The Dime Museum Murders (34 page)

Hendricks
stood up and swept his arm through the shadowy cavern. "I simply
decided to start without him," he said. "As soon as the
project is announced, I'm going to go before the press and tell them
that my company, Daedalus Incorporated, has already launched
construction of the underground railway, at a savings to the New York
taxpayer of one million dollars."

"But
this isn't any underground railway!"

"No?
I have a working model of the Minotaur Express. I have a detailed
blueprint of the entire rail network. I have all the necessary
permits and documents. Once the press boys are done with him, Platt
will have no choice but to award the contract to me."

"But
your train is no good!" I cried.

"Yes,
that's quite true. But by the time anyone realizes that, the contract
will be all signed and sealed."

"You
mean it's a con? A bait and switch?"

"Not
at all, Mr. Hardeen. It's business. This project will generate
millions and millions of dollars. My job is to get the license to
build the train by any means necessary. Once I have the contract,
they'd never dare to take it away from me. Platt and his minions will
have too much political capital invested in our success. And if my
initial projections won't quite hold water, and if I can't quite
deliver on my original promises, that's simply politics as usual in
this city."

The
clanking noises from behind me were getting louder. I knew I had to
keep him talking. "If you already have your phony model and
plans, why did you bother to dig a tunnel?"

"That's
the beauty of it, Mr. Hardeen. I didn't have to dig the tunnel. Bran
did it for me. He had it done when he built the house. It's a
brigand's entrance he ordered for his own amusement—doesn't ran
any farther than the stables out back. Only he and I knew about it."

"I
don't follow you. If this is just a secret tunnel of some kind, what
are all those packing crates and building materials doing here?"

"I
would think that you'd be able to guess, young man. This is a stage
set—a piece of elaborate scenery. I've dressed up the tunnel
with a hundred feet of track, several crates of machine parts and a
whole battery of work lights. It looks for all the world as if the
diligent work crews of Daedalus Incorporated have been digging around
the clock. And that's exactly what I'll tell all the city officials
and journalists I'll be bringing down here. Why start digging on
Broadway when we've already broken ground right here under Fifth
Avenue?"

The
rattling sounds increased sharply, though neither Hendricks nor
Gittles appeared to notice.
Harry,
pipe down,
I
thought to myself. "But why did you kill Mr. Wintour? Surely he
was in it from the beginning? The tunnel was on his property, and it
must have been his idea to conceal the trap door with that train
platform. The two of you were partners the whole time."

Hendricks
mumbled something I didn't hear.

"I'm
sorry?" I said, raising my voice to cover the sounds of Harry's
struggle. "I didn't catch that."

"The
Minotaur train was my idea," Hendricks said. "The planning,
the timing, the execution. I worked out every last detail. But it was
Bran's money. And so long as Bran was bankrolling the project, he
dictated the terms. Eighty per cent of all future earnings were to go
to him. Twenty for me. I was to be little more than an employee. Two
years ago, before I lost my money, it would have been me in control
of the operation. Now..." His voice trailed off, making the
sounds of Harry's movements all the more conspicuous.

"That's
it? You killed him for the money?"

"What
else? I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Mr. Hardeen, but I'm hardly
the first man who ever killed for money! Do you have any idea what
sort of fortune is at stake here? Tens of millions! I'm going to make
Rockefeller look like a rag-and-bone man! Good Lord, you and your
brother were prepared to believe that Bran had been killed over a
silly little Japanese toy! You can have your automatons, Mr. Hardeen.
Me, I'll settle for becoming the richest man in New York."

"But
why lay the blame on Mr. Graff? He didn't even know what you were
planning!"

"Why?"
Hendricks's voice rose to an angry pitch. "Because Bran saw fit
to give him a three per cent share in Daedalus! And without so much
as consulting me! All that man did was design the model—nothing
more! I daresay you could have done it just as well yourself, Mr.
Hardeen, and I doubt if you would have expected to be compensated
with stock shares worth hundreds of thousands of dollars! And do you
suppose this beneficence came out of Bran's share of the earnings? I
assure you it did not. Bran was giving away my money hand over fist."

"I
don't understand how you expected to get away with that. Sooner or
later Mr. Graff would have told the police about the secret dealings
he had with you and Mr. Wintour. That would have brought the police
right to your doorstep."

"Eventually,
yes," Hendricks agreed. "But I sent him a message after his
arrest. An expression of sympathy and concern, if you will. I told
him to keep quiet about Daedalus—told him that our lawyers were
working on his release, but that we couldn't risk tipping our hand

on
the very eve of our great triumph. He was happy enough to keep his
mouth shut, especially when I told him I'd be needing a right-hand
man—now that Bran was gone."

"Then
you sent Mr. Gittles for him. For both of them."

"Yes.
He handled it very cleverly, I thought."

"Was
Mr. Gittles also responsible for the dart in Branford Wintour's
neck?"

