The Dime Museum Murders (17 page)

I
had walked only half a block when I heard footsteps rushing up behind
me. A woman's voice called my name. I turned to see Katherine
Hendricks hurrying toward me.

"Mr.
Hardeen!" she called. "I was afraid I'd missed you!"
She was flushed and out of breath as she reached my side. "Father
said that you would be staying for tea! I expected I would have had a
chance to see you again!"

I
removed my hat, wondering why such a charming and lovely young lady
should have been so anxious for my company. "I fear that your
father and I lost all track of time, Miss Hendricks," I said.
"We were entirely absorbed in the workings of his brain."

She
dabbed at her face with a square of linen. "I really must speak
with you," she said. "May I walk with you for a bit?"

"Certainly."
I extended my elbow and she rested her gloved hand on my forearm.

She
appeared to be straggling to compose her thoughts, and waited until
we were out of sight of the house before speaking again. "Well,
Mr. Hardeen," she said with a delicate cough, "the trees
are very colorful at this time of year."

"Indeed,"
I answered.

"In
the spring there is such a lovely fragrance from those bushes. What
do you suppose they are? Lilacs? I'm not very clever at that sort of
thing."

"Magnolias,
I believe."

"Magnolias!
How marvellous!"

"Miss
Hendricks? Did you really pursue me into the street to inquire about
the fall foliage?"

She
bit her lower lip. "Of course not. You must think me very
stupid, but I'm not quite certain how to begin. It is not often that
I meet someone who—someone with—forgive me, Mr. Hardeen."

I
glanced down at her exquisite profile and felt my cheeks grow hot.
Could it be? Did I dare hope? During our brief walk home from the
church, had I somehow managed to capture her attention? Had she been
charmed by my ragged demeanor? Captivated by my knowledge of model
train sets? It did not seem likely, and yet here she was, clinging to
my arm and straggling to express some inner torment.

"May
I speak candidly, Mr. Hardeen?" she said at
last.

"Please
do," I said.

"I
feel that I must—indeed, I
know
that
I must—"

"Yes?"

"I
must speak to your brother."

I
stopped walking. "My brother?"

"It
is quite urgent."

"May
I ask why?"

"My
father told me of your brother's wonderful exploit at Mr. Wintour's
home last night. I understand that his demonstration of the little
doll—the automaton— was quite masterly. It seems to me
that he may be just the man to help me with a certain difficulty I am
facing. He seems so terribly clever."

"Perhaps
you might wish to take the matter up with my brother directly,"
I said, glancing at my pocket watch. "If you hurry, you may just
be able to see him vanish a bowl of goldfish at Huber's Museum."

Miss
Hendricks had not missed the coldness of my tone. "I did not
mean to suggest that you are not just as clever," she said
quickly. "The two of you work together, do you not?"

"We
did. My brother's wife performs his act with him now."

"I
did not mean that. I meant that you were both present last night—in
the room where Mr. Wintour was discovered."

"We
were."

"You
saw Mr. Wintour? His body, I mean?"

"Yes."

"Is
it likely that you will be returning to Mr. Win-tour's home at any
time in the future?"

It
seemed a very odd question. "I only meant," Miss Hendricks
continued, sensing my hesitation, "that perhaps the police might
have more questions for you and your brother? About the room in which
Mr. Wintour died?"

"I
really couldn't say, Miss Hendricks. I suppose it's possible, but I
see no reason to presume so."

"Still,
it is possible that you might find yourself in

Mr.
Wintour's study at some point in the future, is it not?"

"May
I ask why this matter is of such interest to you?"

"Yes,
I suppose I really ought to stop talking in circles." She paused
and untied the chin strap of her bonnet, allowing her long auburn
hair to flow about her shoulders. "If I seem unduly circumspect,
Mr. Hardeen, it is because I fear I may be making too much of
nothing."

"Go
on."

"You
are aware that Mr. Wintour and I were once engaged to be married?"

"Indeed."

"Although
our engagement ended badly, I never thought ill of him. I am an
ambitious woman, Mr. Hardeen, and Mr. Wintour was one of the few men
I've met who did not laugh at my ambitions." She paused, as if
daring me to belittle the notion of an ambitious woman. When I did
not, she continued. "It was no longer possible that Mr. Wintour
and I should ever meet, but we corresponded occasionally."

"I
see."

"I
assure you that these letters were not indiscreet in any way."

"Then
why does the matter trouble you so?"

By
way of reply, she stepped to the curb and raised her rolled parasol
into the air. A private carriage clattered towards us from down the
street. "I asked the coachman to follow behind," she
explained. "I thought it might afford a bit of privacy."

