“One of us had to remain alert. And see what has come of it? We are now ready to beard the lion in his den. Good Lord, Dash, stop preening! Every moment is crucial!”
I was now dressed and had been running a comb through my hair. “We’re going to knock on the door at three in the morning?”
“Not precisely,” Harry said. “Come along, I have a carriage waiting.”
We left the boarding house on tiptoe so as not to wake the other tenants, and as we reached the street I saw that Harry had hired an open, two-wheeled coal wagon, though the driver was nowhere to be seen.
“He seemed happy enough to let me use the rig,” Harry explained. “Like you, he places his stomach above the demands of work.”
We climbed onto the hardwood seat and I took the reins, as Harry was an uncommonly poor driver. I flicked the reins and the horse set off at an easy trot toward Twenty-third Street. It was a beautiful, crisp night, the entire city wrapped in a blanket of sleep. Only the rhythmic clatter of our hooves and wooden wheels broke the stillness. I looked over at Harry, who had pulled the collar of his shaggy astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. His eyes were gleaming. “The curtain is rising, Dash,” he said. “The answers are almost within our grasp!”
Within moments we drew up outside Cranston’s brownstone. “Now what?” I asked Harry.
“We go to the cellar delivery door,” Harry said, swinging a heavy cloth sack onto his shoulder. “If anyone should happen to look out the window, they will assume we are bringing a weight of coal.”
“At this hour?”
“Mr. Cranston keeps an eccentric schedule,” he assured me. “His tradesmen have had to accommodate him. It is the despair of the neighborhood.”
I shrugged and walked the horse and wagon down a narrow service alley at the side of the house, stopping in front of a pair of wooden delivery doors. “Just a moment,” Harry said, reaching for his lock-picks. “I’ll have these doors open faster than—Dash! How did you manage that?”
“They weren’t locked,” I said, indicating the open doors. “Nobody locks their doors in this neighborhood.”
“Oh,” Harry looked a bit disappointed as he tucked his lock-pick wallet back into his pocket. “Well, then. Let us proceed.”
“Wait, Harry.” I put out a hand to stop him. “We’re about to break into a man’s home. If we’re caught, we’ll be arrested. Somehow I don’t think Mr. Jake Stein will vouch for us at police headquarters. I need to know what we’re doing here.”
“It should be apparent,” Harry answered in a low voice. “Mr. Stein told us that we would need either money or muscle to get what we wanted from Joshua Cranston. We have no money; therefore, we shall use muscle—as only the Brothers Houdini can.”
“And how might that be, may I ask? By creeping around in black clothes?” I peered into the darkened coal cellar. “Suppose Cranston keeps a gun?”
“Then we must rely on the element of surprise,” Harry said. He pushed past me and climbed down a half-flight of stone steps leading into the house.
I had little choice but to follow as Harry walked toward the center of the coal cellar. He fished around in the cloth sack he was carrying and pulled out his bull’s-eye lantern. Lighting the flame, he adjusted the focusing lens into a narrow beam. “Come along,” he whispered. “These stairs will lead us up through the kitchen. The master bedroom is on the second floor at the back.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Mrs. Roth’s nursemaid told me. She had it from Cranston’s valet. Stay behind me.”
We crept up the stairs to the kitchen and passed through to a richly decorated parlor. Harry swept the beam of his lantern toward a winding staircase at the front of the house. “Just a moment, Dash,” he said, reaching into the cloth sack. “Better put this on.” He handed me a strip of black fabric.
It was one of those little domino masks such as Robin Hood or some operatic villain might have worn. “Harry,” I whispered, “you’re being preposterous! This is the sort of mask you might wear in stage melodrama!”
“We must safeguard our identity,” Harry insisted. “Put it on.”
“Raffles.”
“What?”
“Reffles,” I repeated. “You want to wear this mask because Reffles, the gentleman burglar, wears one.” My voice had risen dangerously, but I found I was having trouble controlling it.
“Ridiculous,” Harry whispered, petulantly.
