The Dime Museum Murders (24 page)

I
squinted at the shelves. "Can you really read those titles from
here?"

"Of
course! Can't you? Our friend at the ten-in-one is not the only one
with telescope eyes." He pointed to a row of books near the
ceiling. "There is a complete set of Shakespeare. The green
volume on the shelf below is Thackeray's
Henry
Esmond.
Next
to it is
Ivanhoe,
by
Sir Walter Scott."

"Hold
it," I said. "Harry, I know perfectly well how the 'human
telescope' act is done. You memorized those titles while I was
flailing away under the wall hanging. Now you're trying to impress me
by calling them off as if you're reading them with your telescope
eyes. I'm not some boardwalk mark, Harry."

He
folded his arms, grinning widely. "You do not believe me?"

"No,
Harry. No one has eyes that sharp. Not even you."

"Try
me."

I
walked to the case and pointed to a leather spine. "What's
this?"

"Tristram
Shandy,"
he
answered.

"Lucky
guess. This?"

"The
Vicar of Wakefield."

"This
one?"

"The
Peregrine Pickle.
Perhaps
you need spectacles, Dash, you really should be—all right. That
one is
Clarissa
Harlowe,
by
Samuel Richardson. There is
Martin
Chuzzlewit.
That
one is
Guy
Mannering.
That
one is ..." His voice trailed off. "Extraordinary," he
said.

"I
should say so. You have the eyes of a hawk."

"No,
not that." He stood up and joined me at the center bookshelf.
"Guy
Mannering,"
he
said, pulling the volume off the shelf. "By Sir Walter Scott."

"Yes,
looks as if there's a complete set of Scott here."

"But
that belongs over here." He walked to a row of shelves at the
other side of the case and threw open the latticework doors. "I
saw a copy of
Ivanhoe
on
this shelf. I wonder if—yes! Two sets of Scott! Two copies of
Ivanhoe\
Two
copies of
Guy
Mannering!"

"Harry,
books are just another form of property to a man like Wintour. He
probably bought the second set as an investment. Or as part of a
collection. How many copies of
Discoverie
of Witchcraft
do
you have?''

"No,
Dash. Look—this second set is very high off the ground, so as
to discourage the casual browser. Only Houdini, with his sharp eyes
and uncanny powers of observation, would even have noticed it."
He darted to the corner of the room and seized a rolling library
ladder. "Do you not see, Dash? This second set of Scott novels
is a mere facade. We are certain to discover that the spine of each
volume has been sliced from its binding and fastened together to form
a false layer. We often see illusions of this sort in our profession.
It appears to be a row of books, but in reality it is a hiding
place!"

Harry
climbed to the top of the ladder and reached for the suspect volumes.
"Behold! Now we shall see what is hidden behind these shelves!"

Harry
gave a sharp tug, expecting to uncover a spring-panel, trip-switch,
or some other means of concealment. Instead, an entire set of the
collected works of Sir Walter Scott cascaded onto the floor. I
believe
The
Bride of Lammermoor
hit
him on the head. At the top of the ladder, Harry stared at the
now-empty shelf in disbelief. "Is it possible?" he asked.
"Can it really be perfectly innocent? I simply cannot credit it.
Why should the man have two sets of Scott if one of them is not
concealing a passageway or a secret compartment?"

"I
don't know, Harry," I said. "Perhaps he was uncommonly fond
of historical romances."

Harry
sat down on the top step of the ladder. "Dash," he said,
"there is no secret panel, trap door, or hidden entrance of any
kind in this room."

"I
was beginning to form that impression."

"Then
how did the murderer get in and out?"

"I
think we can assume that Wintour knew his killer, and that he opened
the door willingly."

"I'll
grant you that," Harry said, "though it seems odd that no
one else in the household was aware of any visitors. But how did the
killer leave the door locked behind him? Someone bolted that door
from the inside, and it certainly wasn't Mr. Wintour."

"No,"
I agreed. "Nor does it seem likely that someone could have
arranged a secret meeting with him and then slipped away unnoticed."

"Unless
Mr. Wintour himself desired to keep the meeting a secret," said
Harry, "which brings us back to the fair Miss Hendricks."

"Yes,"
I said. "It does, doesn't it?" I walked to the fireplace
and scanned the books on the lower shelves. "Let's see ... Byron
... Wordsworth ... Shelley ... here we go! Elizabeth Barrett
Browning." I pulled a small volume from the shelf.

"Anything
there?" asked Harry, climbing down from the ladder.

I
flipped opened the front cover to see that the pages had been
hollowed out to form a place of concealment. "I guess Mr.
Wintour wasn't much of a poetry fan," I said.

