The Dime Museum Murders (25 page)

"Of
course," I said.

"How
do I contact this Mr. Harrington?"

Harry
bit his lip nervously.

"Well,"
I said, "Mr. Harrington is an extremely private person, like
yourself. He prefers to work through

intermediaries.
May we tell him that you would be willing to entertain an offer?"

Grain
considered for a moment. "All right," he said, "but
you'll have to be discreet. Do you understand?"

"I
believe so, sir," I said. "You'll be hearing from us
shortly."

"Very
well." He led us out of the study and showed us to the front
door. "And one last thing, gentlemen."

"Yes?"

"There's
no need to mention any of this to Mrs. Wintour. Good day, gentlemen."
With that, he closed the door behind us.

Harry
waited until we had rounded a corner before speaking. "That
man—" he began.

"I
know, Harry, I know. You think that Henry Grain killed Branford
Wintour." "Well, don't you?"

"If
so, then he did it without any assistance from our friend Harrington.
How do you explain that? Are you going to tell me that the entire
business of Mr. Graff and the automaton was just a coincidence?"

"Of
course not! He's bluffing! He knows perfectly well who Mr. Harrington
is, for the simple reason that he himself is Mr. Harrington! He
arranged the sale of
Le
Fantôme
as
a clever pretext in order to—"

"Harry,
the only thing we know about Mr, Harrington is that he looks
something like you. Henry Grain does not look like you. Benny the
Human Skye Terrier looks more like you than he does."

Harry
frowned. "It was dark when Mr. Graff met with

Harrington,"
he said. "Harry."

"All
right. But he could easily have hired this Mr. Harrington to do his
dirty work for him. You have to
admit
that he has a powerful motive. He seems to be making himself very
free with the dead man's treasures."

"I'll
grant you that," I said.

"Seems
to me there's only one way to be certain," Harry continued.

"How's
that?"

"It
should be obvious, Dash," Harry said. "We'll have to find
Mr. Harrington and ask him for ourselves."

"You'll
do no such thing," said Bess, tugging at the collar of her cloth
winter coat. "Have you forgotten that this Mr. Harrington may
well have killed Mr. and Mrs. Graff? You can't just go chasing after
him like some sort of cowboy! Leave Mr. Harrington to the police!"

"I'm
not afraid of Harrington, Bess," Harry said in a level tone.
"I'm not afraid of anything."

"I
know that, Harry," Bess answered. "I'm afraid for both of
us."

We
had just been to see the rabbi about funeral arrangements for the
Graffs, which had left Harry in a despondent humor. "Don't you
see, Bess? It's my fault that the Graffs are dead. I should have
saved them."

"Saved
them?" I asked, settling my trilby on my head. "I think
you're being a little hard on yourself, Harry."

"Am
I? Exactly what have I accomplished in these past few days? I failed
to foresee the danger to Mr. and Mrs. Graff; I failed to arrive at
any solution to the puzzle of Mr. Wintour's study; I failed to escape
from the holding cell at police headquarters. Nothing but failure! I
was

a
fool to walk away from Huber's Museum. Even that modest rung of show
business may yet prove too great for my talents. Dime Museum Harry.
Perhaps that's all I'll ever be."

"Harry,
you're just—"

"I
believe I shall return to the tie-cutting factory on Broadway, if
they will have me. Perhaps there is a position that would not tax the
skills of the Great Hou-dini." He thrust his hands out and made
a clipping motion, as if working a pair of shears. "Snip, snip,"
he said. "In the future I might do better to rely on my hands,
rather than my brain."

Bess
clutched his arm and laced her fingers through his. "Harry, you
are behaving like a little boy. This must stop." My brother
looked wounded at this, but said nothing. I fell in step behind them,
marvelling once again over my sister-in-law's ability to quiet
Harry's tempers. Up to this stage of his life, my brother had done
very well behaving like a little boy, with Mama there to stroke his
brow and make his cares disappear. Bess, whose fire and spirit had so
attracted him during their courtship, would not stand for
childishness. "I am not your mother," I often heard her
say, "I am your wife."

We
walked on for a time in silence, with Bess pausing every so often to
look in a shop window.

"Harrington
is the key," Harry said, as we climbed aboard a horse-drawn
omnibus. "Once he learned that Lord Wycliffe possessed a
valuable automaton, he used Mr. Graff to establish its authenticity.
Through Mr. Graff, Harrington gained an entree into the reclusive
Mr.Wintour's private study—which, I must assume, had been his
object from the beginning."

"It's
not a bad theory," I said, straggling to keep my footing as the
omnibus lurched forward. "But where's the motive? Why should
Harrington kill Wintour?"

