The Dime Museum Murders (26 page)

"But
the Toy Emporium! It's too much of a coincidence!"

"Is
it? I've been checking around. Branford Wintour had a finger in
nearly every property deal south of Canal Street for the past three
years. Apparently he was fond of the neighborhood."

Harry
folded his arms. "But who authorized the purchase?"

"The
directors of Daedalus Incorporated."

"Do
we have their names?" I asked.

The
lieutenant shook his head. "I'm working on it, though. I don't
like coincidences any more than you do. But you're not going to find
any sinister conspiracy here, gentlemen. In all likelihood, the
members of the board were simply adhering to a policy established by
Wintour before his death." He knocked back the rest of his
whiskey. "Of course, there is another possibility."

"What's
that?" Harry asked.

"That
Branford Wintour has returned from the dead
in
order to gain control of every toy shop in the city. For all we know,
Wintour's tortured spirit is doing a brisk business in cloth bears
even as we speak."

Harry
lowered his chin, offended by the lieutenant's flippant tone. "I
suppose you're prepared to disregard our information about Mr.
Harrington just as readily?"

"Ah.
That's what I wanted to speak with you gentlemen about. 1 had an
interesting conversation with Lord Randall Wycliffe this morning."

"And?"

"I'm
afraid he's denying all knowledge of any Mr. Harrington."

"What!"
Harry leapt from his seat. "The man is a bald-faced liar!"

"He's
a bald-faced liar who's taking advice from his attorneys,"
Lieutenant Murray answered. "Sit down, Houdini. I know you're
telling the truth. I'm only saying that we're not going to be getting
much cooperation from his lordship. It's clear he doesn't want to be
involved, and he's willing to stake his word against yours to stay
clear of the thing."

"I've
never told a falsehood in my life!" Harry insisted. "The
very idea is insulting!"

"Is
it?" Lieutenant Murray asked. "Were the two of you being
strictly candid when you represented yourselves as employees of the
Cairo Club last night?"

"We
never actually
said
that
we—"

"Be
that as it may, Lord Wycliffe won't be volunteering any more
information, and there's very little I can do about it."

"Where
does that leave us, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"Same
place we were last night. Three bodies. No way of knowing if their
deaths are even connected to one another."

"Harrington,"
Harry said grimly. "He killed them all."

"So
you say, Mr. Houdini, but we have precious little evidence of that.
All we know is that he approached Lord Wycliffe about brokering a
deal for
Le
Fantôme.
That's
not a crime, so far as we know. I'm telling you, boys, my superiors
would be very happy to see this problem vanish." He fingered his
empty glass. I stood up and went to the bar for another round.

"Lord
Wycliffe mentioned Wilson's saloon on Mott Street," I said when
I returned. "He told us that he met Harrington there."

"So
you said this morning. I'm afraid Wilson's isn't the type of
establishment where they put out the red carpet for the police."

"How
do you mean?" Harry asked.

"You've
heard of Jake Stein?"

"The
notorious criminal?" Harry's eyes brightened. "The
nefarious gangland chieftain?"

"Yes,
Houdini," said the lieutenant, rolling his eyes slightly.
"That's the one."

"Jake
Stein is a habitue of Wilson's saloon?"

"Hardly.
No one's seen Jake Stein in years. But he runs every bar and
disorderly house down there. A clean officer can't get anything out
of those people, and the dirty ones aren't about to bite the hand
that feeds them."

"How
intriguing," said Harry. "A genuine den of iniquity. Tell
me, Lieutenant, if I wanted to have someone killed, is Wilson's
saloon the sort of place I might turn?"

"Pardon
me?" The lieutenant's mouth twitched with amusement. "You
and the wife not getting along, Houdini?"

"My
wife is the very center of my existence, sir. Let's
say
I wished to remove a troublesome business rival. My brother, for
instance."

"I
don't think you want to have me killed, Harry," I said. "Mother
would be very cross."

"I
mean a truly first-rate job," Harry continued, ignoring me.
"Something that might confuse the police and obscure the
motive."

"You're
talking about the Graffs," said Lieutenant Murray flatly.

"I
am."

He
sighed heavily. "You think the Graffs were killed by a hired
gun?"

"It
seems apparent to me that they were."

"I'm
sorry, Houdini, I know these people were important to you, but in all
candor—"

"Oh,
I don't argue that it was artfully done," my brother said. "That
was the reason for my question. Where would I go if I wanted to find
someone who could perform such a task?"

"Someone
who could kill both of them and make it look like a gang killing and
a suicide?"

"Exactly."

"Why,
that would take a real magician, wouldn't it, Houdini?"

My
brother considered for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I
suppose it would."

The
two of them debated the matter for some time, with Lieutenant Murray
probing us rather more skillfully than we questioned him. I jotted
down a good many notes over the course of the discussion, but I
noticed that the lieutenant filled many more pages of his pad than I
did. He also managed to put away an uncommon amount of whiskey at my
expense.

