The Dime Museum Murders (21 page)

"Perhaps
a few more. A dozen or so? I never took much notice before."

"How
many do you have with you in New York?" Harry asked.

"Just
the one. I wanted to see what sort of price it would fetch before I
had others sent over. The funny thing is, you see, that I never would
have realized how valuable they were if not for Michael Hendricks. He
has any number of the things scattered around that giant playroom of
his, and I shudder to think what ridiculous prices he payed for them.
But of course I couldn't very well stroll in and say, 'Would you like
to buy my automaton so I can clear my debts?' The whole thing had to
be very hush-hush."

I
looked on longingly as he lit another cigarette. "So you engaged
Mr. Harrington as your intermediary?"

Lord
Wycliffe's head snapped up in surprise. "How do you know about
him?''

"Just
tell us who he is and how you found him."

He
shook his head slowly. "That's the queer thing about it. He
found me. About three weeks ago, here at the club. I'd never seen him
before or since. I'd been losing quite heavily that night, and we got
to talking at
the
bar. He mentioned that every so often he was able to help a sportsman
such as myself out of his difficulties."

"Sportsman?"

"That
was his term. He was quite delicate about the enterprise. He asked me
if I had any bothersome old family jewelry or antiques that I might
like to convert into working capital. Again, that was exactly how he
phrased it. So I had
Le
Fantôme
crated
up and shipped over, and he agreed to see what he could do about
selling it off."

"Did
he mention that he would attempt to sell it to Branford Wintour?"

Lord
Wycliffe shook his head. "He only said that he would make the
necessary arrangements."

"For
a fee?"

"For
a twenty-five per cent commission of the sale."

"Twenty-five?
That seems rather steep."

"I
thought so, too. But one pays a premium to ensure discretion."

"I
suppose so. Where can we find Mr. Harrington?"

"But,
Dash," Harry said, "we're going to see—·"
I shot a withering look in his direction.

Lord
Wycliffe appeared not to notice. "You're not going to—you
can't just—" He shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
"I really would prefer to keep my name out of this matter."

"We
have no interest in your private affairs. For the moment, we only
want to speak with Mr. Harrington."

"You're
not in the employ of Michael Hendricks?"

"No."

"Then
what is your interest in this matter?"

Harry
straightened up in his chair. "To see that justice is—"

"That'll
do, Harry," I cut in. "Like yourself, Lord Wycliffe, we
would prefer to keep our interests private. Now, if you'll tell us
where we might find Mr. Harrington?"

He
sighed heavily. "There's a saloon on Mott Street. Wilson's. He
would send me a note and we'd meet there. That's all I can tell you."

"You're
certain?"

"I
only met the man three times. Once here at the Cairo, and twice at
Wilson's."

"And
what does he look like?"

Lord
Wycliffe took a moment before responding. Then a wry smile spread
across his features. "To tell you the truth," he said,
jerking his thumb in Harry's direction, "he looks a bit like
your friend there—nasty, brutish, and short."

"That
man killed Branford Wintour," Harry said, as we hurried toward
Delancy Street.

"How
do you figure?" I asked.

"It's
perfectly obvious. Lord Wycliffe was jealous of Miss Hendricks's
continued association with Mr. Win-tour. He saw the older man as an
obstacle to his future happiness."

"I
didn't get the impression that he was even aware of Miss Hendricks's
continued association with Mr Wintour."

"That
was the impression he wanted to give, so that we wouldn't suspect
him. He's a very clever man."

"He
doesn't strike me as all that clever, Harry. Besides, I suspect that
Branford Wintour would have been more useful to Lord Wycliffe alive
than dead. He needed the money from the sale of
Le
Fantôme."

"Perhaps,"
Harry allowed, "but I'm going to keep my eye on him."

"Harry,
how many times do I have to say it? After tonight, you and I are no
longer in the detective business. We'll tell Lieutenant Murray what
we learned and he can check Lord Wycliffe's story for himself."

"If
that's how you feel, why were you so insistent on getting a
description of Mr. Harrington? Why did you want to know how to
contact him? After all, we have an appointment with him in twenty
minutes at Mr. Graff's shop!"

"I
know that, Harry, but I'm not banking on Mr. Harrington to keep the
appointment. Lieutenant Murray may find the information helpful."

"Can
you really wash your hands of this affair so easily?" Harry
asked. "I saw you questioning Lord Wycliffe just now. I could
hardly have done better myself. You were quite—"

"Imaginative?"

"I
was going to say skillful. You played the scene quite brilliantly."

"That's
just it, Harry. I wasn't playing a scene. This isn't some costume
melodrama. It's all been just another performance for you, hasn't it?
Another role for the Great Houdini."

"I'm
not play acting," he said, as we rounded the corner onto Delancy
Street. "Our friend is in prison. Or have you forgotten?"

