The Dime Museum Murders (30 page)

At
the top of the stairs we could hear the steady, two-note drone of a
sleeping man snoring lustily. Harry flicked the shade on the
bull's-eye lantern, masking the beam. Creeping to the door of the
master bedroom, Harry nudged it open with his foot.

Cranston
lay on his back at the center of a sprawling four-poster bed. He wore
silk pajamas and a cotton night cap, and his hands were clasped
contentedly over the modest bulge of his stomach.

"He
doesn't look much like a killer, does he?" Harry whispered.

"He
doesn't look as if he'd harm a fly," I answered. "Or
Muggins the poodle, for that matter."

Harry
passed me the lantern. "There's only one way to find out. When I
give the signal, shine the beam in his eyes. I'm going to give him
the fright of his life." He crept to the sleeping man's side and
raised his arms in the manner of an animal about to pounce. "Now,
Dash!"

I
snapped the lantern's shade open and beamed the light onto Cranston's
face. At the same time, Harry filled his lungs with air and let out
the fearsome growl he had perfected as Yar, the primitive strong man
of the dime museum circuit. "Joshua Cranston!" he shouted.
"Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest
nightmare!"

Cranston
didn't stir. The snoring continued without interruption. Harry
furrowed his brow. "He appears to be an uncommonly sound
sleeper," Harry said at a more normal volume. He seized the
sleeping man by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Cranston began to
mumble and swipe at his eyes, as if to bat away the beam of the
lantern. "Joshua Cranston!" Harry shouted at an even louder
pitch. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your
darkest nightmare!"

The
sleeping man muttered something that concerned a woman named Dolores,
then rolled over and resumed snoring.

I
swept the lantern beam to a low table beside the bed. "Harry,"
I said.

"Wait
just a minute, Dash." He gripped the edge of the mattress and
gave it a mighty heave upward. Cranston rolled off the opposite edge
and onto the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. "Joshua Cranston!"
he thundered. "Your day of judgement has arrived! Turn and face
your accusers!"

Cranston
flailed about groggily for a moment, found his pillow, and went back
to sleep. "Harry," I said, "it's going to take more
than judgement day to wake this man up." I held out a blue-glass
vial.

"What
is it?" Harry asked, pulling the cork stopper. "It smells
vile!"

"Grunson's
Nerve Tonic," I said. "An efficacious and healthful remedy
for the treatment of persistent neuralgia and wakefulness."

Harry
shoved the stopper back into the vial as if squashing a bug. "So.
He is drugged."

"Heavily."

"How
long before we can wake him?"

"No
way of knowing."

"An
hour?"

"At
least."

Harry
nudged the sleeping man with his foot. "Dash, I have a rather
interesting idea."

Two
hours later, Joshua Cranston began to stir.

As
he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware that much had
changed while he was under the influence of his sleeping draught. For
one thing, he was no longer in his bedroom. For another, his legs
were securely tied. Also, he was dangling head-down from a crane atop
the Bayard Building, twelve stories high, looking straight down onto
Bleecker Street.

When
his screams subsided, he became aware of my brother Harry, dangling
head-down beside him at the end of a sturdy rope.

"Good
morning, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "Tell me, whatever
became of Muggins the poodle?"

Mr.
Cranston continued screaming for some time. His voice seemed to ebb
and flow in the strong winds whipping around the top of the building,
and there was a certain fascination in listening to the sound fall
away, like a stone disappearing into a well. Tall buildings were not
so common then as now, and from our lofty vantage atop the Bayard
Building, which had only just been completed that year, we seemed to
be looking down on a sleeping village at the foot of some majestic
mountain. It made for quite a peaceful scene—apart from the
very noisy distress of our companion—with everything shaded a
faint lavender in the cool wash of dawn.

Harry,
hanging upside-down beside Cranston, waited patiently for him to
cease his vocalizations. "I assure you, Mr. Cranston, no one can
hear you," Harry said, although we both doubted that this was
true. "Do you see how far down the street is? No one is about at
this hour." He folded his arms, swaying slightly in the morning
breeze.

We
had selected the Bayard Building to take advantage of a gear-action
construction crane mounted on the ornate cornice, which, during
daylight hours, was being used to haul a set of granite angels into
position. It had been a considerable chore dragging Cranston's
sleeping body across town and up to the top of the building, but the
expression on our victim's face more than justified the effort.

"Now
then, Mr. Cranston," said Harry blandly, as though opening a
board meeting of some kind, "I think we have some business to
discuss."