After
an hour or so, Lieutenant Murray closed his notebook and rose to take
his leave.

"One
last thing," Harry said. "If my brother and I should happen
across Mr. Harrington, would you be interested in speaking with him?"

The
lieutenant's face turned hard. "Don't be a jackass, Houdini.
Stay out of my road."

"We
meet a good many people in our travels. It's not impossible that we
should make his acquaintance,"

Lieutenant
Murray leaned across the table and thrust his index finger under
Harry's nose. "Houdini," he said, "you are quite
possibly the biggest son of a bitch I've ever—"

"Lieutenant,"
said Harry primly, "I will thank you to leave my sainted mother
out of this."

The
anger drained from the lieutenant's face. "All right," he
said with his short, barking laugh, "but you are the most
pig-headed, irritating bas—er—individual I've ever come
across."

"You
are welcome to your opinion," Harry said.

"I'm
grateful for that, Mr. Houdini." The lieutenant settled his hat
on his head. "Thanks for the drinks, gentlemen. Now go back to
pulling bunnies from top hats. Leave the police work to me." He
turned and headed for the door.

Harry
watched him go, rolling a coin across his knuckles. "What a most
unreasonably stubborn man," he said. "One must be more open
to opposing views in this world."

"You
don't say."

"Oh,
indeed! As our late father often said, 'Toleration is good for all or
it is good for none.' "

"I
don't recall him ever saying that."

"No?
Someone else, perhaps."

"Harry,
Lieutenant Murray has just shot down virtually every theory and idea
you've had about this business. And he's ordered us to mind our own
affairs. You seem to be taking this in remarkably good spirits."

"The
lieutenant is not the only source of information in this town,"
Harry said, smiling happily.

"No,"
I said, tilting my glass back to finish up the last swallow of
whiskey, "there's also the library."

"I
was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Jake Stein."

A
hot jet of whiskey went down the wrong pipe. "Harry," I
coughed. "No."

"Why
not?" he asked, patting me on the back. "If one cannot get
satisfaction from the law, he must turn to the outlaw."

"Harry,
this is Jake Stein you're talking about. You don't just pop in for
tea with Jake Stein."

"Fine,"
said Harry brightly. "No tea, then. Just polite conversation."
He continued rolling the coin across his knuckles.

Jake
Stein is forgotten today, but in our boyhood he was a figure of awe
in the neighborhood, a son of immigrants who rose to control much of
the criminal activity of the Lower East Side. As children we spoke of
him in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of his name would
call down fearsome acts of vengeance upon ourselves and our families.
"Careful what you say," the older boys would tell us.
"Jake's men can hear you."

I
studied my brother's open, smiling face. "So, Harry, you want to
march into Jake Stein's office, wherever it might be, and ask him if
he killed the Graffs?''

"Well,
no," he answered, "that might be imprudent. I want to ask
him if he knows of anyone else who might have killed the Graffs."

"You
know, Harry, I've seen you do a lot of crazy things. I've seen you
sink to the bottom of the East River with one hundred pounds worth of
manacles hanging off you. I've seen you—"

"I
just want to ask him a question. The man knows everything that goes
on around him. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its
web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every
quiver of each of them."

"I
believe you're thinking of Professor Moriarty. Tell me, why should
Jake Stein even agree to see us?"

"Why
not? I just want to know if he recognizes the work of a certain
killer. He may have an appreciation of such things." He took the
coin he had been rolling, held it at his fingertips and then—with
a sharp, twitch of a motion—caused it to vanish. "You see
that? A perfect back palm. When I see that, I think instantly of the
work of T. Nelson Downs, the 'King of Koins.' I have an appreciation
of such things. Perhaps it is the same with Mr. Stein."

"You
think Stein is a connoisseur of murder?"

He
seemed to consider it seriously. "Perhaps, yes. In any event, we
must find out or our investigation is at a standstill." He stood
up and reached for his coat.

We
continued this strange conversation all the way to Mott Street, with
Harry refusing to listen to any of my sensible arguments in favor of
health and longevity.

"If
I've said it once I've said it a thousand times," Harry said, as
we stood outside Wilson's saloon, "you have—"

"—no
imagination. I know, Harry, I know."

He
turned and pushed through the clouded glass doors. I hesitated for a
moment, gave a shrug, and followed him in.

At
first glance, Wilson's appeared to be a rather nicer establishment
than the one we had just left. The floor was clean and the brasswork
gleaming, and a row of polished mirrors and gas jets on the far wall
gave the room a bright, rosy glow. Only the clientele gave any
indication of a less salubrious atmosphere. The scattering of sullen
men at the bar, and clustered around the low round tables, gave an
unmistakable air of menace.