The Dime Museum Murders (14 page)

"Oh,
she won't be long on the market. There's some British lord squiring
her about town now. After her fortune, they say." He read my
eyes. "I think she may be just a hair out of your league, Dash."

My
face must have gone crimson. "You may be right," I said,
with a cough. "In any case, much obliged." I stood up and
reached for my hat.

"Don't
be in such a hurry, Dash," Biggs said. "I'm on my way to
cover the Wintour service at Holy Trinity. You're welcome to come
along if you wish. You can carry my pencil."

"A
funeral service? Already?"

"Apparently
the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry."

"But
the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly.
There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical
examination."

"My
thought exactly," Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. "All
the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case,
it'll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined
up in a row. New

York
society wouldn't dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just
take you to lunch afterwards."

Biggs
chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way
uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly
built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. "New
York wasn't meant to hold so many people and buildings," Biggs
said, gazing up at the church's soaring Gothic tower. "Soon
they'll have to start putting them all underground."

We
climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church
official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the
transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always
tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even
if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don't happen to correspond
with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several
moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones,
and introduced me to various reporters from the
Times
and
the
Herald.
I
slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might
call on them to publicize Harry's next engagement—should he
happen to secure one.

Biggs
motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that
commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running
side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle.
"The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of
course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of
them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to
be desperate for capital. And there's his good wife Nora—look
at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She's much
admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders,
although
said to have a weakness for French wines. Who's that behind her? The
little fat fellow with the battered top hat?"

"That's
Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."

"Ah!
So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all
about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up
powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No
doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."

Biggs
and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young
swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and
hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs.
Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."

"I
don't recall seeing him last night," I said.

"I
wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him,
but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's
just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him
some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on
his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to—well,
well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the
young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine
Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a
slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat
trimmed with netting.

"Steady,
Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.

"She's
extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to
compare."

"There
are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to
her left—who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."

I
fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. "Who
is he?" I whispered.

"I
can't be certain, but I believe it's Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh
earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a
wealthy American bride to shore up his family's dwindling fortunes."

"That
fellow is a British aristocrat?"

"They
don't all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is
considered quite a catch, though it's said he's not terribly
well-endowed between the ears. Still, he's good-looking enough."

I
studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the
young Englishman. "She could do better," I said.

"Could
she now?" Biggs chuckled. "Ah—here comes the main
attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory." A tall,
thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle,
stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as
though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her
constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about
her, as I've known professional boxers who appeared frail in
comparison.

"At
the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach," Biggs
told me. "That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the
marriage didn't agree with her." We watched as Mrs. Wintour
paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.

"She'll
play this scene for all it's worth," Biggs muttered, "although
everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another.
She'll be well provided for, though, and she'll never want for
company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune."

"Really,
Biggs," I said, raising an eyebrow at my
friend.
"The woman is attending her husband's funeral! Have you always
been such a cynic?"

He
gave me a wide grin. "I used to be plucky and high-spirited,
Dash, but I found it grated on people's nerves." He jerked his
head toward the seats. "So there you have it, my friend. The
ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their
stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne'er-do-well
younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family
doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how
will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?"

"I
don't know that any of them killed Wintour," I said, waving
aside his facetious commentary. "Certainly the police don't
think so."

"Ah,
yes!" Biggs said. "The kindly old toy peddler. Let's not
forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to
defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches
of—"

"Biggs,"
I said, "you really are an ass."

"I've
been hoping someone would notice," he said. "Seen enough? I
have all I need. We really should make our escape now—before
the tributes begin."

We
slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional
sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon
enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth
at Timborio's, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs
studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose
my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. "Order
whatever you like, Dash," Biggs said. "The
World
will
see to it."

"Oh
no," I said. "That's quite all right."

"You're
a valuable resource, Dash. You and your
brother
are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police
department who've been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful
Event. If you think I'm letting you roam free, only to be pounced
upon by those leeches at the
Times,
you've
another think coming."

"I've
already told you everything I can," I said.

"Not
everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?" He
set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that
featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted
carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine
steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was
"quite drinkable," though my knowledge of such things was
fairly limited.

"All
right, young Theodore," Biggs said when the wine had been
decanted, "what makes you and the swaggering Harry think you can
solve the Wintour murder?"

"I
told you. The police wanted Harry to tell them about the automaton.
We're not trying to solve the murder."

"So
you said. Forgive me, but everything your brother knows about
automatons—or any other subject for that matter—could be
printed very comfortably on this wine cork. Your brother could very
easily have shared the sum total of his knowledge with the police
without pausing to draw breath. He is not, shall we say, a deep
thinker. And yet here you are, the faithful brother, racing about
trying to scare up information on the Win-tour set. This is more than
idle curiosity, I think."

"Mr.
Graff—" I began.

"Yes,
yes," he waved his hand impatiently. "I know all about Mr.
Graff and his charming little toy emporium. That certainly explains
why the Handcuff Czar
should
bother himself in the matter, but what about you, young Dash? Aren't
you getting a bit old to be trailing along in Harry's wake?"

"He's
my brother," I said simply.

"Dash,
I'm aware of that. We grew up together, as you'll recall. And don't
tell me again how he dragged you from the East River and saved you
from drowning. He tells me himself every time I see him."

"He
did pull me out of the East River."

"I
know that. But he was also the one who pushed you in, remember?"

I
lifted my wine glass and stared into the bowl. "I know that you
and Harry have never gotten along," I began. "He can be a
bully. He can be arrogant—"

"—if
you happen to catch him in a good mood."

I
set down my glass. "You don't know him as I do."

"Nor
would I care to, based on my past experience of him."

A
waiter arrived with our fish course. I waited until he had withdrawn
into the kitchen. "Do you see those doors?" I asked,
gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

"The
doors to the kitchen?" Biggs asked, spearing a piece of fish.

"Behind
those doors, there will be two or three young boys in shirtsleeves
washing dishes over a steaming basin of hot water. Harry and I did
that job off and on for fourteen months, usually for five hours at a
time, sometimes two shifts a day. At the end of a shift our hands
would be so red and shrivelled that my mother would rub them with
cooking fat. I was twelve years old at the time."

"Dash—"

"I'm
not trying to impress you with my tale of hard-

ship
and woe. Plenty of people come from poor families, and lots of them
had it tougher than we did. What I'm saying, though, is that Harry
always managed to keep his eye on something better. We'd stand there
side by side at the wash basin, and he'd fill my head with stories of
the fantastic things we were going to do with our lives—travel
the world, have adventures, perform for royalty. Even then, I could
always spot a huckster, but my brother was no huckster. He honestly
believed that these things were certain to happen. All he had to do,
he always said, was to be ready when the time came. So he'd finish
washing the dishes and then he'd go home and practice."