The Dime Museum Murders (23 page)

Mrs.
Wintour turned to us. "The police have already been here this
morning," she said. "The matter is entirely too
distressing. I thought everything was settled. But now—but
now—'' Her voice was rising steadily to an even more
challenging timbre.

"Mrs.
Wintour," Harry said, "we have no wish to upset you
further. We merely wish to examine the
scene."

"I
take it that the little shopkeeper was a friend of
yours?"

"He
was," Harry said.

"You
have my sympathies. However, I really don't
see
why you should hope to learn anything by examining my husband's
study. The police have been very thorough."

I
broke in, sensing that Harry was about to share his views on the
police investigation. "My brother is a professional
escapologist," I ventured. "Problems of this sort fascinate
him."

"A
what?" The lorgnette returned to Mrs. Wintour's eyes.

"An
escape artist. He makes his living by escaping from things—handcuffs,
ropes, straitjackets, packing crates—"

"Does
he, indeed?"

"Yes.
He enjoyed a remarkable success on tour last season."

"I
will soon be the eclipsing sensation of America," Harry averred.
"Nothing on earth can hold Houdini a prisoner. I—"

"So
naturally," I interrupted, "in his distress over the tragic
circumstances of your husband's demise, it occurred to Harry that he
may be able to shed some light on how an unwanted visitor might have
gained admittance."

Mrs.
Wintour wrapped a brocade shawl around her shoulders and spent
several moments studying the young man who liked to be tied up. Then,
languidly waving the lorgnette at Dr. Blanton, she said, "Percy,
show them to the study." The doctor began to frame a protest,
but Mrs. Wintour held up her hand. "I see no harm," she
said, curtly.

With
a shrug, the doctor motioned for us to follow him.

"And
Mr. Houdini—!" the widow called after us.

"Yes?"

"Do
remember to thank your mother for the soup!"

Dr.
Blanton conducted us back down the corridor in the manner of a man
putting the cat out.

"Doctor?"
Harry called after him. "I wonder if you know our brother? Dr.
Leopold Weiss?''

"I
think not," he said, without turning.

"He
is a doctor like yourself."

"Is
he. How interesting."

"Another
question, if I may?"

Dr.
Blanton pulled up and glanced at his watch with showy impatience.

"I
did not like to say in front of the lady," Harry said, "but
I am convinced that Josef Graff had nothing to do with the murder of
Mr. Wintour."

"So
I gathered, Mr. Houdini. But I am afraid I do not share this view."

"As
you like. I wondered, though, if you might supply a list of the names
of anyone who might wish to see harm come to Mr. Wintour?"

Something
on the order of a smile crossed the doctor's face—possibly for
the first time since the Jackson administration. "A list of
Bran's enemies, you mean? You want me to draw up a list of Branford
Wintour's enemies?"

"If
it would not be too much trouble."

The
doctor steepled his fingers. "Mr. Houdini, you could knock down
every white pine from here to California and you still couldn't mill
enough paper to draw up such a list. Branford Wintour used to boast
that he made a business enemy along with every dollar he earned."

"But
surely not all of them would have wished to see him dead?"

"Not
a businessman, are you, Mr. Houdini?" The doctor turned and
continued down the hall. "I will tell you this, though. Bran was
working on something unusual these past few months. Something of
enormous importance. Wouldn't tell me a thing about it. 'Going to
write my name in the history books,' he said. Very mysterious. No
doubt he was stepping on some toes with that one."

We
reached the entrance to the study. Dr. Blanton pulled out a ring of
keys and unlocked the doors.

"You
have your own key?" Harry asked.

The
doctor paused, holding the key in the lock. "These are Bran's
keys. I'm seeing to a few of his affairs until the estate is
settled." He passed over the heavy ring. "Leave them with
Phillips on your way out. Good day to you, gentlemen." He turned
and made his way back down the corridor.

Harry
pulled me inside the study and locked the door behind us. Putting a
finger to his lips, he pulled me to the center of the room. "That
man," he said in a low voice, "is the murderer. He killed
Branford Wintour and the Graffs besides. I have him now!"

"Got
any proof, Harry?"

"Is
it not obvious?" he asked in a hushed, but urgent tone of voice.
"As a doctor he could easily have obtained the poison used to
kill Mr. Wintour! He had the motive and the opportunity!"

"Motive?"

"Did
you see him leering at Mrs. Wintour? A vulture, that's what he is.
Can't wait to move in and claim the dead man's territory. Strutting
around with Mr. Win-tour's keys in his pocket. He's a wrong one, I
tell you."

"Harry,
if you go to Lieutenant Murray with this ridiculous blather he'll
have your head stuffed and mounted like that moose over there."

"I'll
get proof. Don't worry about that. Now—" he resumed at
normal volume, "—let us see what we can discover about
this lock." He walked back to the door and crouched to examine
the lockplate. "Dash," he said, pulling a high-powered
magnifying lens from his pocket. "Bring me a taper from the
fireplace, will you?"