The
little man screwed up his eyes and rubbed them, as if to make this
terrible apparition disappear. When he opened them again, my brother
winked and gave a cheery wave.

"What—what"—Cranston
struggled for breath— "what is—why do—what is
the meaning of this?" His face glowed red with the blood pooling
in his cheeks. He stared at my brother with wild eyes. "I—I
have money! Lots of money!"

"Would
you be referring to this money?" Harry asked, waving two fat
packets of notes.

"Impossible!
How did—?"

"One
should not place too much confidence in a Bering wall safe, Mr.
Cranston. Even if it does have the new dual-chamber pin-plate.

"Keep
the money! Just get me down from here! I beg of you!"

"We
wouldn't think of keeping your money, Mr. Cranston," Harry said.
"However, we may not exactly give it back, either." He
peeled off a few bills from one of the bundles and scattered them to
the morning wind.

Cranston
gave a shriek as the notes swirled and danced about his head. "God!
No!" His hands darted out to snatch at the money, but the sudden
movement set him swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently
the motion did not agree with him. He made a harsh choking noise and
clutched at his throat. The contents of his stomach spiralled twelve
stories to the street below.

Harry
took out his handkerchief, fluffed it open in the breeze, and held it
out to Cranston, who reached for it with a tight, fragile movement,
as though clinging to the railing on an icy set of steps. "What
do you want from me?" he gasped, dabbing nervously at his lips.
"Why are you doing this to me?"

"Tell
us about Evan Harrington," Harry said.

"Harrington?"
A sudden flash of cunning appeared in Cranston's eyes. "I—I
do not know who that is."

Harry
reached across and gave him a small push on the shoulder that set him
swinging back and forth again. "Tell us about Evan Harrington,"
Harry repeated.

"No!"
Cranston cried. "I don't know who you're talking about! I don't
know any Evan Harrington! Please stop it!"

Harry
reached out and gave another push. "Evan Harrington," he
said.

"I
can't stand this!" Cranston shrieked, coughing wetly.

"Evan
Harrington."

"I
don't—"

"Looks
a bit like me..." Harry said, giving Cranston another shove.

"Please—!"

"Tried
to broker the sale of a valuable automaton ..." Another shove.

"I
don't—"

"Framed
Josef Graff for murder..."

"No—no—''

"Responsible
for three deaths in the past three days..." Harry reached out
and clutched Cranston by the shoulder, abruptly halting the swinging
motion. "I think you can tell me a great deal about Evan
Harrington, Mr. Cranston. Begin now, please."

"I
don't know a thing about any Evan Harrington! I don't know anything
about any murders! You must have me mistaken for—"

"Look
up towards your feet," Harry said. "Do you see that
handsome fellow straddling the crane? What do you suppose he's doing?
Why, it appears as if he's setting fire to the ropes that are
anchoring us to the crane!" "No!" Cranston shouted.
"You'll die! You'll die with me!"

"Yes,
that is a bother," Harry admitted. "Look! The rope is
burning quite merrily, having been soaked in kerosene. I would
estimate, Mr. Cranston, that you and I have less than one minute
before the fire eats through the rope. Then we will fall to the
pavement below. It will be a horrible fate—but then, there have
been so many deaths lately."

"I
haven't killed anyone!"

"All
the more regrettable, then."

"For
God's sake! I haven't killed anyone!"

Harry
grabbed Cranston's nightshirt and pulled his face close to his. "Name
the killer," he said.

"I'm
not responsible! A man approached me. He— I'll tell you
everything, just put out that fire and haul me up!"

"Tell
me now," Harry said calmly.

"You're
insane!"

Harry
merely smiled. "Who approached you?"

"I—I
never met the man. He made contact through an intermediary. Most of
them do. But I put him in touch with a man who could do the job. All
confidential—safeguarded to ensure mutual discretion. I swear,
I don't know who hired me!"

"And
you passed the assignment on to someone?"

"I'm
not a killer! I'm just the man in the middle!"

"The
name, please."

"Fred
Gittles. My best man."

"Goes
by the name of Harrington, does he?"

"Sometimes.
Or Richard Feverel. He goes by lots of names. Please—"

"Where
do I find Fred Gittles?"

"Thirty-ninth
and Broadway. Number three-six-two. For God's sake—"

And
then the rope snapped.

I
watched Cranston as he fell. His face crumpled and his arms flailed
and a sharp little scream died on his lips as though he'd been kicked
in the throat. He and my brother seemed to hang in the empty space
for a moment, like fish jumping in a summer stream, and then they
began to sink in a twisting, corkscrew motion toward the street
below.