"There
are endless possibilities," Harry sighed. "Money. Revenge.
A woman. When we find Harrington we will have our answer."

"Lieutenant
Murray will find him soon enough," I said, as we found seats at
the back. "He'll act on the information we got from Lord
Wycliffe."

"You
give him too much credit," Harry said. "That man is a
shmendrick."

"A
what?" Bess asked.

"A
good-for-nothing," I, explained. My brother tended to fall back
on Yiddish whenever he felt especially frustrated.

"Lieutenant
Murray will never solve this case," Harry declared. "Not
because he isn't clever enough, he simply doesn't care enough. Soon
enough he'll have to turn his attention to all the other crimes and
killings and thefts that plague this city."

"Branford
Wintour's murder won't be forgotten. His money will see to that. His
wealthy friends won't let the police rest until they close the case."

"His
wealthy friends will prefer a verdict of death by misadventure to an
unsolved murder. There will be meetings behind closed doors and the
entire matter will be swept under the carpet. You wait and see. As
for the Graffs, they'll be forgotten soon enough—especially now
that the Toy Emporium is to be sold."

"Sold?"
I asked.

"That's
why the rabbi took me aside as we were leaving. Apparently there has
been an offer to buy the building, and the rabbi hoped I might help
to clear out the

shop,
so that the stock can be sold to benefit the congregation."

"Father's
old congregation," I said.

"Yes,"
Harry said. "That's why the rabbi asked."

"How
sad," said Bess. "Of course you'll help."

"Later,"
Harry said. "It will have to wait until after we've found
Harrington."

"The
shop is being sold?" I asked again.

"Yes,
Dash," Harry said. "Why does that surprise you so?"

I
clawed at my jacket pocket for my note pad. A memory was struggling
to emerge from the depths of my mind, but—like Harry battling
his way out of a strait-jacket—it seemed to be having a hard
time of it. "Who's buying the place?" I asked.

Harry
shrugged. "A downtown firm. It seems they plan to tear down the
building to make room for something new. There's been a great deal of
building going on in the old neighborhood lately."

"Do
you recall the name of the firm?"

"Dash,
you're looking very strange all of a sudden. Of course I remember the
name. Daedalus Incorporated. One could hardly forget such a name."

"Daedalus,"
I said, flipping through several pages of notes. "I wonder if—ah
ha! How very odd!"

"What
is it, Dash?" Bess asked.

"You'll
never guess who just bought the Toy Emporium."

"I
told you. Daedalus Incorporated."

"And
do you know who owns Daedalus Incorporated?"

"Who?"

I
snapped my notebook shut. "Branford Wintour," I said.

Lieutenant
Murray was not on the premises when Harry and I arrived at Mulberry
Street to share this fresh revelation with him. We were advised that
his shift would end within the hour, and that there was some slight
possibility of finding him in Donnegan's Tavern, around the corner on
Bayard.

Donnegan's
proved to be a dark and fragrant establishment, with sawdust on the
floor and paintings from County Cork on the walls. We took a booth
near the door, and sat watching an energetic pair of arm wrestlers at
the bar. Soon enough Lieutenant Murray appeared, looking even more
rumpled than he had that morning,
if
possible.

To
my surprise, he greeted us quite cordially. "Mr. Houdini!"
he cried. "Mr. Hardeen! A pleasure to see you again! Come to set
the department to rights? Got some fresh information on the Lincoln
assassination, have you?"

To
his credit, Harry took this in good part. "I have already
apologized for my—my exuberance the other evening," he
said. "I did not mean to suggest that your investigation had not
been thorough. As a further expression of my remorse, we should like
to buy you a drink."

"Would
you now? That's very grand of you, Mr. Houdini. Mine's a Jameson's
and water."

I
went to the bar and ordered whiskies for the Lieutenant and myself,
and a glass of minerals for Harry.

"Your
health, gentlemen," said the lieutenant, when I had carried the
drinks back to the table. "I'm pleased to see you. Saves me the
trouble of bringing you down to headquarters. I had a few more
questions about—"

"That
can wait," Harry said. "Did you know that Mr.
Graff's
shop has just been purchased by Branford Wintour?"

Murray
cocked his eyebrows at me, amused. "I had heard something of the
sort, Mr. Houdini," he said drily.

"You
don't find it at all curious that a dead man should be acquiring
business property?"

The
lieutenant took a quaff of his whiskey. "Not especially,"
he said. "Branford Wintour had dealings all over the city.
Toys—pardon me, juvenile goods—were just a small part of
his trade. I happen to know he had money in several department
stores, a baking concern and at least three clothing manufacturers.
An empire like that doesn't just shut down over night. Wintour's
businesses will keep going for years, even if he isn't around to pull
the strings."