The Dime Museum Murders (35 page)

It
turned out to be a mistake. The edge of the plank caught the oil lamp
we'd brought down from Mr. Win-tour's desk. The glass globe shattered
instantly, sending a shower of flame onto Gittles's oil-soaked
clothing. His coat lit up like matchwood, with streaks of flame
spreading quickly across his arms and legs. I watched helplessly as
he flailed and thrashed, his screams filling the vast cavern.

Harry
was there in an instant, knocking Gittles to the ground and slapping
at the flames with his coat. A horrible, sickly smell filled the air
as Harry tried to smother the fire, but his coat soon burst into
flame. "Hold still!" Harry shouted. "Stop straggling!"
He jumped up and grabbed a metal spade, desperately scooping up loose
dirt and shovelling it onto the burning man. After a moment or two of
furious labor, the last of the flames was extinguished.

Harry
knelt down and brushed away a layer of dirt from what was left of
Fred Gittles's face. It was a terrible sight, a patchwork of wet
blisters and dark, cracked flaps of charred skin. A tortured,
croaking sound escaped from the injured man's lips. "Thank you,"
he said. His head slumped to the side.

Harry
said nothing as he released my hands from the remaining straps.
Together we carried Fred Gittles down the tunnel to the wooden
ladder. I went up first, working the metal ring to open the trap door
as Harry followed behind with the injured man over his shoulder. In
Bran-ford Wintour's study, we found that Dr. Blanton and

Henry
Crain had been joined by Lieutenant Murray and a pair of uniformed
patrolmen.

"What
the hell—" Lieutenant Murray began at the sight of us
emerging from the trap door. "What in God's—?"

"Dr.
Blanton," I said. "This man is badly burned. He needs a
hospital."

"What's
happened?" the doctor cried. "What's going on here?"

I
turned away from him. "Lieutenant," I said, "we need
to get to the home of Michael Hendricks. Now."

"Hardeen,
what's—?" He looked at my face and saw something there
that made him stop. He turned to the uniformed officers. "Take
the doc and get that man to a hospital," he said. "Hardeen,
you and your brother come with me."

He
led us outside to a waiting police wagon. Harry and I climbed in back
while the lieutenant gave orders to the driver. As the wagon lurched
forward, Lieutenant Murray dropped onto the seat opposite us. "You're
sure you don't want the doctor first?"

I
looked at Harry. He was filthy, his clothing was in shreds, there
were streaks of black soot across his face, and he was clutching a
bleeding wound on his forearm. I don't suppose I looked much better.

"Harry?"
I said. He just shook his head.

No
one spoke until we drew up in front of the Hendricks place. I reached
back to help Harry down out of the wagon. "I'm fine, Dash,"
he said, shrugging off my hand. "Don't fuss over me."

We
hurried up the front path and hammered at the door. Lieutenant Murray
pushed past the butler and led us down the hall, throwing open the
doors to the study without even breaking stride.

I
don't know what I expected. Hendricks, sitting behind his desk, did
not seem at all surprised to see that Harry and I were still alive.
An expression of sadness and resignation washed over his face. He
nodded at the lieutenant and set down the pen he had been holding.
Pushing back his desk chair, he stood up and turned toward the bay
window.

Harry
saw it before I did. "Dash!" he shouted. "He has a
pistol!"

Lieutenant
Murray threw us both to the floor, shielding us with his body. His
hand went to his belt, reaching for his own revolver. The gun hadn't
even cleared its holster when we heard the shot.

Michael
Hendricks slumped to the floor, a ghastly splash of red on the window
behind him. I stumbled to the edge of the desk, feeling a wave of
burning gorge rise in my throat. "It's finished, Dash,"
Harry said. "There's nothing more you could have done." I
looked down at the body on the carpet and remembered what Hendricks
had told me in the tunnel.

It's
a difficult thing to watch a friend die—no matter what the
reason.

"You
know, Houdini," said Lieutenant Murray, "you've already
received the citizen's commendation medal and a special proclamation
from the mayor. That would be enough for most people."

"I
am not like most people," my brother said.

The
lieutenant nodded in vigorous agreement. "Yes," he said, "I
guess we can agree on that."

Five
days had passed. In that time, much had changed in our lives. The
death of Michael Hendricks had set a remarkable series of events in
motion, culminating in a four-hour emergency conference at the
mansion of Mr. William Russell Grace, the former mayor. The governor,
half a dozen state representatives, and the exalted Thomas Collier
Platt were also in attendance, and a more grave and earnest assembly
could hardly be imagined.

Harry
and I were not included in this august gathering. Instead, we had
been summoned to the Grace mansion and installed in a palatial
antechamber to await the outcome of the deliberations. Lieutenant
Murray was sequestered with us, and he spent the long vigil with a
comically dainty tea cup clutched in his meaty paws, staring
quizzically at a mysterious array of tiny bread wedges adorned with
cucumber.

"You
know," the lieutenant informed us, "they're in there
cooking up a giant fish story. They won't let Michael Hendricks be
the villain of this piece. Wouldn't look right. Wait and see."