"No,
Mr. Hardeen. I had to handle that myself. It wasn't difficult. Bran
and I often used the tunnel to hide my comings and goings. It
wouldn't have done for me to use the front door, not after what
happened between him and my daughter. But he was a practical man, and
so am I. The business relationship continued as before. I knew that
Josef would leave
Le
Fantôme
in
Bran's study that afternoon. I scheduled a meeting with him shortly
afterward. Bran couldn't wait to show off his prize. He started
chattering away as soon as I came up through the tunnel. He had no
way of knowing, of course, that I was the one who had engineered the
sale in the first place, once I'd learned of
Le
Fantôme
's
existence. Bran was positively thrilled. He jabbered on and on,
showing me all the gears and weights, waxing rhapsodic about his
hopes of acquiring the entire Blois collection. It was a simple
matter to press the dart into his neck. He made a horrible noise as
the poison did its work, but it was over quickly—thank God.
It's a difficult thing to watch a friend die, Mr. Hardeen, no matter
what the reason. That's why I'm sorry you had to get involved in all
of this. You seem to be a bright young man. I could have used your
help on the Minotaur. Can't be helped, I'm afraid." He stepped
forward and said something to Gittles, who gave a tight little nod.

"Well,
goodbye, Mr. Hardeen," Hendricks said. "I'll take my leave
now. I very much enjoyed your company the other day, and I'd prefer
not to be here for this unpleasantness. As I said, it's a difficult
thing to watch a friend die."

Hendricks
turned and made his way down the tunnel, away from the ladder leading
up to Branford Wintour's study. Gittles waited until the flickering
light from the older man's lamp had receded. Then he turned to me and
shook his head sadly. He stepped forward, reaching beneath his coat
as he came. A long blade glinted in the torchlight. Crouching over
me, Gittles spoke the first words I ever heard him say. "Nothing
personal," he said. With that, he raised the blade high over his
head.

That's
when Harry returned from the dead. I heard him before I ever saw him.
He sprang from the shadows with a wild cry, chains and straps hanging
from his limbs, and plowed his head into Gittles's mid-section. The
two men fell in a heap, rolling away from me into a pool of
torchlight.

I
pulled furiously at my constraints, desperate to get into the fight
as Harry and Gittles got to their feet, warily circling one another.
Gittles lashed out with the knife, but Harry jumped back and
countered by swinging a length of chain at his attacker's head.
Gittles let out a howl as the chain raked across his face, then made
another thrust. Harry managed to ward off the blow with another swipe
of the chain, and Gittles jumped back, readying for another thrust.

I
could feel blood dripping down my arms as the restraints tore into my
wrists. I tugged harder, blocking out the shock of pain that came
with each movement. I now had a slight range of motion in my right
arm—the chains were oiled with my blood—but every motion
threatened to strip the flesh from my bones. I bit my lip and kept
working.

Gittles
lunged twice, slashing at Harry's eyes. My brother managed to parry,
but lost his footing as he backed over a section of train track.
Harry crashed to the ground, chains clattering off the metal track
railings. Gittles vaulted forward, raising his knife for another
plunge. Harry rolled onto his side, aiming a powerful kick at his
opponent's knee. Gittles gave another shriek of pain and staggered
backward into one of the work torches, which came crashing down onto
his head. My brother leapt to his feet as the other man dropped the
knife and frantically wiped oil and glass away from his eyes. Harry
moved in for the kill, landing a solid right to the jaw and following
it with a pair of vicious kidney punches. Gittles dropped to one
knee, his face and hands still dripping with oil from the lamp. Harry
cocked his arm. "Nothing personal," he said. Gittles tried
to get his hands up but it was too late. Harry went over the top with
a crashing straight, followed by a roundhouse that had his entire
weight behind it. Gittles's head snapped back and his eyes swam. He
went down hard and didn't move.

"Dash?
Are you all right?"

"I'm
fine. I just can't quite seem to shake these straps."

"Hold
still. This won't take long." Harry opened his leather wallet
and fished out a pick. "Hold still, I said." He worked at a
small padlock that cinched a length of chain around my ankles. "You
should be ashamed of yourself, Dash."

"Look,
Harry, you're a better escape artist than I am. I admit it."

"That's
not what I meant. For three days you insisted that we ran to
Lieutenant Murray every time we so much as drew a breath. But what
did you do when you figured out the murderer's identity? You decided
to apprehend him yourself. 'The police take a dim view of citizens
who make arrests.' Wasn't that what you said to me?" The lock
snapped open and Harry began unwinding the chains from my legs.
"You're a fine one to talk, Dash."

"I
couldn't be sure I was right," I said. "The whole thing
seemed too outlandish. And I certainly hadn't anticipated that we'd
find Hendricks in the tunnel—much less that Gittles would be
with him. I—Harry! Behind you!"

I
saw a glint of steel and a rash of movement from the shadows. Fred
Gittles, knife raised high, sprang towards us.

"Harry!"

My
brother turned and instinctively raised his hands. The blade sank
into his forearm. Harry gave a strangled cry and drew back, a jet of
blood soaking through his sleeve. I straggled to my feet, my hands
still pinned behind my back. Harry clutched at his wound, leaving
himself wide open to attack. Gittles reared up for another thrust.

I
had one chance. I lowered my shoulder and drove it into Gittles's
stomach, driving him back across the cavern. I heard the knife fall
from his hands as the air rushed from his lungs, but he recovered
quickly. He straightened up and tagged me with two hard jabs to the
nose. With my arms strapped behind me, I had no way of defending
myself. Gittles hammered me with a straight to the jaw. I staggered
backward, but stayed on my feet.

He
kept coming, snatching up a length of wooden planking from the
ground. Harry was back on his feet now, but Gittles sent him
sprawling with a hard smack across the forehead. He turned to me and
hefted the plank like a baseball bat, readying for another swing.