“That’s how you see yourself, isn’t it? The Great Harry Houdini, amateur cracksman, slipping away from the ambassador’s reception to relieve the duchess of her diamond tiara. Poor old Inspector Murray, the doddering chief of the Sureté, has never managed to apprehend our dashing rogue, who always leaves a pair of silver handcuffs as his calling card. Oh, how many times have the hapless officials of—”
“Stop it, Dash!” my brother snapped. “It’s not like that at all. I just thought we would need a proper costume if we are to frighten Mr. Cranston. He will naturally assume that we are dangerous burglars and tell us what we wish to know.”
“Harry, no real burglar ever wore one of these things.”
He fingered the delicate little mask wistfully. “Let us put them on anyway,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” I said, shoving mine into my pocket. “But why stop there? Think how frightened Cranston will be if he sees you twirling the ends of a wax moustache.”
Harry gave the mask another mournful look. “You have no imagination, Dash,” he said, slipping it back into the cloth sack.
Flinging the sack over his shoulder, Harry began a cautious ascent of the main staircase, clinging to the bannister and trying to lighten his tread on the potentially creaky floor boards. I followed suit, though it seemed to me that we had already made enough noise to rouse the dead.
At the top of the stairs we could hear the steady, two-note drone of a sleeping man snoring lustily. Harry flipped the shade on the bull’s-eye lantern, masking the beam. Creeping to the door of the master bedroom, Harry nudged it open with his foot.
Cranston lay on his back at the center of a sprawling four-poster bed. He wore silk pajamas and a cotton night cap, and his hands were clasped contentedly over the modest bulge of his stomach.
“He doesn’t look much like a killer, does he?” Harry whispered.
“He doesn’t look as if he’d harm a fly,” I answered. “Or Muggins the poodle, for that matter.”
Harry passed me the lantern. “There’s only one way to find out. When I give the signal, shine the beam in his eyes. I’m going to give him the fright of his life.” He crept to the sleeping man’s side and raised his arms in the manner of an animal about to pounce. “Now, Dash!”
I snapped the lantern’s shade open and beamed the light onto Cranston’s face. At the same time, Harry filled his lungs with air and let out the fearsome growl he had perfected as Yar, the primitive strong man of the dime museum circuit. “Joshua Cranston!” he shouted. “Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!”
Cranston didn’t stir. The snoring continued without interruption. Harry furrowed his brow. “He appears to be an uncommonly sound sleeper,” Harry said at a more normal volume. He seized the sleeping man by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Cranston began to mumble and swipe at his eyes, as if to bat away the beam of the lantern. “Joshua Cranston!” Harry shouted at an even louder pitch. “Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!”
The sleeping man muttered something that concerned a woman named Dolores, then rolled over and resumed snoring.
I swept the lantern beam to a low table beside the bed. “Harry,” I said.
“Wait just a minute, Dash.” He gripped the edge of the mattress and gave it a mighty heave upward. Cranston rolled off the opposite edge and onto the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. “Joshua Cranston!” he thundered. “Your day of judgement has arrived! Turn and face your accusers!”
Cranston flailed abo
ut groggily for a moment, found his pillow, and went back to sleep. “Harry,” I said, “it’s going to take more than judgement day to wake this man up.” I held out a blue-glass vial.
“What is it?” Harry asked, pulling the cork stopper. “It smells vile!”
“Grunson’s Nerve Tonic,” I said. “An eficacious and healthful remedy for the treatment of persistent neuralgia and wakefulness.”
Harry shoved the stopper back into the vial as if squashing a bug. “So. He is drugged.”
“Heavily.”
“How long before we can wake him?”
“No way of knowing.”
“An hour?”
“At least.”
Harry nudged the sleeping man with his foot. “Dash, I have a rather interesting idea.”
Two hours later, Joshua Cranston began to stir.
As he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware that much had changed while he was under the influence of his sleeping draught. For one thing, he was no longer in his bedroom. For another, his legs were securely tied. Also, he was dangling head-down from a crane atop the Bayard Building, twelve stories high, looking straight down onto Bleecker Street.