"But
Mr. Hendricks
was
the
villain," Harry insisted, pinching one of the cucumber parcels
between his thumb and forefinger. "I regret that he felt
compelled to take his own life, but that is hardly an expiation for
his sins."

"They'll
make Gittles the villain," Lieutenant Murray said. "It's
the only way Hendricks gets to keep his reputation."

"Seems
to me there's more than enough guilt for both of them," I said.
"How's Gittles doing, anyway?"

"Not
so good. He may live; he may die. Once these fellows are done with
him, he may prefer the latter. How are you two doing? You both went
through the meat grinder back there."

"We
are recovering nicely, thank you," said Harry. "Apart from
the cut on my arm, I am feeling very little pain." He fingered
the heavy bandages on his forearm. "The doctor tells me I was
fortunate that the blade did not do more damage."

"You
were
lucky,"
Lieutenant Murray agreed. "Both of you. You could just as easily
have been killed. That was a hell of a foolish stunt you pulled."

Harry
and I didn't bother trying to defend our actions. The lieutenant's
reproaches had been mild compared to those of Bess, who had unleashed
a blast of white hot fury when we finally straggled home after our
adventure in the tunnel. The anger soon gave way to hysteria,
followed by a long period of moody silence. It would be some days
before the atmosphere returned to normal on Sixty-ninth Street.

For
me, the five days since Michael Hendricks's death had been a time of
moody introspection. I had spent many long hours alone with my
thoughts, either sitting in my room or taking long walks through the
city. One of these walks found me standing outside the Hendricks
mansion, where, on a sudden impulse, I decided to call in and pay my
respects. I cannot say what I hoped to gain by this gesture. Perhaps
I sought to ease my conscience. Perhaps I sought solace of a
different kind. Katherine Hendricks had received me in a small
drawing room on the ground floor, her lovely eyes ringed with heavy
shadows. I offered a few clumsy words of condolence, then passed over
the packet of letters I had retrieved from Branford Wintour's study.
She accepted them without a word, and I turned to take my leave.

"Mr.
Hardeen," she said quietly, as I paused with my hand upon the
doorknob.

"Yes?"

"He
was quite taken with you. My father."

"You
are kind to say so."

"He
told me as much. 'One need not be an English lord to cut a path in
this world.' That was how he phrased it."

I
said nothing. My throat had grown very tight.

"Of
course, my own prospects are much changed now," she said evenly.
"Much changed."

I
nodded.

"Lord
Wycliffe and I must wait a decent interval, of course. We shall make
the announcement next spring, I should think."

My
hand felt quite hot on the doorknob. "I wish you

every
happiness," I said. "I'll show myself out."

My
last sight of her, as I closed the door behind me, saw her tossing
the packet of letters onto the fire.

"Dash?"
said Harry, recalling me to the present. "I believe the
lieutenant asked you a question."

"I'm
sorry?" I said, turning away from the window. "I was
thinking of something else, I'm afraid."

"Never
mind," Lieutenant Murray said. "Not important."

"He's
been like this for days," Harry told the lieutenant. "Bess
thinks he hit his head."

"My
head is fine," I said. I gestured toward the closed doors where
the council of city elders was taking place. "Can they really
expect to hush the entire matter up?" I wondered. "You
realize, Lieutenant, that my brother has never been one to suppress
his own exploits."

"The
public would be most interested—" Harry began.

"Tell
me, Houdini," said the lieutenant. "Are your citizenship
papers in order?"

The
color drained from Harry's cheeks. "Don't be absurd!" he
cried. "I'm as American as you are! I was born in Appleton,
Wisconsin!"

"You're
sure it wasn't Budapest?" He set down his tea cup as carefully
as if it had been a hatching chick. "Look, Houdini, I don't give
a tinker's damn whether you were born in Wisconsin or in Hungary or
on the planet Jupiter. I'm just warning you. That's what they're
going to use to keep you quiet." He sighed and looked at the
closed doors. "These men always manage to get their way."

Matters
developed much as the lieutenant had predicted. When the city
worthies emerged from behind the closed doors, Harry and I were
informed that certain information would be withheld from the general
public so as to spare the Hendricks family any further distress. "I
think poor Mrs. Hendricks has borne enough sorrow, don't you,
gentlemen?" asked Mr. Grace. "Better for everyone if we
keep this business to ourselves, wouldn't you agree?"

When
it was clear that the Brothers Houdini were not prepared to argue, a
climate of merry good fellowship prevailed—complete with
whiskey and cigars and a series of ribald jokes from Mr. Platt. By
the time the whiskey decanter had been drained and refilled three
times, the company had grown extremely jovial indeed. I was enjoying
a rubber of whist with a pair of aldermen and the junior senator when
I happened to spy Harry across the smoke-filled room, deep in
conversation with Mr. Grace. "That's the strangest request I've
ever received, Mr. Houdini," I heard him say. "People
usually want my help going the other way!" He clapped his arm
across my brother's shoulders. "Let me see what I can fix up."