The Dime Museum Murders (9 page)

"He
didn't refuse, Harry. He merely said—"

"—that
it would be necessary to confirm my 'interesting speculations' before
the suspect could be released. Yes, Dash. I heard him. What twaddle!
Such is the man whom you would have me treat with greater respect."

I
hauled out my Elgin pocket watch and popped open

the
cover. "It's late, Harry. They won't let us in at this hour.
We'll have to wait until morning."

"Well,
perhaps not quite that long," Harry said. "First we will
call on Mrs. Graff. The poor woman is undoubtedly distraught."

"That's
a good idea," I said. "Perhaps you could run the shop for
her until Mr. Graff is released."

"Run
the shop? Don't be foolish! I intend to see her husband vindicated!
The Great Houdini will not rest until Josef Graff is released from
his bonds!"

"I
think we'd better leave the crime-solving to the police," I
said. "We might be more useful keeping his business open."

Harry
sighed. "You have no imagination, Dash."

It
was a familiar refrain, as my brother had long despaired over my lack
of imagination. Not three days earlier, my lack of imagination had
been very much on his mind when I tried to talk him out of an
especially harebrained bridge leap. I should explain that Harry had
been leaping from bridges since the age of thirteen—usually
wearing a pair of handcuffs, or tied in sturdy ropes, or wrapped in a
long length of heavy chain. As a magician, his stage manner was
indifferent at best. As an escape artist, he was unparalleled. He
would stand atop the guardrail of a high bridge, trammelled up in
some impressive restraint, and whip his audience into a state of
frenzied anticipation as he described his "death leap" into
the frigid waters below. When the leap finally came—usually
after a tender word of farewell to Bess— the crowd would
literally gasp with horror. I don't know how many times I stood by
watching as tearful young ladies gripped the railing and scanned the
smooth surface of the water below, where seconds earlier Harry had
splashed to his "watery destiny." What they did not

know,
these impressionable young admirers, was that Harry had usually
sprung the cuffs or slipped the ropes before he ever hit the water.
His showman's instincts told him not to make it look too easy, so he
would remain under water while the minutes ticked away, silently,
treading water below the surface. His lung capacity and endurance
were phenomenal, having been honed by long practice sessions in the
family bath tub. At his peak, he could remain underwater for five
minutes, so that when at last he broke the surface, waving the
handcuffs or ropes above his head, the roar from the crowd would be
deafening. It seemed to them that they had seen a man cheat death.
Actually, they had seen a man who could hold his breath for an
uncommonly long time.

Harry
was never content to let this stunt alone. He was forever adding more
chains and leaping from higher vantages in an attempt to add drama to
the escape. Then one day he announced his intention to jump off the
new Brooklyn Bridge—wrapped in fifty pounds of iron shackles.
It seemed to me, I told him, that he could accomplish much the same
effect with a leap from the top of our apartment house. At a certain
point, I tried to explain, it really didn't matter whether he was
leaping into water or onto solid ground. Harry wouldn't listen to my
arguments about the unprecedented height of the bridge, or the added
danger of the extra restraints. When it became apparent that I
couldn't talk him out of it, I appealed to a higher authority—I
mentioned Harry's plan to our mother. She took him aside for a quiet
word, and the subject of the Brooklyn Bridge leap was never mentioned
again.

Harry
continued to list my failings as we rode the Sixth Avenue elevated
down to Broadway. He kept talking as we got off and walked five
blocks south. He finally ran out of steam when we reached Graff's Toy
Emporium.

Graff's
was a narrow shop front in a row of dull-red brick buildings, with a
wood-framed display window crammed with rag dolls, hobbyhorses,
pinwheels, and every other sort of gimcrack and gewgaw. As boys,
Harry and I would sweep the floors and wash the windows just for the
pleasure of spending time there. Even then, my brother had little
patience for tin soldiers, cloth bears, or any of the other more
conventional playthings. At the end of an afternoon's work—when
the floors and door handles were gleaming—Harry always made
straight for the wobbly green case where Mr. Graff kept the
Delmarvelo Magic Sets.

The
Delmarvelo "Young Conjurer Deluxe" set came in a sturdy
pine box with a hinged top. On the lid, a brightly painted label
showed a boy-magician enthralling his friends and family. The boy
wore a black cape and top hat over his Little Lord Fauntleroy
playsuit, and the table in front of him featured a bowl of fire, a
houlette of cards, and a winsome bunny who seemed to be winking
broadly. The boy's audience was divided equally among well-scrubbed
children, whose faces glowed with admiration, and dignified adults in
evening dress, who looked on with gentle approval. My eye always came
to rest on a particular girl in the front row, whose blond curls were
gathered up in a red bow. She had her hands clasped together and
pressed against, her cheek, with her head tilted just so, gazing at
the boy-magician with frank adoration.

Sometimes,
if we had done our work especially well, Mr. Graff would let us take
the display set into the back room for an hour or so. Harry would
click the metal latch and lift the lid with a quiet note of awe, as
if
uncovering
a holy relic. Inside, the tricks were carefully arranged on a bed of
straw. I need hardly say that there were no fire bowls or winking
bunnies in the Delmarvelo set, but there were several good-quality
tricks made of lacquered wood, richly colored in burgundy and black
with Chinese detailing. There was a set of rice bowls that neither
one of us ever quite mastered, an excellent set of cups and balls, a
vanishing wand with break-away tips, a rising card effect, and a
double-double coin tray. My favorite was the tiny wooden ball vase,
with its delicate fluted stem and bright red polished ball. The
effect was simple: the ball was placed into the cup of a small wooden
holder and a close-fitting cap was lowered over it. When the cover
was lifted—behold!—the ball had vanished. I've done a
great many wonderful tricks since then, and Harry and I once caused
an elephant to vanish from the stage of the New York Hippodrome, but
I can't recall any effect that gave me quite the same feeling of
accomplishment.

