimes we just sat quietly and watched the train. I don’t know that I’ve ever spent a more pleasant time.

  It must have been late afternoon by the time I found my hat and got up to leave. Hendricks tried to get me to stay for dinner, but I had to get down to Huber’s and meet Harry. As he led me out of the study, Hendricks invited me to stop back again any time. I know he meant this in all sincerity, but we both realized that starving young magicians don’t simply drop in on Fifth Avenue millionaires. He took my visiting card and repeated what he’d said about sending some work my way. I shook his hand and thanked him for his company. The butler could hardly wait to close the door behind me.

  I had walked only half a block when I heard footsteps rushing up behind me. A woman’s voice called my name. I turned to see Katherine Hendricks hurrying toward me.

  “Mr. Hardeen!” she called. “I was afraid I’d missed you!” She was flushed and out of breath as she reached my side. “Father said that you would be staying for tea! I expected I would have had a chance to see you again!”

  I removed my hat, wondering why such a charming and lovely young lady should have been so anxious for my company. “I fear that your father and I lost all track of time, Miss Hendricks,” I said. “We were entirely absorbed in the workings of his train.”

  She dabbed at her face with a square of linen. “I really must speak with you,” she said. “May I walk with you for a bit?”

  “Certainly.” I extended my elbow and she rested her gloved hand on my forearm.

  She appeared to be struggling to compose her thoughts, and waited until we were out of sight of the house before speaking again. “Well, Mr. Hardeen,” she said with a delicate cough, “the trees are very colorful at this time of year.”

  “Indeed,” I answered.

  “In the spring there is such a lovely fragrance from those bushes. What do you suppose they are? Lilacs? I’m not very clever at that sort of thing.”

  “Magnolias, I believe.”

  “Magnolias! How marvelous!”

  “Miss Hendricks? Did you really pursue me into the street to inquire about the fall foliage?”

  She bit her lower lip. “Of course not. you must think me very stupid, but I’m not quite certain how to begin. It is not often that I meet someone who—someone with—forgive me, Mr. Hardeen.”

  I glanced down at her exquisite profile and felt my cheeks grow hot. Could it be? Did I dare hope? During our brief walk home from the church, had I somehow managed to capture her attention? Had she been charmed by my rugged demeanor? Captivated by my knowledge of model train sets? It did not seem likely, and yet here she was, clinging to my arm and struggling to express some inner torment.

  “May I speak candidly, Mr. Hardeen?” she said at last.

  “Please do,” I said.

  “I feel that I must—indeed, I know that I must—”

  “Yes?”

  “I must speak to your brother.”

  I stopped walking. “My brother?”

  “It is quite urgent.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “My father told me of your brother’s wonderful exploit at Mr. Wintour’s home last night. I understand that his demonstration of the little doll—the automaton—was quite masterly. It seems to me that he may be just the man to help me with a certain difficulty I am facing. He seems so terribly clever.”

  “Perhaps you might wish to take the matter up with my brother directly,” I said, glancing at my pocket watch. “If you hurry, you may just be able to see him vanish a bowl of goldfish at Huber’s Museum.”

  Miss Hendricks had not missed the coldness of my tone. “I did not mean to suggest that you are not just as clever,” she said quickly. “The two of you work together, do you not?”

  “We did. My brother’s wife performs his act with him now.”

  “I did not mean that. I meant that you were both present last night—in the room where Mr. Wintour was discovered.”

  “We were.”

  “You saw Mr. Wintour? His body, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it likely that you will be returning to Mr. Wintour’s home at any time in the future?”

  It seemed a very odd question. “I only meant,” Miss Hendricks continued, sensing my hesitation, “that perhaps the police might have more questions for you and your brother? About the room in which Mr. Wintour died?”

  “I really couldn’t say, Miss Hendricks. I suppose it’s possible, but I see no reason to presume so.”

  “Still, it is possible that you might find yourself in Mr. Wintour’s study at some point in the future, is it not?”

  “May I ask why this matter is of such interes
t to you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I really ought to stop talking in circles.” She paused and untied the chin strap of her bonnet, allowing her long auburn hair to flow about her shoulders. “If I seem unduly circumspect, Mr. Hardeen, it is because I fear I may be making too much of nothing.”

  “Go on.”

  “You are aware that Mr. Wintour and I were once engaged to be married?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Although our engagement ended badly, I never thought ill of him. I am an ambitious woman, Mr. Hardeen, and Mr. Wintour was one of the few men I’ve met who did not laugh at my ambitions.” She paused, as if daring me to belittle the notion of an ambitious woman. When I did not, she continued. “It was no longer possible that Mr. Wintour and I should ever meet, but we corresponded occasionally.”

  “I see.”

  “I assure you that these letters were not indiscreet in any way.”

  “Then why does the matter trouble you so?”

  By way of reply, she stepped to the curb and raised her rolled parasol into the air. A private carriage clattered towards us from down the street. “I asked the coachman to follow behind,” she explained. “I thought it might afford a bit of privacy.”