The Dime Museum Murders (2 page)

It
just about killed Harry. It was too late to hook up with another
travelling show that season, and the small cash reserves we'd managed
to build up on the road were draining rapidly. I finally got him a
job at Huber's Fourteenth Street Museum. The dime museum. The
ten-in-one.

You're
too young to remember the ten-in-one. Some people called it the freak
show, but it wasn't a freak show—not really. Human curiosities,
they called them. Marvels of the natural world. Peerless prodigies of
physical phenomena. You paid a dime, you got to see ten different
acts. They say Barnum himself got it going. Gather 'round, all—the
show is about to begin.

Just
about every circus in America had a show like that on its midway. You
paid a little extra, they lifted
up
the flap and let you in. It was supposed to make you feel sort of
daring. The whole point was to turn the tip as quickly as possible.
Sorry? The tip. That's the crowd. "Turning the tip" meant
getting the crowd gathered, taking their money, and herding them
through the tent as quick as you could. The acts were lined up on a
platform, one after the other, and the talker would hustle the
audience from one to the next as though pushing them with a broom.

Harry
worked dozens of these places. In fact, they used to call him "Dime
Museum Harry," and even after he'd made it big, he was always
afraid that he might have to go back. It was no kind of life for
Bess, I'll say that. She used to sell toothpaste to the other
performers on the road, just to keep us fed.

Dime
museums in New York were a whole lot different from dime museums on
the road. For one thing, there were enough people in New York to keep
the show running year round. On the road, stopping in the burgs and
backwaters, pretty much everyone within twenty miles who had a dime
would have seen the show after three days. In New York, with its
constant supply of fresh marks, the shows tended to set up in
storefronts and theater lobbies, rather than in tents or circus
wagons. It made for more pleasant working conditions, and there was
always a chance that a real live booker might catch your act. Or so
we hoped.

There
was only one spot open at Huber's Museum, so Harry and Bess did the
act while I beat the bushes. I called on agents and managers with
Harry's beloved press book, and talked a good line about his fabulous
drawing power in central Illinois. I guess we'd been back in New York
for about three weeks by then, and I had worked my way pretty much to
the bottom of the
pecking
order. I seem to recall showing the book to a guy behind the screens
of a Punch and Judy show. He didn't even bother to take the puppets
off his hands, he just had me turn the pages for him. Even he
couldn't use us.

It
must have been around six in the evening when I caught the elevated
train to Huber's. It was raining, and I can remember cradling the
press book under my coat to protect the leather. I wasn't especially
looking forward to seeing Harry. He'd just about reached the end of
his tether, and I had no good news for him.

I
left the train at Fourteenth Street and walked east toward Union
Square. When I got to Huber's I found Albert Sandor leaning against
the wall outside with a cigar clamped between his teeth, cleaning his
nails with a toothpick. Albert was the outside talker at Huber's, the
guy who kept up a fast-running patter to attract a crowd and move
them through the "Hall of Curiosities." It was a rare thing
to see Albert with his mouth shut, and I guessed that the talent was
taking a doniker break.

Albert
looked me up and down and gave a two-tone whistle. "Hot date?"
he asked.

I
was wearing a double-breasted wool suit that a tailor in Kansas City
had assured me was the latest European fashion. A banker's gray with
a windowpane check if you looked real close, wide lapels, and a
nipped-in waist. I also had a cream-colored shirt with a fresh collar
and cuffs, and a wide pukka silk tie which, if I'd unbuttoned my
jacket, would have displayed a portrait of the late General Gordon.
The haberdasher made me a deal. For good measure, I also had on a
good pair of brown leather oxfords that still held their shine,
though they no longer kept out water.

"Who's
the lucky girl?" Albert asked.

"There's
no girl," I said. "I wear my best suit when I go calling on
bookers. It doesn't show the wear at the knees." I jerked my
head toward the platform. "How's the draw?"

"Running
at about three-quarter capacity," he said. "Not bad for a
Tuesday."

"A
tribute to the drawing power of the Great Hou-dinis, wouldn't you
say? Might be time for Mr. Beck-man to move them up to the main
stage." Mr. Beckman was the guy who managed Huber's at that
time. He also happened to do the booking for a big variety palace
called Thornton's across the street, a fact that was not lost on my
brother.

Albert
grinned and knocked the ash from his cigar. "Dancing girls,
Dash. That's what brings the crowds, and that's what Mr. Beckman
wants. 'Charming young ladies in revealing fashions.' That's what it
says out front. The crowd at Thornton's wouldn't know what to make of
an escapodontist."

"Escapologist."

"Whatever.
Your brother is better off on the platform."

"We'll
see," I said. "What sort of a mood is the justly celebrated
self-liberator in this evening?"

Albert
grinned and continued grooming his fingernails. "He was in a
lovely humor when he came off after the three o'clock. Came up to me
and demanded I deliver hot water and fresh towels to his dressing
room after each performance."

"He
has a dressing room?"

"Seems
he's marked out some territory at the back. Near the boiler."

"Imagine
that."

"So
now he wants fresh towels, seeing as how he has a fancy dressing
room."

"I'm
sorry, Albert, he can be—"

He
waved his toothpick. "Not a problem. I told him to take it up
with the wardrobe mistress."

