“I think so, yes.”
I could see Harry struggling to hide his excitement. “And automatons? Were there a great many automatons in the house when you were growing up?”
“One or two. Perhaps more. Terribly clever things. Father would sometimes wind them up and make them go for the guests. Marvelous things.”
Harry’s face fell. “Only one or two?”
“Perhaps a few more. A dozen or so? I never took much notice before.”
“How many do you have with you in New York?” Harry asked.
“Just the one. I wanted to see what sort of price it would fetch before I had others sent over. The funny thing is, you see, that I never would have realized how valuable they were if not for Michael Hendricks. He has any number of the things scattered around that giant playroom of his, and I shudder to think what ridiculous prices he payed for them. But of course I couldn’t very well stroll in and say, ‘Would you like to buy my automaton so I can clear my debts?’ The whole thing had to be very hush-hush.”
I looked on longingly as he lit another cigarette. “So you engaged Mr. Harrington as your intermediary?”
Lord Wycliffe’s head snapped up in surprise. “How do you know about him?”
“Just tell us who he is and how you found him.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s the queer thing about it. He found me. About three weeks ago, here at the club. I’d never seen him before or since. I’d been losing quite heavily that night, and we got to talking at the bar. He mentioned that every so often he was able to help a sportsman such as myself out of his difficulties.”
“Sportsman?”
“That was his term. He was quite delicate about the enterprise. He asked me if I had any bothersome old family jewelry or antiques that I might like to convert into working capital. Again, that was exactly how he phrased it. So I had Le Fantôme crated up and shipped over, and he agreed to see what he could do about selling it off.”
“Did he mention that he would attempt to sell it to Branford Wintour?”
Lord Wycliffe shook his head. “He only said that he would make the necessary arrangements.”
“For a fee?”
“For a twenty-five per cent commission of the sale.”
“Twenty-five? That seems rather steep.”
“I thought so, too. But one pays a premium to ensure discretion.”
“I suppose so. Where can we find Mr. Harrington?”
“But, Dash,” Harry said, “we’re going to see—” I shot a withering look in his direction.
Lord Wycliffe appeared not to notice. “You’re not going to—you can’t just—” He shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed. “I really would prefer to keep my name out of this matter.”
“We have no interest in your private affairs. For the moment, we only want to speak with Mr. Harrington.”
“You’re not in the employ of Michael Hendricks?”
“No.”
“Then what is your interest in this matter?”
Harry straightened up in his chair. “To see that justice is—”
“That’ll do, Harry,” I cut in. “Like yourself, Lord Wycliffe, we would prefer to keep our interests private. Now, if you’ll tell us where we might find Mr. Harrington?”
He sighed heavily. “There’s a saloon on Mott Street. Wilson’s. He would send me a note and we’d meet there. That’s all I can tell you.”
“You’re certain?”
“I only met the man three times. Once here at the Cairo, and twice at Wilson’s.”
“And what does he look like?”
Lord Wycliffe took a moment before responding. Then a wry smile spread across his features. “To tell you the truth,” he said, jerking his thumb in Harry’s direction, “he looks a bit like your friend there—nasty, brutish, and short.”
“That man killed Branford Wintour,” Harry said, as we hurried toward Delancy Street.
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“It’s perfectly obvious. Lord Wycliffe was jealous of Miss Hendricks’s continued association with Mr. Wintour. He saw the older man as an obstacle to his future happiness.”
“I didn’t get the impression that he was even aware of Miss Hendricks’s continued association with Mr. Wintour.”
“That was the impression he wanted to give, so that we wouldn’t suspect him. He’s a very clever man.”
“He doesn’t strike me as all that clever, Harry. Besides, I suspect that Branford Wintour would have been more useful to Lord Wycliffe alive than dead. He needed the money from the sale of Le Fantôme.”
“Perhaps,” Harry allowed, “but I’m going to keep my eye on him.”