"Dash,"
Harry said as we paused outside the shop. "Have you been
listening to anything I've said?"

"Sorry,"
I answered, returning to the present. "Was it important?"

"Never
mind. I don't know why I trouble myself." I peered through the
window into the darkened shop. "Harry, are we really doing any
good here? I don't want to raise Mrs. Graff's hopes for nothing."

"It
will not be for nothing," he said sharply. "You may be
assured of that."

Harry
rang a bell that sounded in the apartment upstairs. We saw a
fluttering of the curtains at the second floor window. A moment later
the glow of an oil lamp was visible in the shop. I caught a glimpse
of Mrs. Graff as she made her way to the door. She was a broad,
sturdy
woman
with a lot of spare flesh that always seemed to vibrate in accordance
with her moods. Her face, normally red and smiling, now appeared
pinched and drawn, and her shoulders appeared to sag under the strain
of her misfortunes. Nevertheless, she brightened at the sight of the
pair of us waiting in the entryway. "Ehrich! Theodore! It is so
good of you to come and see me!" She gathered us both in a
rib-snapping embrace.

"It
is good to see you, Mrs. Graff," Harry gasped as the last
particles of air were squeezed from his lungs.

"We're
sorry to call so late in the evening," I managed to add.

"My
boys! My boys!" She released us and stepped back, beaming over
us both. "Let me look at you! See how big you're getting!
Theodore, so tall! Ehrich, so broad!"

"I
have embarked on a rigorous course of personal conditioning,"
Harry said proudly. "I am developing my musculature in a
systematic and scientific manner."

"How
nice," Mrs. Graff said, as if admiring a child's finger
painting. "And you, Theodore? Are you still in newspaper
school?"

"Journalism,"
I said. "No, I've been travelling with Harry and Bess for the
past few months, getting involved with the act. I may—"

"You
should continue your studies, Theodore. Josef always says—Josef—"
her face clouded as she recalled her husband's predicament.

Harry
took her hand and gently led her to a chair. "Mrs. Graff,"
I said, "we don't wish to upset you, but can you tell us a
little bit about what happened? When the police came?''

Her
eyes welled with tears. "I do not know what I
can
tell you, Theodore. We were eating our supper when the police came to
the door. Such a racket! They dragged Josef away in a wagon. I was
down at the police station for two hours, but I could learn nothing.
Nothing that made sense, at any rate. They say he killed a man! My
Josef, a murderer! He won't even lay traps for the rats, this is how
big a murderer he is!"

"Did
you know Branford Wintour?" Harry asked.

"Our
best customer," Mrs. Graff said. "Although he doesn't come
to the shop anymore. Josef goes to see him whenever something special
comes along. Mr, Wintour has always been a perfect—no! Is that
who Josef is supposed to have killed? Ridiculous!"

"Have
you seen Mr. Wintour lately?" I asked. "No. But his
man—what is his name?—Phillips, I believe. Phillips has
been here three times in the past week." She gripped a corner of
her shawl and twisted it around her fingers. "Mr. Wintour, dead?
This is terrible news. How did he die?"

"I'm
not entirely certain," Harry said. "Did your husband have a
special deal brewing with Mr. Wintour? Was he handling something very
unusual?"

She
nodded. "He was quite secretive about it, Ehrich, but I know
there was a very special item involved and that he expected to earn a
large commission. He said he was going to buy me a winter coat."

"Do
you have any idea what the item might have been?" "No."

"Did
you ever see the man who was selling it?" "A queer bird. He
would only come to the shop at night. I never saw him." "Never?"

"No.
Josef always asked me to wait upstairs when he came."

"I
see. Tell me, Mrs. Graff, have you ever heard of
Le
FantômeT?

"No."
She looked at Harry's face and then at mine. "Ehrich, why are
you asking me these questions? What is
Le
Fantôme?"

Harry
glanced at me, uncertain.

"We
don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily, Mrs. Graff," I said.

"You
don't wish to alarm me? My husband is in jail! How could I be more
alarmed?''

"Very
well," Harry said. "Your husband sold Mr. Wintour a very
rare automaton called
Le
Fantôme.
The
police believe that this automaton shot Mr. Wintour with a poisoned
dart."

Mrs.
Graff narrowed her eyes at us. "Ehrich, you are joking with me.
Theodore, this is not a time for your jokes."

Harry
said nothing. I looked at my shoes.

Mrs.
Graff's hands went to her cheeks. "Can they be serious? This is
why the police have arrested Josef? A poison dart?"

"So
it would seem," Harry said. "Your husband is a suspect
because he sold the device to Mr. Wintour."

"A
poison dart?" she repeated. "A gun, I could understand. A
knife, maybe. A poison dart? It does not seem possible!"

Harry
began pacing in front of a case of wooden whirly-gigs. "I have
demonstrated to the police that the automaton could not have fired
the dart, but they have not seen fit to release your husband.
Apparently I failed to convince them."