The Dime Museum Murders (20 page)

"The
coat."

His
shoulders sagged. "Oh, all right." He began to peel off his
jacket. "I don't know how you spotted it."

The
hold-out was a masterly construction of wood and leather webbing,
with straps and buckles at the elbow and wrist. A flexible
trident-style clip ran along the inner
forearm
and a circle of leather was cinched tightly around the chest. When
the cards were held normally, with the elbow bent, the trident clip
remained flush with the cuff of the jacket. Whenever the player gave
a long deep breath—sighing over an opponent's misfortune, for
instance—the clip extended six inches forward, delivering one
or two fresh playing cards into the player's cupped palm. At the same
time, any inconveniently low cards could be whisked away. A card
worker like my brother, who could cause an entire pack to appear and
disappear at his fingertips, could perform simple switches of that
sort with his bare hands. For anyone who didn't happen to be a "King
of Kards," however, a wooden hold-out was the next best thing.

"That's
a beauty," I told Lord Wycliffe. "Who did it? Anderson's?"

"A
firm in London," he answered, dejectedly.

"How
much do you owe, your lordship?"

"You
mean here? Or in toto?"

"Just
here."

"Quite
a lot. Upwards of three hundred dollars."

Harry's
eyes widened, but he continued with his regimen, which had now
broadened to include some very energetic leg-stretching.

"Your
winnings tonight would have just about cancelled that out."

"Nearly.
What will happen to me now?"

"That
depends on you. The management doesn't have to know about this
unfortunate development."

His
eyes brightened. "You're not with the Cairo? But I thought—"

I
shook my head.

"I—I
can pay you," he said quickly. "Let me cash
in
the winnings and I'll do right by you. You have my word."

I
shook my head again. "We're going to ask you some questions. You
will answer them truthfully."

He
drew back, and his eyes seemed to grow hooded. "Questions? What
do you mean?"

"I
understand that you are engaged to Miss Katherine Hendricks," I
said.

"What's
that to do with anything?" he snapped.

"Her
father is very wealthy."

"I
am aware of that," he said stiffly.

"How
do you suppose he would react if he knew that his future son-in-law
was gambling away Miss Hen-dricks's dowry in a flop house?"

"Are
you threatening me? Is this to be blackmail?"

"We'll
discuss that in a moment. As I said, we wish to ask you a few
questions."

"And
if I refuse?"

"We'll
pay a call on Mr. Hendricks."

"Damn
it!" he cried. "Damn it all to hell!"

"Your
lordship," said Harry, without pausing in his exertions, "I
will thank you to watch your language."

Lord
Wycliffe's eyes moved from Harry to me and back again. "Common
thugs, that's what you are," he said. "Look at you. With
your hair tonic and your bad shoes. I don't know what sort of dodge
you're trying to put over on me, but I'm putting a stop to it right
now. Pay a call on Michael Hendricks? The pair of you? You'd never
get past the door."

I
stepped up close and held his gaze for a moment. "Mr. Hendricks
was right," I said. "You
are
a
pompous ass."

He
backed up half a step. "You've never met Michael Hendricks in
your life," he said.

"When
was it that your name was raised?" I asked myself. "When he
showed me his new locomotive, the Minotaur? Or was it when Becking
appeared with the humidor? Funny, I really can't recall. Of course,
we'd both had quite a bit of Walker's by that stage."

Lord
Wycliffe pressed his lips together. "You're a detective of some
sort, is that it? The old man hired you to check up on me."

I
would have preferred to let the assertion go unanswered, but Harry
couldn't help himself. "Yes, Lord Wycliffe," he said
proudly. "We are amateur sleuths."

"Be
that as it may," I said quickly, "would you be so good as
to tell us when you last saw Branford Wintour?"

"Wintour!
Is that what this is about?"

"When
did you last see him?''

"Why,
I've never met the man! Wintour was something of a hermit, I
understand. Rarely came out of that whacking great pile of his."

"You're
aware of the past relationship between Mr. Wintour and Miss
Hendricks?''

His
eyes flared for an instant. "Water over the dam," he said
coldly.

"Has
your fiancee had any contact with Mr. Wintour since their engagement
was broken?"

"None
whatever."

Harry
opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a warning finger.

"Can
you account for your whereabouts last night?" I continued.

"My
whereabouts? See here, I'm not obliged to answer any more of these
questions." He took out a heavy gold watch and made an elaborate
show of consulting the time. "I have half a mind to—"

"Harry."

