The Dime Museum Murders (10 page)

"Harry,"
I said, "they only wanted to confirm it for themselves. I told
you this before."

"No,
no," he said. "The police will only find some other means
of laying this crime on Mr. Graff's doorstep. We must find the true
killer and bring him to justice!"

"Find
the true killer? Harry, you're a dime museum magician! What do you
know about tracking down killers?" I had been hoping to inject a
note of moderation into the proceedings, but Harry had already moved
on to his next rhetorical high note.

"The
police have not reckoned with the talents of the Great Houdini!"
he cried, thrusting his index finger under my nose. "'I will
comb this city and roust the evildoers wherever they may lurk! I
shall be the scourge of the underworld! Those who—"

"Harry,"
I said quietly. "Why don't we let someone else become the
scourge of the underworld? It'll be enough if we can convince the
police of Mr. Graff's innocence."

Mrs.
Graff gave a nod of assent. "I just want Josef
home
again."

"As
you wish," Harry said. He took Mrs. Graff's hand and pressed it
to his lips. "I shail not fail you, dear lady." He flung
his astrakhan cloak around his shoulders. "Come along, Dash! We
have a rendezvous with
justice!"

Mrs.
Graff looked at me and gave a bewildered shrug. "You'd better
hurry along, then," she said.

We
left the shop and Harry said nothing more until we had worked our way
along Delancy Street to the thirteenth precinct station house. As we
climbed the marble steps I noticed Harry fumbling in his back pocket.
"Just a moment, Dash," he said. "Oh, that's all right,
then."
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

A
gray-haired sergeant sat behind the dispatcher's desk. "Can I
help you gentle—why, Mr. Houdini! Is that you?"

"Good
evening, Sergeant O'Donnell," said Harry. "May I introduce
the brother of the Great Houdini?"

"Call
me Dash," I said. '"The brother of the Great Houdini'
sounds so formal."

"Nice
to meet you," O'Donnell said. "So, Houdini, are you here to
go another round in the lockup?''

"If
you wouldn't mind, Sergeant. Practice makes perfect."

O'Donnell
saw the expression on my face and laughed. "You mean he didn't
tell you? Your brother has been coming down here for the past three
weeks to get himself locked up in our hoosegow."

"Late
at night," Harry explained, "so as not to attract
attention."

"I
thought you wanted attention," I said. "Why have I been
breaking my back to get you locked up at Sing-Sing if you didn't want
attention?"

"Practice,
Dash. The holding cells here were built on the same pattern as those
at Sing-Sing."

A
uniformed officer wandered past and gave Harry a companionable nod.
"So you're a regular down here, is that it?" I asked. "Is
that why those officers at the Win-tour mansion seemed to recognize
you?"

"I
suppose so," Harry said, "although I dare say some of them
recognized me from the stage at Huber's." "Oh,
undoubtedly," I said. "It's a wonder they didn't ask for
autographs."

O'Donnell
had pulled out a heavy binder and was flipping through the pages.
"You're in luck," he said. "We've only got two guests
in there at the moment, and
I
don't suppose either one will give us any trouble. One's a drunk, and
the other's supposed to be a murderer, but he don't look like any
murderer I ever saw."

"A
murderer?" Harry asked with feigned alarm. "Are you sure
it's safe?"

"That
old bird won't bother you any. Hasn't said a word since they brought
him down from interrogation. Just sits real quiet like. Caught him
crying when I made my rounds."

"Well,
I suppose it will be all right then," Harry said. "You
don't mind if my brother comes along? He's going to time me with his
fancy watch."

"Why
should I mind?" asked O'Donnell, pulling a heavy ring of keys
from a desk drawer. "Follow me,
gentlemen."

He
led us down a set of dank steel-beam steps to a metal-studded door
with a heavy iron crossbar. He lifted the bar and fitted a large key
into a reinforced panel-lock, turning it three times clockwise. The
door rolled open on rusty casters, and O'Donnell held it as we passed
through, sliding it shut behind us once we were
inside.

The
lockup was comprised of only four cells, two on each side, with a
wide corridor running down the center. Four bare lightbulbs dangling
from ceiling cords provided the only illumination. It took only a
glance to see why the warden at Sing-Sing felt so confident about his
escape-proof cells. I'd seen my brother pick his way through some of
the toughest, most heavily warded padlocks ever designed, but the
locks on these cells were beyond his reach—literally. The
prison architects had rigged up a sort of extended hasp, so that the
lock wasn't actually seated into the cell door at all. Instead, it
was bolted onto the wall a good six feet away, securing a
metal
cross-beam tight against the cell door. From inside the cell, the
prisoner would have no way of reaching the lock. Harry's skill and
practice were useless here—he simply would not be able to get
his hands on the lock.

"Harry—"
I began.

He
winked. "A pretty problem, is it not?"

As
my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the dim outline of a
man in each of the two cages to our right. Both men appeared to be
sleeping. I recognized the one closest to us as Josef Graff, whose
plump woodcock shape made him easy to spot even in the dark.