When his screams subsided, he became aware of my brother Harry, dangling head-down beside him at the end of a sturdy rope.
“Good morning, Mr. Cranston,” Harry said. “Tell me, whatever became of Muggins the poodle?”
11
THE UPSIDE-DOWN MAN
MR. CRANSTON CONTINUED SCREAMING FOR SOME TIME. HIS VOICE seemed to ebb and flow in the strong winds whipping around the top of the building, and there was a certain fascination in listening to the sound fall away, like a stone disappearing into a well. Tall buildings were not so common then as now, and from our lofty vantage atop the Bayard Building, which had only just been completed that year, we seemed to be looking down on a sleeping village at the foot of some majestic mountain. It made for quite a peaceful scene—apart from the very noisy distress of our companion—with everything shaded a faint lavender in the cool wash of dawn.
Harry, hanging upside-down beside Cranston, waited patiently for him to cease his vocalizations. “I assure you, Mr. Cranston, no one can hear you,” Harry said, although we both doubted that this was true. “Do you see how far down the street is? No one is about at this hour.” He folded his arms, swaying slightly in the morning breeze.
We had selected the Bayard Building to take advantage of a gear-action construction crane mounted on the ornate cornice, which, during daylight hours, was being used to haul a set of granite angels into position. It had been a considerable chore dragging Cranston’s sleeping body across town and up to the top of the building, but the expression on our victim’s face more than justified the effort.
“Now then, Mr. Cranston,” said Harry blandly, as though opening a board meeting of some kind, “I think we have some business to discuss.”
The little man screwed up his eyes and rubbed them, as if to make this terrible apparition disappear. When he opened them again, my brother winked and gave a cheery wave.
“What—what” —Cranston struggled for breath— “what is—why do—what is the meaning of this?” His face glowed red with the blood pooling in his cheeks. He stared at my brother with wild eyes. “I—I have money! Lots of money!”
“Would you be referring to this money?” Harry asked, waving two fat packets of notes.
“Impossible! How did—?”
“One should not place too much confidence in a Bering wall safe, Mr. Cranston. Even if it does have the new dual-chamber pin-plate.”
“Keep the money! Just get me down from here! I beg of you!”
“We wouldn’t think of keeping your money, Mr. Cranston,” Harry said. “However, we may not exactly give it back, either.” He peeled off a few bills from one of the bundles and scattered them to the morning wind.
Cranston gave a shriek as the notes swirled and danced about his head. “God! No!” His hands darted out to snatch at the money, but the sudden movement set him swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently the motion did not agree with him. He made a harsh choking noise and clutched at his throat. The contents of his stomach spiralled twelve stories to the street below.
Harry took out his handkerchief, fluffed it open in the breeze, and held it out to Cranston, who reached for it with a tight, fragile movement, as though clinging to the railing on an icy set of steps. “What do you want from me?” he gasped, dabbing nervously at his lips. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Tell us about Evan Harrington,” Harry said.
“Harrington?” A sudden flash of cunning appeared in Cranston’s eyes. “I—I do not know who that is.”
Harry reached across and gave him a small push on the shoulder that set him swinging back and forth again. “Tell us about Evan Harrington,” Harry repeated.
“No!” Cranston cried. “I don’t know who you’re talking about! I don’t know any Evan Harrington! Please stop it!”
Harry reached out and gave another push. “Evan Harrington,” he said.
“I can’t stand this!” Cranston shrieked, coughing wetly.
“Evan Harrington.”
“I don’t—”
“Looks a bit like me...” Harry said, giving Cranston another shove.
“Please—!”
“Tried to broker the sale of a valuable automaton...” Another shove.
“I don’t—”
“Framed Josef Graff for murder...”
“No—no—”
“Responsible for three deaths in the past three days...” Harry reached out and clutched Cranston by the shoulder, abruptly halting the swinging motion. “I think you can tell me a great deal about Evan Harrington, Mr. Cranston. Begin now, please.”