“Harry, how many times do I have to say it? After tonight, you and I are no longer in the detective business. We’ll tell Lieutenant Murray what we learned and he can check Lord Wycliffe’s story for himself.”
“If that’s how you feel, why were you so insistent on getting a description of Mr. Harrington? Why did you want to know how to contact him? After all, we have an appointment with him in twenty minutes at Mr. Graff’s shop!”
“I know that, Harry, but I’m not banking on Mr. Harrington to keep the appointment. Lieutenant Murray may find the information helpful.”
“Can you really wash your hands of this affair so easily?” Harry asked. “I saw you questioning Lord Wycliffe just now. I could hardly have done better myself. you were quite—”
“Imaginative?”
“I was going to say skillful. you played the scene quite brilliantly.”
“That’s just it, Harry. I wasn’t playing a scene. This isn’t some costume melodrama. It’s all been just another performance for you, hasn’t it? Another role for the Great Houdini.”
“I’m not play acting,” he said, as we rounded the corner onto Delancy Street. “Our friend is in prison. Or have you forgotten?”
“I could hardly forget, Harry. Not with all these helpful reminders you keep delivering every three minutes.”
“You should need no reminding. Mr. Graff has been our friend and protector for many years.”
“I know, Harry, but—”
“Like family. That’s how he has treated us.”
“I know, Harry, but—”
“You and I might still be washing dishes or cutting ties if not for Mr. Graff.”
“I know, Harry, but—”
“Anyway, if I have been guilty of embracing my role as amateur sleuth a little too vigorously, at least we may be able to ring down the final curtain tonight. Let’s see if Mr. Harrington appears.”
The door to Mr. Graff’s shop was locked and the windows were shuttered. Harry tugged on the door, then pressed his nose to the glass to peer into the darkened front room. “There’s no one in there,” he said. “I could pick the lock easily enough, but I don’t want to alarm Mrs. Graff.”
Harry pressed the bell and glanced up at the apartment above. “No answer,” he said. “Perhaps she has gone to stay with her sister in Brooklyn. What time is it?”
I looked at my Elgin. “Harrington should be here in fifteen minutes, if he’s coming.”
“We may as well get out of the street, then.” Harry flipped open a fat leather wallet and withdrew a sturdy two-pin curl-pick. I heard a sharp snick as the lock gave way. “I must speak to Mr. Graff about this. Bess could have picked this lock with her ivory comb.” He pushed the door open.
It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. We were accustomed to seeing Mr. Graff’s shop filled with children. In the dark, it took on a strange and sinister aspect. Shadows played over the marionettes; tin soldiers and straw dolls appeared to be leering at us in the guttering light from the street. “I’ll put on some lights,” Harry said, feeling his way toward the back room. “Then I will tell you my plan.”
“Your plan?”
“Yes. My plan to wring a confession from Mr. Harrington.”
“Harry, whoever this Mr. Harrington is, we don’t know that he killed Branford
Wintour.”
“He’s in it up to his neck,” Harry said. “All we have to do is—” He gave a strangled cry.
At first I thought he had been attacked by some unseen assailant in the back room. I ran forward and saw that it was something much worse. “My God, Dash! My God! Who—who would do such a thing?”
Frieda Graff lay on her back in a dark pool of blood. Her eyes were open and fixed on some distant point, and her arms were flung over her head as if to ward off a blow. An angry purple swelling covered the right side of her face, just below the jaw hinge. A bone-handled carving knife lay on the floor beside her.
I sprang forward, stamping my foot on the wooden floor to drive off a trio of rats. Kneeling beside her, I felt for signs of life.
“Dash, is she—?”
“Yes.”
“God,” he said softly. “God, no.”
I reached up to close her eyes, as I had seen my father do.
“Dash, that word. American slang?”
I looked up and saw him pointing at the blank wall behind us. There was a word scrawled in blood. “Yes, Harry,” I said. “American slang.”
“What does it mean?”