My
brother straightened up and took a step towards his lordship. That
was all it took. The young man skittered backward three steps and
raised his arms as if fending off a blow. "All right!" he
cried.

"Where
were you last night?" I repeated.

He
gave a resigned shrug. "I was here, actually. And I lost rather
a lot, in case you might like to know."

"Can
you produce witnesses to that effect?"

"I
should prefer not to," he said. "I was—you see, I
wasn't gambling the entire time, if you take my meaning."

"But
I take it you weren't alone, either?"

"No."

"For
the entire evening?"

"That
is correct."

"And
where were you before you arrived here?" "I was having tea
with Miss Hendricks and her mother."

"I
see." I took a moment to study his face and found myself wanting
to mash it like a turnip.

Lord
Wycliffe brushed his lapels and tugged at his cuffs. "If there's
nothing else, gentlemen?"

I
decided to play my ace. "So tell me, Lord Wycliffe, however did
you acquire
Le
Fantôme?'

I
have to give the man credit. He barely flinched. He blinked twice,
but that was about it. His upper lip remained as stiff as one could
wish.

"I
think perhaps we should repair to a quieter room," he said as a
wine steward appeared on the wooden steps. "If you'll follow
me?"

"Dash,"
Harry whispered, as we followed him up the steps. "How did you
know? This is extraordinary!"

"His
watch, Harry. It's from Blois." "Robert-Houdin's home town.
I see. But that did not necessarily mean that Lord Wycliffe was the
owner of
Le
Fantôme."'

"No,
but I figured it was worth a shot."

"Is
he the killer? Should we apprehend him?"

"His
story seems pretty solid, Harry. But let's see what we can get out of
him."

"Extraordinary."
Harry shook his head as we weaved through the crowded gaming parlor.
"I saw, but I did not observe."

"What?"

"Nothing.
It is nothing."

Lord
Wycliffe led us up the main staircase to the second floor of the
house. We passed down a central corridor and hooked left into a
narrow sitting area. He seemed to know his way around, I noticed. He
knocked on a closed door and, receiving no answer, turned the handle.
"This way, gentlemen," he said. "We'll have a bit of
privacy."

It
was a small room, papered in wide stripes of a violet hue. A bed with
a tall wooden headboard was the central feature of the room, with two
chairs and a small dressing table arranged alongside. A beaded floor
lamp provided the only illumination.

Harry
and I each took a chair, leaving Lord Wycliffe to perch awkwardly on
the edge of the bed. He folded his hands across one knee and spent a
moment with his eyes closed, chin sunk onto his chest, before
speaking again.

"I
did not kill Branford Wintour," he said at last.

"And
yet," I said, "you've been at great pains to conceal the
fact that you are the man trying to sell
Le

Fantôme,
the
device that the police believe to be the murder weapon."

"The
automaton didn't kill Wintour! The very idea is absurd!"

"Patently
absurd!" Harry blurted out. "Why, the very notion is—"

"What
we believe is not at issue," I said.

"I
wasn't even there last night!" Lord Wycliffe insisted.

"No,
but when you saw the newspapers this morning, you should have come
forward."

His
shoulders sagged. He pulled a gold case from his breast pocket and
offered us a Turkish cigarette. They looked very inviting, but up to
that point I had managed to conceal my smoking habits from my
brother, so I waved them away.

"Can
you blame me for keeping silent?" he asked, lighting a cigarette
for himself. "I'm in an impossible situation. It was necessary
to keep the transaction silent from the beginning. I couldn't let
Michael Hendricks know about my—my financial difficulties. And
I promised Katherine I wouldn't gamble anymore. I simply— well,
I thought it best if I could just sell off a few trinkets, settle my
debts, and start fresh. Now, with Win-tour's death, I'm in a hell of
a position. Before I was merely a scoundrel. Now I'm thrown into a
murder. It's impossible." He gave a heavy sigh, sending a rich
and inviting cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction.

"I'm
afraid we don't understand your impossible situation," I said.
"How did you come to be in possession
of
Le Fantôme?"

"My
family, of course," he said airily. "You know the sort of
thing. My mother was French, and we had a good deal in the way of
French watches, mantel clocks—that sort of thing. Terribly good
workmanship. I rather took it all for granted when I was growing up."

"All
from Blois?"

"I
think so, yes."

I
could see Harry struggling to hide his excitement. "And
automatons? Were there a great many automatons in the house when you
were growing up?"

"One
or two. Perhaps more. Terribly clever things. Father would sometimes
wind them up and make them go for the guests. Marvelous things."

Harry's
face fell. "Only one or two?"