"Are
those the letters?" asked Harry, peering over
my
shoulder.

I
lifted out a packet of some twenty or thirty envelopes tied with a
silk ribbon. The paper was a pale violet hue and heavily scented with
perfume. I untied the ribbon and scanned the envelopes. None of them
was marked in any fashion. "They must have been delivered by
hand," I said, "which means that some third person was
privy to their correspondence."

Harry
stroked his chin. "Couldn't one of the servants have been
running the letters back and forth?"

"Wintour
and Hendricks were supposed to be feuding, remember? It would have
attracted too much attention if there had been a butler or
chambermaid scurrying back and forth. It was probably some mutual
acquaintance."

"Hmm.
A mutual acquaintance who knew of Mr. Wintour's continued interest in
Miss Hendricks. This
person
could have used this information to arrange a clandestine meeting
here in the study."

"My
thought exactly."

"Dash,
we should read those letters."

"Read
them? That's not exactly gentlemanly of you, Harry."

"They
may well name the person who acted as courier. It could be a vital
clue."

"I
admit that, but I don't feel right—"

There
was an urgent knock at the doors of the study. "Gentlemen?"
called a voice from outside the room. "Are you still in there?"

I
shoved the letters in my pocket and slipped the hollow book back onto
the shelf. Harry crossed to the doors and unlocked them.

A
stocky young man in a checked walking suit stood outside. I
recognized him as Henry Gain, the dead man's brother-in-law, whom I
had seen at the funeral the day before. He looked to be a year or two
short of his thirtieth year—not that much older than Harry and
myself—but he carried himself with a certain pompous
self-regard that made him seem a great deal older.

"Gentlemen,"
he said, sweeping into the room, "may I ask why I was not
consulted before you made yourself free with my late brother-in-law's
rooms?"

"I
beg your pardon," said Harry. "We gained permission from
Mrs. Wintour. We would not have dreamed of intruding otherwise. I am
Harry Houdini and this is my brother Dash Hardeen."

"I'm
Henry Grain," he said curtly, ignoring Harry's outstretched
hand. "My sister is in no condition to receive callers. Your
presence here is an unwelcome intrusion, and I'm afraid I must ask
you to leave immediately." The butler appeared in the doorway
with
our
hats and coats. Harry's face began to turn an angry red.

"I
regret any distress we've caused," I said, steering Harry toward
the door. "Please accept our apologies, along with our
condolences."

"But—"
said my brother. "We haven't—"

"Come
along, Harry. I'm sure Mr. Grain is a very busy man."

"One
moment,'' the young man called after us. Harry and I paused in the
doorway. "What were you hoping to find in there?"

"Your
sister didn't tell you?" Harry asked.

"She
mentioned some absurd notion involving a secret corridor," Grain
said scornfully. "You can't expect me to believe that was your
real purpose in coming here?"

Harry
opened his mouth to object and I gave him a sharp poke in the ribs
with my index finger. "You're quite right," I said,
lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. "We're here on
behalf of Mr. Harrington."

Harry's
eyes widened with alarm. I gave him another poke in the ribs.

"Harrington?"
said Grain. "The name means nothing to me."

"May
I speak in confidence?" I asked.

Grain
narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Would you give us a moment,
Phillips?" The butler nodded and withdrew. "I'm a busy man,
Mr.—what was it?"

"Hardeen."

"Yes.
I'm a busy man, so I think you'd best come to

the
point."

"Your
late brother-in-law had a fine collection of mechanical toys and
automatons," I said.

"I'm
aware of that, sir. One of the damned things killed him."

"Mr.
Harrington takes a very keen interest in automatons," I said. "A
very keen interest."

"Go
on."

"Perhaps
Mr. Wintour's collection has a sentimental value for you and your
sister. If so, we won't impose ourselves upon you any longer. If
not... ?"

I
let the half-formed question hang in the air. Grain hesitated for a
moment, then motioned us back into the study and closed the door
behind us. "See here," he said, "are you saying that
this Mr. Harrington will pay good money for these trinkets?"

"It's
his business."

He
glanced over at the array of wind-up figures on the library table.
"You have some cheek, sir. You came in here with a cock-and-bull
story about examining the study, but really you just wanted to size
up my brother-in-law's valuables."

I
turned to make for the door. "I can see that you won't be
interested in dealing with Mr. Harrington," I said. "I
apologize again if we've given offense. Come along, Harry."

"Wait!"
the young man cried. "Wait just a moment." He looked around
as though there might be someone else in the room. "I won't
entirely rule out the possibility of a transaction," he said in
a lowered tone, "but it would have to be done in strictest
confidence."