"Since
when do we have a wardrobe mistress?"

"We
don't"

I
shifted the clipping book under my arm. "I'll talk to him."

"Do
that."

"Any
chance of giving him the extra time he wants? He wants to try out a
new bit. Two audience members come up and tie his hands, then Harry—"

"I
know, Dash. He told me all about it. He gets three minutes, just like
everybody else."

"It
could be a great act. He gets out of the ropes, and also a bag and a
trunk. But the kicker is that—"

"—when
it's all over, Bess is inside the trunk. I know, Dash. They've
switched places. In the twinkling of an eye. But he still only gets
three minutes. Just like everybody else."

I
turned and gazed across the street at the marquee of Thornton's
Theater, which was emblazoned with the name of Miss Annie Cummings,
the Songbird from Savannah. "You know," I said, "my
brother really is as good as he says he is."

"Sure,
Dash. And one day it'll be his name up there in tall letters. And
shortly after that, I'll be elected president of the United States."

"What
a gruff and crusty fellow you are, Albert."

"I'm
a realist, Dash. I know your brother is talented, but it's not
enough. His timing stinks. His delivery stinks. His patter stinks.
His—"

"All
of those things will get better. I'm telling you,
he's
a natural showman. He has a real instinct for drama. I've seen people
literally holding their breath waiting to see if he'll find a way to
escape from an old nailed-up packing crate. All he needs is a chance
to show what he can do. Now, if Mr. Beckman should give him one of
the warm-up spots at Thornton's, just a few minutes at the top of the
show, I know Harry could—"

"Dash.
It's a dance hall. Burleycue."

"Harry's
worked burlesque halls before."

"Really?
I wouldn't have thought he had the legs for it." Albert looked
at his watch and tossed away the stump of his cigar. "Do me a
favor, wouldja? Run the bally for me? Chester's down with the
grippe."

The
bally, I should probably explain, is an act performed outside the
tent or the theater to lure the marks inside. A crowd gathers to see
the act—whatever it is—and the talker launches into an
elaborate spiel, describing the many miracles and marvels to be found
just beyond the ticket window. If the talker is any good—and
Albert was one of the best—the marks will just about knock him
over in their haste to get inside. Sometimes the bally would be a
sword-swallower; sometimes a fire-eater. The absent Chester was an
accomplished blockhead—meaning that he could drive three-inch
spikes into his nose with a hammer.

Happily,
Albert didn't expect anything quite that exotic from me. There was a
set of heavy wooden Indian clubs sitting by the entrance. I picked
them up and started juggling—an easy overhand pass
routine—while Albert delivered his grind. I don't remember
exactly how the patter went, but I do recall that it began with the
words "Step right up, folks," and that it promised "a
world of wonders such as mortal eyes have never beheld."

Between
Albert's grind and my juggling, it wasn't long before we'd gathered a
crowd of perhaps fourteen or fifteen people, about as many as could
be expected on a chilly Tuesday evening. Albert collected a handful
of coins, issued paper tickets, and ushered our small audience
through the door.

The
so-called Palace of Wonders had been established on the ruins of a
failed butcher's shop, and the smell of salty meats still hung about
the room. Mr. Beckman had used red and gold hanging banners to cover
the walls and display windows, but otherwise the space was much as it
had been—a long, dingy room with high windows along the
left-hand wall. No one had even bothered to sweep the sawdust from
the floor.

A
narrow platform ran along the left wall beneath the windows, creating
a performance ramp that Albert described as his "Arcade of
Miracles." It was perhaps two feet high and no more than four
feet deep, and the performers stood there in plain view waiting for
the show to start. They all snapped to attention as the crowd
filtered in, and bustled around the platform trying to make
themselves look interesting.

Albert's
job was to herd the crowd from one edge of the platform to the other,
allowing them the requisite 180 seconds to enjoy each of the acts. He
did this with uncommon skill. "Hurry along, folks!" he
would cry, with a slight edge of alarm to his voice. "You won't
want to miss our next Oddity of Nature!"

The
Oddities of Nature, it must be said, were looking a little haggard,
since this was their tenth show of the day. Nevertheless, they
managed to rouse themselves as Albert urged the crowd forward. It
started with Miss Missy, the Armless Wonder, who sat drinking tea
from a China cup daintily clutched between her toes, and
moved
on to the Human Skye Terrier, whose shaggy dog head benefited greatly
from artfully placed chin and chop pieces. Next came the Tattooed
Lady and the Moss-Haired Girl, followed by the Sword-Swallower and
the Double-Bodied Wonder, who had a pair of tiny legs—meant to
be the remnants of a Siamese twin— poking out of his
mid-section. The Living Skeleton, the Human Telescope, and Vranko the
Glass-Eater rounded out the entertainments.

As
each act finished in turn, the performers were given thirty seconds
to hawk a souvenir item for a nickel or a dime, which gave them the
chance to augment the meager salary they drew from Mr. Beckman. For
the most part, these items took the form of a booklet or a keepsake
scroll that related the performer's brave and heart-rending struggle
against the cruel hand of nature. Miss Missy's story, I recall, was
especially touching. It was a miniature volume entitled "My
Blessed Life," with her portrait on the front in all her armless
glory. It began with the words, "I am never too busy to lend a
helping foot."