The Dime Museum Murders (28 page)

Stein
never finished the sentence. Harry's shoulders twitched, and a
grimace washed over his features. "Child's play," he said,
tossing the untied ropes onto the table.

My
stomach clenched as I watched the play of anger and fascination on
Stein's features. Clearly he did not care for brash young men. After
a tense pause, the old man apparently decided to find my brother
amusing. He grinned and clapped his hands. Harry took a bow as
Stein's henchmen followed suit. I took advantage of the appreciative
climate to escape from my own bonds, though no one seemed to notice.

"Not
bad!" Jake Stein said in his painful-sounding growl. "You
say you can escape from anything?"

"Nothing
on earth can hold me a prisoner," my brother assured him. "The
Great Houdini can escape from anything."

"I'll
have to introduce you to my wife sometime," said Stein, a remark
that drew energetic hilarity from the men along the back wall. Harry
grinned weakly. I would guess that he heard this joke perhaps seven
thousand times over the course of his lifetime.

"So"—Stein
took a drag on his cigar—"you must be the guy who keeps
trying to bust out of Mulberry Street, huh?"

"You
know of this?"

"Jake
Stein knows things, kid. Remember that. Let me know if you ever
figure a way out. Could be useful."

This
prompted another outburst of mirth from the boys at the back.

Stein
pointed his cigar at us. "I guess you boys are pretty good with
your fists," he said. "I might just have some work for you
some time." The growl trailed off and he gazed at the ceiling,
pondering the manner in which the Brothers Houdini might make
themselves useful to his operations. For me, this prospect seemed
about as attractive as Harry's plan to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Fortunately,
Harry did not entirely apprehend the nature of Stein's interest.
"Well," he said, "until recently my wife and I were
playing at Huber's Museum. Prior to that we enjoyed a lengthy
engagement with the Welsh Brothers Circus. In addition to our public
performances, we are available for birthday parties, family
gatherings, and social functions of all descriptions. I also offer a
comprehensive series of lessons in magic and sleight of hand."

Stein's
eyes narrowed for a moment, but the grin stayed fixed in place. He
threw a don't-this-beat-all look at the back-wall boys. Without
realizing it, Harry had dodged a bullet.

"Okay,
Houdini," Stein said, "you've been looking for me all over
town. What was it you wanted?"

"Two
friends of mine have been brutally murdered," Harry began. "They
were an elderly couple who—"

"The
Graffs. Ran the Toy Emporium."

"Precisely.
I am seeking information about this terrible tragedy."

Stein
folded his arms across his chest. "May I ask why you think I
would know anything about it, Houdini?"

Harry
swept his right hand over his head, a stage flourish. "Because,
sir, Jake Stein knows things."

It
was the right answer. Stein grinned as he swung his feet off the
table and knocked his cigar over an ashtray. "I'm not sure what
sort of help you're looking for, kid. The old lady got cut up by a
gang. The old man strung himself up in a jail cell. What else do you
want to know?"

"I
am not entirely happy with that explanation," Harry said. "Not
happy at all."

Stein
cleared his throat—a horrible, gravelled sound. "You want
me to find the kids that carved the old lady, is that it? Look, kid,
I'm not in the business of—"

"I
do not think that Mrs. Graff's death was the work of a gang."

"No?"
Stein leaned forward, genuinely curious. "Why not?"

Harry
answered at great length, summarizing the events of the past three
days, beginning with our summons to the Wintour mansion. Stein
listened closely, interrupting twice to ask for clarification,
nodding appreciatively at our exploit in the Cairo Club, and
wondering aloud over the puzzle of Branford Wintour's study.

"Harrington,
is it?" Stein asked when Harry had finished. "The name was
Evan Harrington?"

"Yes."

"Harrington
did the job on Wintour, then laced the old couple to keep them
mum—that's what you think?"

"Laced?"

Stein
sighed. "Killed. You think Harrington killed them to cover his
tracks?"

"That
is my theory."

Stein
gave a hot, gasping noise that I took to be a chuckle. "Evan
Harrington. A wooden nickel of a name if ever I heard one."

"I
am aware of that, of course," Harry said. "It may surprise
you to learn that my name is not actually Harry Houdini."

"Is
that so, Ehrich?"

My
brother stiffened.

"Ehrich
Weiss," Stein continued, "and his brother Theodore. Sons of
the Rabbi Mayer Samuel Weiss. A good man, your father."

Harry
gave a faint cry of surprise. "You knew him?"

"Not
to speak to. I heard him two or three times, though. Morning
services. I liked the look of him. Very devout. Not like these young
ones today. I was sorry to hear he'd passed."

Harry
paused, momentarily bewildered. "It is kind of you," he
said.

"How
is your mother?"

"She
is well, thank you."