The
carriage pulled up beside us and I helped her inside. As I pulled the
door closed she rapped on the
roof
with her parasol. The driver flicked the reins and we set off down
Fifth Avenue.

"As
to these letters," she continued, resuming the conversation
where it had left off, "I am being courted by a gentleman from
England just now."

"Lord
Randall Wycliffe," I said.

She
looked at me in surprise. "You seem to know a great deal about
me, Mr. Hardeen. Did my father mention Randall to you?"

I
shook my head. "My brother isn't the only clever one in the
family," I said.

"I
see. And do you know Lord Wycliffe?"

"No."

"He
comes from a stuffy old family with a big castle somewhere. A
mansion, I suppose, not a castle. In any case it's very old and it
seems that his ancestors all fought in the War of the Roses or some
such thing, and his family cares a great deal about appearances and
propriety. When Randall began calling on me, my previous engagement
to Mr. Wintour was considered a black mark against me. By his family,
I should say. They would have preferred that I had spent my life to
this point in a boarding school. Of course, Randall isn't like that
at all. He doesn't care a hoot about my past. 'What's done is done,'
he says."

"Very
wise," I remarked.

"Oh,
yes. He has very modern views."

"I'm
not sure I see your difficulty, then."

"His
family has grave reservations about my suitability, Mr. Hardeen. And
I'm afraid that when I became aware of these objections, I behaved
foolishly. I wrote to Mr. Wintour to seek his advice. Several times."

"And
Lord Wycliffe objected?"

"He
does not know."

"But
surely if he is everything you say—"

"I
said some rather indiscreet things in these letters, Mr. Hardeen."

"Oh?"

"Very
indiscreet."

"Ah."

"Yes.
So you see, Mr. Hardeen, when I heard that Mr. Wintour was
dead—murdered, of all things—it placed me in a very
uncomfortable position." She began worrying at the fingers of
one of her gloves. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette,
would you?"

"A
cigarette?"

"Don't
look so shocked, Mr. Hardeen. You men seem to think that just
because—"

"Miss
Hendricks," I said, interrupting what promised to be a lengthy
peroration, "a woman of my acquaintance not only smokes cigars
but also dines on the stubs for the amusement of paying customers.
The prospect of a young lady with a cigarette holds no terror for
me." I took out my little tin of Shearson's and rolled a
cigarette for each of us. She accepted a light and leaned back
against the leather seat of the carriage, inhaling with evident
satisfaction.

"To
return to the matter of the letters—'' she began.

"You
are afraid that these letters will be discovered among Mr. Wintour's
effects."

"Just
so."

"And
if they were to be discovered?"

"My
engagement to Lord Wycliffe would surely be called off."

"That
would be regrettable, of course," I said. "But I'm not
entirely certain how I can be of assistance in the matter."

"I
want you to recover the letters for me, Mr. Hardeen."

I
glanced at my reflection in the glass window at the side of the
carriage. I did not appear to be a lunatic, but she had apparently
mistaken me for one. "Well," I began slowly, "that
might present something of a problem. How do you propose I might go
about it without rousing the suspicions of the police?"

"I'm
sure you and your brother could slip into Mr. Wintour's study
somehow. There must be a way. Whoever killed Mr. Wintour found a way.
Your brother proved as much last night."

"Yes,
but we don't know how it was done."

She
laid her hand on mine. "I'm sure you could manage it, Mr.
Hardeen. I have such confidence in you."

I
looked deep into her extraordinary blue-gray eyes and I saw only
connivance. I knew that she was attempting to take advantage of me. I
knew that she regarded me as a social inferior, and perhaps a witless
dupe. I knew all of this and more, and yet I could not bring myself
to turn away. She thought me capable of great cunning and bravery,
and I did not wish to disabuse her of the notion. "How is it
that the police did not find these letters the other night, Miss
Hendricks?" I asked cautiously.

She
pulled her hand away. "Mr. Wintour always kept my letters in a
special place. Pressed in the pages of a volume of poetry I once gave
to him. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The sonnets. Do you know them,
Mr. Hardeen?"

"No,"
I said, "but I'm well up on limericks involving commercial
travelers."

She
favored me with a winning smile. "I'm not sure if Mrs.
Browning's talents ran in that direction, but I

invite
you to judge for yourself. Mr. Wintour kept the volume on the lower
shelf of the case nearest the fire. The binding is stamped in gold."

"Surely
it is safe enough there? Mr. Wintour had thousands of books in his
study. I find it unlikely that your letters will be discovered any
time soon, if ever."

"I
could not stand the uncertainty, Mr. Hardeen. I must know that the
letters have been recovered and destroyed. It is the only way of
putting my ... my indiscretions behind me."

"Miss
Hendricks, I really don't know that I can—"