“It refers to her religion, Harry.”
I watched his face. His mouth tightened into a hard line and his cheeks darkened. Something clear and eager seemed to fade from his eyes and I never saw it again.
“The police,” he said quietly. “Come, Dash, we must call the police. Perhaps they—” He stopped as if seized by the throat. “Dash! Hurry!” He grabbed my arm and literally hurled me toward the door.
“Harry—what—?”
“Run!” He was out the door before I could utter another syllable.
We were still in our evening clothes, and my opera shoes weren’t exactly suited for high speed, but I managed to keep within a few paces of Harry as he sprinted across Lispenard Street, hooked left onto Broadway, and set off along Canal. By now my lungs were seared with pain, but I kept going. I’d figured out where we were headed.
Harry turned onto Mulberry Street and bounded up the steps to the precinct house. Sergeant O’Donnell looked up in surprise as Harry threw open the heavy doors.
“Mr. Houdini—?”
“The cellblock! Hurry!”
“But—!”
Harry charged past him and crashed through the doors to the stairwell. Gripping the bannister like a pommel horse, he vaulted over the railing and onto the lower stairs, covering the two flights in a single fluid motion.
“Houdini!” O’Donnell called from the top of the stairs. “You can’t—!”
Lock-picks spilled from Harry’s leather wallet as he scrabbled for the proper tool, all the while shouting Mr. Graff’s name through the metal grille of the access door. He had the lock tripped by the time I reached him, and I helped to pull back the heavy door.
“Mr. Graff!” he shouted, pushing past me into the cellblock. “Mr. Graff! Are you—?” Then O’Donnell found the light.
The old man hung at the end of a leather belt at the center of his cell, swaying slightly, a piece of paper pinned to his chest. A stool lay on its side below him.
Harry dropped to his knees, his mouth working convulsively, though he made no sound. He pressed his fists to his temples as if to force the terrible scene from his mind. O’Donnell gripped the bars of the cell, his eyes moving from the dead man to my brother to the lock-picks scattered on the floor.
I fell back against a bare brick wall, unable to catch my breath. My head swirled with questions, but one thing had become perfectly clear.
My brother and I were no longer playing a game.
7
THE HUMAN TELESCOPE
“ALL RIGHT, HOUDINI,” LIEUTENANT MURRAY SAID. “LET’S HAVE IT from the beginning.”
Harry laced his fingers around the coffee cup he had been clutching for three hours. “I can add nothing to what I have already told you.”
The lieutenant turned to me. “How about you, Hardeen? Anything to add?”
“I’m happy to go over the details again, if I can be helpful.”
He looked at us both, his expression wavering between dark suspicion and genuine curiosity. We had been sitting at a table in the police interview room for the better part of the night, relating the events of the evening for perhaps seven different officials. The lieutenant had listened attentively to each reiteration, apparently uncertain as to our motives and trustworthiness. Two floors below us, a team of police investigators combed through the cell where Josef Graff had died.
“Tell me again how you knew that the old man was in danger,” Murray said.
“It was obvious,” Harry replied. “Mrs. Graff had been killed. Clearly the murderer felt it necessary to silence her. He would not kill the wife and leave the husband to talk.”
The lieutenant nodded. “So you’ve said. But with respect, Houdini, Mrs. Graff’s murder looks a whole hell of a lot like the work of a gang. Hit over the head, cut up the side. Gang boys. Irish. Italian. We see this sort of thing often enough, though it doesn’t always make the papers. All those immigrant neighborhoods packed together. There’s always a bad element, always young people looking to make trouble.”
Harry stared listlessly at a map of the city pinned to the wall across from him.
“And Mr. Graff,” Murray continued, “that looks to have been a suicide. There was even a note pinned to his chest. ‘Forgive,’ it said. It would have been natural enough for the old man to take his own life. He felt disgraced—you said it yourself, Houdini—and his wife’s death would have pushed him over the edge. My superiors are tempted to close the book on the whole thing. Chalk up Graff’s suicide as an admission of guilt in the Wintour killing.”