"Can
I also get you a deerstalker hat and some shag tobacco?''

"I
have a good reason for employing the magnifying glass, Dash. I'm
checking for scratches on the bolt mechanism."

I
lit a wax taper at the fireplace and carried it over to the door.
Harry held it close to the lockplate and peered into the internal
mechanism of the keyhole. "Difficult to see anything," he
said. He pulled out his lock-pick wallet and selected a tool that did
double duty as a screwdriver. With practiced ease he loosened the
four corner screws on the brass covering plate and lifted it off,
exposing the inner workings of the lock. I peered over his shoulder.
It was a heavy gunmetal lever-tumbler lock. Harry fished out the key
ring that Dr. Blanton had given us and fitted the heavy bow key over
the cam. The twelve-tooth bit on the end of the key fitted smoothly
against the tumblers. Harry cranked the key three times. The bolt
moved smoothly back and forth each time.

"This
is most interesting," he said.

"I
don't see anything unusual."

"Exactly.
The lock is in perfect working order. No wear or scratches outside of
normal key operation. If this lock had been picked, we would see
scratches in the soft

brass
here on the fittings and lockplates. They are perfectly clean."

"Meaning
it hasn't been picked."

"It
has not."

"What
about that locksmith, Mr. Featherstone? He must have picked the lock
the other night."

"No,
Mr. Featherstone used his master skeleton. He's the one who installed
the lock in the first place." He refastened the lockplate.

"Where
does that leave us?"

"It
means we are looking for some other means of entering the room."
He walked to the fireplace and stuck his head up the massive chimney.
"Too narrow," he said. He walked to the edge of the
elaborate Oriental rug and dropped to his knees. "Help me with
this, will you?"

"Praying
for inspiration?"

"I
want to roll this carpet back and see if there's a trap door
beneath."

I
joined him on the floor and we took up some twelve feet of rug. "Just
as a point of interest, Harry," I said, waving away a cloud of
dust, "why would anyone have a trap door in his study, apart
from making life easier for a potential murderer?"

"Mr.
Wintour had this house built himself," Harry said, "to his
own specifications. He strikes me as a man who might have wished to
slip out of the house occasionally, without his wife's knowledge."

I
had to agree that this was not entirely out of the question. Harry
and I crawled over the oak flooring on our hands and knees, pulling
and prying wherever there seemed to be a loose joint or an
ill-fitting board. When this yielded no results, we began moving
pieces of furniture and some of the statuary for spots we had missed.

Harry
crawled beneath the oblong platform that held the model train set,
while I wriggled under the marble-inlay desk where Wintour had died.
We finished by tapping at the marble tiles surrounding the fireplace.

"No
trap door," I said at length.

"It
would seem not."

"What's
next?"

"The
walls, of course. If there's no trap door, surely there must be a
sliding panel!" He began rapping at the back of the fireplace.
"Check behind the tapestry," he called over his shoulder.
"There has to be a reason why that entire wall is covered."

I
walked to the corner of the room and carefully burrowed behind the
hanging tapestry. It felt heavy and stifling, and I moved carefully
for fear of pulling the entire thing down on top of me. I spent
perhaps fifteen minutes making a slow progress from one end to the
other, checking the bare wall for any suspicious-looking cracks or
seams. It appeared to be entirely solid.

When
I finally emerged, I found Harry sprawled on one of the arm chairs.
"Give up?" I asked.

He
was staring at the tall bookshelves which I had so admired on our
first visit to the Wintour mansion. They gave the dead man's study a
leathery opulence that I associated with the ruling families of
Europe. Every time I looked at them, I imagined myself reclining in
one of the stuffed chairs in my dressing gown, a snifter of fine
cognac in one hand, perusing one of my custom-bound
first
editions.

"Dash?
Are you paying attention?"

I
looked away from the books. "Sure."

"You
notice the doors on the bookcases?"

"Of
course." Each case was fitted with a latch-frame

door.
Instead of glass panels in the frames, there was an open lattice-work
of hammered brass.

"It
strikes me that the doors may have been designed to conceal an entry
way of some sort," Harry explained, "but I have examined
each one and can find nothing. The cases themselves are firmly
anchored to the floor and ceiling, and there is no sign of a sliding
mechanism of any description." He looked over at me. "Dash?
You seem most distracted."

"I'm
just admiring the books, Harry. I suppose I'm wondering how long it
would take to read them all."

Harry
lifted his head, as if seeing the books for the first time, rather
than the shelves. "I have read some of them," he said,
gesturing at one of the cases.
"Treasure
Island,
by
Robert Louis Stevenson. A fine book." He peered intently.
"The
Master of Ballantrae,
also
by Mr. Stevenson. I have not read that one. Perhaps I shall."