"Good."
Stein bit the end off a fresh cigar. "I'm still not quite
certain how I can help you," he said, as one of the wall-boys
stepped forward to light his cigar. "What is it that you want
from me?"

"Let
us assume that the Graffs were killed by a single individual, as I
have outlined. I wondered if these acts might suggest a pattern to
you, if you perhaps recognized a certain—well—"

"Do
I recognize the work," Stein said helpfully. "Isn't that
what you're asking?"

"Yes.
Yes, sir. This person would have to be clever enough to slip in and
out of Mr. Wintour's locked study without leaving any trace, but also
brutal enough to attack Mrs. Graff with such unwonted savagery."

"You
say these toys are valuable?"

"They
are not toys."

"Well,
whatever they are. Worth a few bucks?"

"Indeed.
But I do not think that is why Mr. Wintour was killed."

"I'd
have to agree," Stein said. "Nobody I know would go to all
that trouble for a bunch of—what was it you called them?"

"Automatons."

"Yes."
He sent a cloud of smoke toward the low ceiling. "Here's my
problem, Houdini. I can think of any number of punch-and-peel men who
could have slipped into Wintour's study without too much trouble. And
I know maybe a dozen knife artists who might have done the old lady
and made it look like gang boys—if they had a reason to do it.
The old man in the cell, I don't know from that. Maybe he killed
himself, maybe he didn't. But you see my problem? You're asking me

if
I recognize the work. If I were looking, I'd be looking for two guys.
Not one."

Harry
weighed this answer carefully. "In my profession," he said
slowly, "one must be able to do many things. When I work in a
dime museum, I am sometimes called upon to be a strong man, or a
juggler, or a clown. Once I even ran a ghost show. A talented
performer wears many hats."

The
old man rubbed the stubble on his chin. The door opened behind us and
a slight man wearing a black suit and a homburg slipped into the
room. Stein did not acknowledge him. "In my business,"
Stein told us, "matters are different. You got a leaky pipe, you
call a plumber. You got a broken door, you call a carpenter. Do you
understand me?"

Harry
nodded. "Two different men."

"Put
it this way," he said. "Whoever killed Wintour had nothing
to do with killing the old lady." He looked up at the man in the
Homburg, then back at Harry. "You really think she got killed by
a working man? You're sure it wasn't just gang boys?"

"I'm
sure of it," Harry said.

Stein
leaned back in his chair and swung his feet back onto the table. His
eyes came to rest on me. "You don't say much, do you, Theodore?"

"Not
a whole lot, no," I said.

"But
you saw what went on in the toy shop?"

"Uh,
yes, I did." I shuffled my feet, self-conscious at having been
put on the spot.

"And
who do you think killed her?" Stein grinned behind his cigar,
enjoying my discomfiture.

I
stopped shuffling and looked him straight in the eye, damned if I was
going to let him stare me down. "I don't know who killed her,"
I said. "I don't know if it was a gang of street thugs, or
someone trying to make it look like street thugs, and frankly I don't
care. All I know is that she was a sweet old lady and she deserved
better than to get slit up the belly like a brook trout. My brother
and I are chasing all around town looking for someone who might know
something. Maybe we'll find something, maybe we won't. Maybe we'll do
some good, maybe not. It's better than sitting home with a book."

Harry
was looking at me with an expression of interest and surprise, as
though I'd just pulled a dripping octopus from a top hat, instead of
the customary rabbit. Stein puffed his cigar and glanced again at
Homburg man, who shook his head.

"So
all you boys want to do is find who did this to the sweet old lady,
is that it?"

"And
her husband," said Harry.

"Mr.
Stein," said Homburg man. "This is not—"

Stein
held up a hand to silence him. "This thing," Stein said, "I
don't like to see this sort of thing on my patch. It... doesn't look
well. But I don't want to stir the pot too much. Someone might take
offense. But I like you boys. I'm going to—"

Homburg
man renewed his objections. Stein silenced him again with a look that
could have melted iron.

"I
don't know who killed your friends," Stein continued. "I'm
not even sure I need to know. But I know who I'd ask about it, if I
were you."

"That
would be very helpful," Harry said.

Stein
wrote a name and address down on a slip of paper. "This
gentleman is a pretty cool bean. You want something from him, you got
to have money or you got to have muscle. You two don't seem to me
like the money type."

"No,"
Harry admitted.

Stein
pushed it across the table at us. "There is one thing," he
said.

"Yes?"
Harry asked, reaching for the paper.

"Anyone
finds out where you got this name, then you boys have got a problem
with me."

"That
won't happen," Harry said. "We are unusually good at
keeping secrets."

"Huh,"
Stein snorted, still amused by my brother. "I just might have
some work for you boys," he said. "I just might at that."

I
looked at the cold, grinning face behind the soggy cigar. I hoped he
was talking about magic lessons.