“I don’t know a thing about any Evan Harrington! I don’t know anything about any murders! you must have me mistaken for—”
“Look up towards your feet,” Harry said. “Do you see that handsome fellow straddling the crane? What do you suppose he’s doing? Why, it appears as if he’s setting fire to the ropes that are anchoring us to the crane!”
“No!” Cranston shouted. “You’ll die! You’ll die with me!”
“Yes, that is a bother,” Harry admitted. “Look! The rope is burning quite merrily, having been soaked in kerosene. I would estimate, Mr. Cranston, that you and I have less than one minute before the fire eats through the rope. Then we will fall to the pavement below. It will be a horrible fate—but then, there have been so many deaths lately.”
“I haven’t killed anyone!”
“All the more regrettable, then.”
“For God’s sake! I haven’t killed anyone!”
Harry grabbed Cranston’s nightshirt and pulled his face close to his. “Name the killer,” he said.
“I’m not responsible! A man approached me. He—I’ll tell you everything, just put out that fire and haul me up!”
“Tell me now,” Harry said calmly.
“You’re insane!”
Harry merely smiled. “Who approached you?”
“I—I never met the man. He made contact through an intermediary. Most of them do. But I put him in touch with a man who could do the job. All confidential—safeguarded to ensure mutual discretion. I swear, I don’t know who hired me!”
“And you passed the assignment on to someone?”
“I’m not a killer! I’m just the man in the middle!”
“The name, please.”
“Fred Gittles. My best man.”
“Goes by the name of Harrington, does he?”
“Sometimes. Or Richard Feverel. He goes by lots of names. Please—”
“Where do I find Fred Gittles?”
“Thirty-ninth and Broadway. Number three-six-two. For God’s sake—”
And then the rope snapped.
I watched Cranston as he fell. His face crumpled and his arms flailed and a sharp little scream died on his lips as though he’d been kicked in the throat. He and my br
other seemed to hang in the empty space for a moment, like fish jumping in a summer stream, and then they began to sink in a twisting, corkscrew motion toward the street below.
They must have fallen ten, perhaps twelve feet before I heard the taut zing of the safety wire. They took a hard bounce and bobbed up and down for a few moments before coming to a lazy, gentle swing at the end of the wire.
“Are you all right?” I shouted, cupping my hands to make myself heard over the rising wind.
Harry, still upside-down, gave a cheery salute. “Cranston is unconscious,” he called. “I think that went rather well, don’t you?”
We had a far easier time getting Cranston off the building. I had brought along a bottle of nerve tonic, and we administered a generous dose before stuffing him back into Harry’s sack. We carried him down to the street and loaded him onto the back of the coal cart, then headed back toward his brownstone.
We debated briefly whether or not to turn him over to Lieutenant Murray, but in the end we decided that such a course might create unwanted problems with Jake Stein. Cranston had told us what we wanted to know; we were happy enough to put him back where we found him.
Dawn had broken by the time we dragged the sack through the delivery entrance and carried Cranston up to his own bed. We put what remained of his money back in the wall safe and removed all remaining traces of our visit. I stood back and watched as Harry settled the cotton sleeping cap back onto Cranston’s head. “Perhaps when he awakes he will think it was all a narcotic dream,” Harry said.
“Until he sees those rope burns on his ankles,” I replied. “Come on, Harry, let’s go.”
Moments later, as we drove away in the coal cart, Harry looked back at the brownstone and gave a sigh of satisfaction. “The burning rope was a brilliant suggestion, Dash,” he said. “I thought the poor man was having an apoplectic fit.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t,” I replied. “You were quite impressive up there, Harry.”
“I was, was I not?” he agreed. “A shame that no one witnessed the display but ourselves. I wonder...” His eyes drifted upward at the passing skyline.
We drove on in silence for quite some time. Whenever I looked over at Harry, he appeared to be lost in thought. After ten minutes or so, I cleared my throat.
The Dime Museum Murders Page 18