“You don’t believe that, Lieutenant,” Harry said with quiet certainty.
The lieutenant let out a heavy sigh. “No, I don’t.” He stood up, linking his hands behind his back as he walked to a grimy window. “I might have believed it, if you two hadn’t stirred up the waxworks. But now? The timing is wrong.”
“Timing is very important in my business,” Harry said.
“No one was due to check the cells until tomorrow morning. By then, there might have been time for Graff to have heard about his wife. Possibly. If her body had been discovered last night, one of his neighbors might have brought him word; shouted it up to him through the alley window. We would have had no way of knowing one way or the other. It probably would have been ruled a suicide.”
“I’m not sure I see the problem,” I said. “The killer must have been seen entering the building. Mr. Graff was dead when we got there, so he must have been killed sometime before midnight. The killer would have had to pass Sergeant O’Donnell in order to get down to the cells.”
Lieutenant Murray laced his fingers behind his neck. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“A few minutes before eleven, a pretty young girl comes running through the doors of the station house. She says her poor aged mother has turned her ankle just outside and please, Mr. Policeman, could you help us get home? Well, this young lady is such an attractive creature, and Sergeant O’Donnell is such a courtly gentleman, that he leaves his post and helps the girl with her elderly mother. Must have been gone for half an hour or so.”
“Leaving the desk unattended,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“He never thought to check the cells when he returned?”
“I gather it’s not the first time the sergeant has deserted his post. He had no reason to think anything was out of order.”
“In theory, then, Mr. Graff wouldn’t have been discovered for another six or seven hours.” I tilted back in my chair. “We only found Mrs. Graff’s body because we were supposed to be meeting this Harrington character. She might have been there for days before anyone found her.”
“She’d have been found last night,” Murray said. “We got a call, someone reporting a disturbance. The roundsman was on his way
to have a look when he spotted the two of you tearing out the front door, looking guilty as hell.” He turned away from the window. “If you hadn’t run straight to a police station, I’d have you under lock and key for killing the old lady.”
“Why that’s the most—!”
“Harry, we were seen fleeing from the store. It would have been a natural conclusion.”
Harry folded his arms and glowered.
I turned back to the lieutenant. “Is it possible that whoever killed Mrs. Graff was attempting to pin her murder on us?”
“Three bodies in two days,” Murray said, ignoring my question. “All connected to this little toy.”
“A very expensive toy,” Harry said.
“Three people. A lot of killing over one little toy.”
“As I have said,” Harry continued, “it may be only one of—”
“I know, I know. A valuable cache of magical treasures. I still don’t buy it. Whoever killed Wintour is covering his tracks. He didn’t want the Graffs to be able to identify him. Still—” he leaned across the table, his palms flat on the scarred surface. “You’re sure the wife never saw this guy?”
“Yes,” said Harry. “She said he only came to the shop late at night. What else did she say? Oh, yes. She said that he was ‘a queer bird.”’
Murray let out another sigh. “That’s wonderful. I’ll just comb the city until I find a queer bird.” He jerked his head suddenly toward the door. “All right, gentlemen, I’m through with you for the night. Stay out of my way and don’t bring me any more bodies.”
Harry opened his mouth to reply but I grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him out into the night.
We walked in silence to Mother’s apartment building. When we got there, I could see the outline of Bess standing in the window, waiting for Harry. He glanced up at the window. “Tomorrow we begin again to look for Mr. Harrington,” he said. “Call for me in the morning.”
I nodded. “What about the dime museum?”
“I’ll send a wire in the morning,” he answered. “I have a new job now.” He turned and walked into the building. I waited, looking up at the shadow in the window. After a moment, I saw Harry fold his arms around her. I turned and jammed my fists into my pockets, keeping my head down as I walked the six blocks to the boarding house.
The Dime Museum Murders Page 13