Sergeant
O'Donnell ignored both prisoners. "You have your choice of two
empty cells this evening, Hou-dini," he said as our footfalls
echoed loudly against the rock floor. "Which will it be? Your
favorite there at the end?"

"No,
this one, I think," Harry replied, indicating the closer of the
two on our left. "I think the bolt and hasp are rusty on the
other." Harry had fallen a step behind the sergeant as they
moved toward the cell. As Mr. Graff began to stir from his bunk,
roused by the noise of our arrival, Harry turned and raised a finger
to his lips, warning the old man to stay silent. Mr. Graff registered
surprise at the sight of us, but lowered his head and pretended to be
asleep.

"You
know," said O'Donnell, working on the lock across the corridor,
"this bolt feels a little stiff, too."

"Does
it?" Harry asked. "Oh well, I imagine that the hardware at
Sing-Sing is rusty as well. I will prevail, in any case."

The
lock finally gave and O'Donnell pulled the door open with a creak.
Harry stepped past him into the open cell. "You know, Houdini,"
the sergeant said, "if you ever do try this at Sing-Sing,
they'll insist on a full body
search—just
like we give the real prisoners."

From
across the corridor, Mr. Graff let out a soft groan at the memory.

"I
am aware of this, Sergeant, and I am fully prepared to comply. Would
you care to—?" He spread his arms wide.

"I
think we'll let it pass," O'Donnell said quickly. He swung the
door shut and slid the long cross-beam into place. "I'd better
get back to the desk," he said, turning to me. "Just bang
on the bars when he wants me to let him out." "When
he—what?"

"When
he wants me to let him out. He usually gives up after three hours."

I
turned to my brother, who was busy rolling up his sleeves. "Harry?
You mean to say you haven't figured out a way to escape from this
cell yet?"

"It
is proving to be more difficult than I thought," he allowed.

"More
difficult than you thought. Suppose I had set up the Sing-Sing stunt
three weeks ago, like you wanted?''

"The
Great Houdini would have risen to the challenge, as he has done so
often in the past."

"My,
but he's sure of himself, isn't he?" said O'Donnell. "
'Course, he usually doesn't sound quite so cocksure by two or three
in the morning. Enjoy yourself, Houdini." He turned and let
himself out through the main door.

We
stood quietly and listened to the sergeant's footsteps fade.
"Ehrich?" came a whisper from the other side of the
corridor. "Is that really you? Theodore?"

"Of
course, Mr. Graff." Harry came to the front of his cell and
dangled his arms through the bars.

"You
have come to release me?"

"Release
you?" I snorted. "Apparently he can't even—"

"It
would be imprudent to release you just now, Mr. Graff," Harry
said. "That would seem to confirm the accusation that you
murdered Branford Wintour. I trust that you did not murder Branford
Wintour?"

"Of
course not!" The old man swung his feet off the bunk and walked
to the door of his cell. He was wearing a wrinkled windowpane check
suit with a gold watch fob dangling from his waistcoat. In happier
circumstances he might have passed for a diminutive Kris Krin-gle
with his round head, florid cheeks, and snowy hair and beard. Now,
even in the shadowy light of the cell block, the stresses of the day
were plain to see. His collar had popped open, his tie was askew, and
his face was streaked with tears. "Of course I didn't kill Mr.
Win-tour! He was my best customer, and a fine man besides!"

"I
thought not," said Harry. "Might I ask you to tell me
everything you know of this unhappy business?"

"What's
to tell? There was a knock on the door, next thing I'm in jail.
Dragged off in chains, in front of Frieda. In front of the neighbors.
Everyone."

"I'm
sure that was most unpleasant," Harry said. "Perhaps we
should examine the events leading up to your arrest? What can you
tell us of
Le
Fantôme?"

"Wretched
little creature! I wish I had never laid eyes on it!"

"How
did it come to be in your possession?" An expression of wounded
pride crossed Mr. Graff's face. "I am the leading purveyor of
magical apparatus and curiosities in all of New York," he said
with a certain prim dignity. "It is impossible that such an item
should
appear on the market without coming to my attention."

"Yes,
yes, of course," said my brother quickly. "But exactly
how
did
it come to your attention?"

"A
most curious thing,'' he began.'"I was sitting in—'' A
drink-sodden voice from the opposite cell broke in. "My dear
sirs," the speaker began, as if dictating a letter, "I have
the honor of requesting a reduction in the level of conversation in
and about the vicinity of my present location. Thanking you, I
remain, yours et cetera..." the voice resolved into contented
snoring.

"That
is my fellow inmate," Mr. Graff explained. "An amusing
fellow. As I was,, saying, I was going over the books in my shop late
last night when a gentleman began banging at the door. I told him to
return in the morning, but he was very insistent. He claimed to be an
importer of antiques, and wished to know if I would be interested in
seeing a few items from the collection of Robert-Houdin. Naturally,
I—"

"Did
he give you his name?" Harry asked. "Harrington."

"What
did he look like, this Mr. Harrington?" "He looked quite a
bit like you, Ehrich. Very powerful build, dark curly hair. He could
easily have done double work for you."

"Make
a note, Dash," Harry said. "Muscular, dark hair, medium
height—"