"I
could hardly forget, Harry. Not with all these helpful reminders you
keep delivering every three minutes."

"You
should need no reminding. Mr. Graff has been our friend and protector
for many years."

"I
know, Harry, but—"

"Like
family. That's how he has treated us."

"I
know, Harry, but—"

"You
and I might still be washing dishes or cutting ties if not for Mr.
Graff."

"I
know, Harry, but—"

"Anyway,
if I have been guilty of embracing my role as amateur sleuth a little
too vigorously, at least we may be able to ring down the final
curtain tonight. Let's see if Mr. Harrington appears."

The
door to Mr. Graff's shop was locked and the windows were shuttered.
Harry tugged on the door, then pressed his nose to the glass to peer
into the darkened front room. "There's no one in there," he
said. "I could pick the lock easily enough, but I don't want to
alarm Mrs. Graff."

Harry
pressed the bell and glanced up at the apartment above. "No
answer," he said. "Perhaps she has gone to stay with her
sister in Brooklyn. What time is it?"

I
looked at my Elgin. "Harrington should be here in fifteen
minutes, if he's coming."

"We
may as well get out of the street, then." Harry flipped open a
fat leather wallet and withdrew a sturdy two-pin curl-pick. I heard a
sharp snick as the lock gave way. "I must speak to Mr. Graff
about this. Bess could have picked this lock with her ivory comb."
He pushed the door open.

It
took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. We were accustomed
to seeing Mr. Graff's shop filled with children. In the dark, it took
on a strange and sinister aspect. Shadows played over the
marionettes; tin soldiers and straw dolls appeared to be leering at
us in the guttering light from the street. "I'll put on some
lights," Harry said, feeling his way toward the back room. "Then
I will tell you my plan."

"Your
plan?"

"Yes.
My plan to wring a confession from Mr. Harrington. ''

"Harry,
whoever this Mr. Harrington is, we don't know that he killed Branford
Wintour."

"He's
in it up to his neck," Harry said. "All we have to do is—"
He gave a strangled cry.

At
first I thought he had been attacked by some unseen assailant in the
back room. I ran forward and saw that it was something much worse.
"My God, Dash! My God! Who—who would do such a thing?"

Frieda
Graff lay on her back in a dark pool of blood. Her eyes were open and
fixed on some distant point, and her arms were flung over her head as
if to ward off a blow. An angry purple swelling covered the right
side of her face, just below the jaw hinge. A bone-handled carving
knife lay on the floor beside her.

I
sprang forward, stamping my foot on the wooden floor to drive off a
trio of rats. Kneeling beside her, I felt for signs of life.

"Dash,
is she—?"

"Yes."

"God,"
he said softly. "God, no."

I
reached up to close her eyes, as I had seen my father do.

"Dash,
that word. American slang?"

I
looked up and saw him pointing at the blank wall behind us. There was
a word scrawled in blood. "Yes, Harry," I said. "American
slang."

"What
does it mean?"

"It
refers to her religion, Harry."

I
watched his face. His mouth tightened into a hard line and his cheeks
darkened. Something clear and eager seemed to fade from his eyes and
I never saw it again.

"The
police," he said quietly. "Come, Dash, we must
call
the police. Perhaps they"—He stopped as if seized by the
throat. "Dash! Hurry!" He grabbed my arm and literally
hurled me toward the door.

''
Harry—what—?''

"Run!"
He was out the door before 1 could utter another syllable.

We
were still in our evening clothes, and my opera shoes weren't exactly
suited for high speed, but 1 managed to keep within a few paces of
Harry as he sprinted across Lispenard Street, hooked left onto
Broadway, and set off along Canal. By now my lungs were seared with
pain, but I kept going. I'd figured out where we were headed.

Harry
turned onto Mulberry Street and bounded up the steps to the precinct
house. Sergeant O'Donnell looked up in surprise as Harry threw open
the heavy doors.

"Mr.
Houdini---?"

"The
cellblock! Hurry!"

"But—!"

Harry
charged past him and crashed through the doors to the stairwell.
Gripping the bannister like a pommel horse, he vaulted over the
railing and onto the lower stairs, covering the two flights in a
single fluid motion. "Houdini!" O'Donnell called from the
top of the stairs. "You can't—!"

Lock-picks
spilled from Harry's leather wallet as he scrabbled for the proper
tool, all the while shouting Mr. Graff's name through the metal
grille of the access door. He had the lock tripped by the time I
reached him, and I helped to pull back the heavy door.

"Mr.
Graff!" he shouted, pushing past me into the cellblock. "Mr.
Graff! Are you—?" Then O'Donnell found the light.

The
old man hung at the end of a leather belt at the center of his cell,
swaying slightly, a piece of paper pinned to his chest. A stool lay
on its side below him.