The Dime Museum Murders (15 page)

"That's
the part I've never quite understood," Biggs said, dabbing at
his mouth with a napkin. "Why did he want to be a magician? Why
not an athlete, say, or a captain of industry?"

"Some
boys want to grow up to be president. Harry wanted to be
Robert-Houdin. I used to take it for granted—having a brother
who could produce cakes from an empty hat, or find coins in my nose
and ears. It took me some time to realize that not every family had
one."

"Dash,
I've seen you perform. You're every bit as good a magician as Harry."

"Kind
of you to say so, but actually I'm not. No one is. I truly believe
he's going to be the most famous man in the world."

Biggs
shook his head sadly. "Like Kellar you mean? Or Signor Blitz?
Dash, these tricks and stunts will only take him so far. Even the
best magicians in the world are still only magicians. Who will
remember Kellar ten years from now?"

"I
yield to no one in my admiration for Kellar, but Harry is something
entirely new."

"The
escape artist business, you mean? Dash, not everyone shares Harry's
fascination with handcuffs and ropes. I think your brother is betting
too heavily on this idea. Will the public pay money to see a man who
can— what?—get out of things? It's a strange notion for
an entertainment. People tie him up; he escapes. Frankly, I don't see
the appeal. There's some novelty, perhaps— like a fire-eater or
a circus strong man—but nothing more."

"You
think so, do you?"

"I
do."

I
took another swallow of wine. "There was a locksmith when we
were growing up in Appleton—before my father brought us to New
York. The locksmith's name was R. P. Gatts, and Harry used to help
him take locks apart and put them back together. One day Mr. Gatts
let Harry have a big rusty padlock from somebody's old grain locker.
Harry took it home and we found a length of chain somewhere, and
that's the first time I can remember him ever trying an escape. I
wrapped the chain around his wrists and cinched the padlock so
tightly that the chain actually bit into his wrists. Harry insisted
on that—the chain had to be as tight as possible."

"And
he escaped in a jiffy," Biggs said dismissively. "Leaving
you wonderstruck."

"No,"
I said. "He didn't escape that day. Or the day after. Or the day
after that. But every day for three weeks I wrapped the chain around
his wrists and snapped that rusty old padlock into place, and then
I'd sit back and watch. One day the neighborhood kids came to the
yard to get us for Red Robin, but when they saw Harry strag-

gling
with that lock they dropped their sticks and their balls and sat down
on the grass beside me. And they came back the next day. Harry pulled
and tugged at that chain until his wrists went raw. He kept at it
every afternoon until it was time to go in for supper. Then I'd
unfasten the padlock and he'd shrug his shoulders and say, 'Same time
tomorrow.' Some days his arms would be covered with blood and
braises. He never complained. He told our mother he'd fallen out of a
tree."

Biggs
reached for his cutlery as the gamecock arrived. "Still, he did
escape eventually, and you were dazzled, and the neighborhood boys
lifted him up and carried him through the neighborhood in triumph. Is
that it?"

"No,
Biggs, that's the whole point. I honestly don't remember if he ever
did escape. All I remember is the struggle. That's where the drama of
the thing was. Day after day I sat there on the grass surrounded by
our friends and we just watched—mesmerized. These were kids who
had no patience for card tricks or coin flourishes. But they spent
hours watching Harry—just to see if he could do it." I
smiled at the memory. "He was nine years old at the time."

"All
right, Dash," Biggs said, "I see your point. But do you
really think that a bunch of kids in Appleton is the same thing as a
New York audience?''

"So
far as Harry is concerned, there's no difference."

Biggs
fell silent for several moments, fixing his attention on the food.
"You still haven't answered my original question, Dash," he
said after a time. "Suppose that everything you say is true.
Suppose that Harry is about to conquer the world with his daring
feats of escape. Where do you fit in?"

"That
should be obvious," I said.

"Enlighten
me."

"He
couldn't do any of it without me," I said, draining my wine
glass. "My brother needs an audience."

When
I left Timborio's I still had a good three hours before it would be
time to meet Harry at the dime museum. I decided that a walk would
clear my head. I set off without any fixed sense of a destination and
after a time found myself standing outside the Wintour mansion on
Fifth Avenue. Taking up a position across the street, I spent nearly
an hour watching as expensive carriages rolled up and a series of
well-wishers climbed the steps to pay their respects to the widow.

After
a while I rolled a cigarette and began wondering what I was doing
there. The answer came to me when I saw Mr. Michael Hendricks and his
daughter, the lovely Katherine, coming down the steps from the house.
I tossed my cigarette aside and hurried across the street. "Mr.
Hendricks?" I called.

He
stopped and turned toward me. "Yes? Can I help you, young man?"

If
anything, Hendricks appeared even more gaunt and haggard than he had
the previous evening. Seeing him at close range, however, I was
struck by the bright energy in his eyes. They gave the impression of
an eager boy trapped in an old man's body.

"I'm
terribly sorry to disturb you, sir," I began. "You see, I—"

"You're
the young magical fellow from last night," he said. "You
and the other boy—your brother, was it?—the pair of you
made quite the fools of New York's finest, I must say."

"I'm
afraid my brother can be a bit overly zealous," I said. "We
didn't mean to leave the police with egg on their faces."

"Nonsense!
The law needs a bit of humbling now and again. Keeps them on their
toes. What can I do for you, young man? Houdini, was it?"

"Houdini
is my brother. My name is Hardeen. Dash Hardeen."

He
stuck out a hand which, to my surprise, was red and rough like a
curtain-puller's. "Good to know you, Hardeen," he said,
pumping my hand with unexpected strength. "I'm Michael
Hendricks, and this is my daughter, Katherine."

I
raised my hat to Miss Hendricks and she returned a dazzling smile. A
more polished young man might have offered a comment on the weather,
or ventured some other remark of topical interest. I chose instead to
stand motionless with a frozen rictus of a smile stamped on my
features, swaying slightly in the autumn breeze. The power of speech
had abruptly fled. It would have taken a keen eye to detect an
appreciable difference between myself and a lamp post.

"Mr.
Hardeen?" said Hendricks. "Was there something you wanted
from me?"

"Yes,
sir," I said, struggling to regain my composure. "I
wondered if I might ask you one or two questions about Mr. Wintour."

"Are
you some type of investigator?" he asked.

"No,
sir, I'm not. And I don't wish to burden you at such an unhappy time,
but a good friend of mine has been detained in this matter, and I've
promised his wife that I would do what little I could to assist in
clearing his name."

"Yes,"
Hendricks said. "Poor old Josef. Are the police still holding
him?"

"Yes,
sir."

He
studied my face, apparently trying to gauge my usefulness. "Hardeen,
is it? What sort of name is that? Italian?"

"Hardly,
sir. It's a stage name. I make my living, such as it is, as a
performer. My brother thought it best if I took a different name. He
feels there's only room enough for one Houdini in the world."

"I
see. Why don't you walk along with us for a moment, Mr. Hardeen?"
He held out his arm to his daughter and I fell in step beside them.
"Well, Mr. Hardeen," he continued after a moment, "I
don't know what I can tell you that you didn't see for yourself last
night, but I'm absolutely certain that Josef Graff had nothing
whatever to do with this thing. That man once walked halfway across
Manhattan to return four cents to me—a real honest Abe, that
one. I tried like anything to put him in my carriage, let my driver
take him back home, but he wouldn't hear of it. Said it would end up
costing me more than the four cents." He laughed. "We could
use more like him in this city."

"You
and Mr. Wintour both had dealings with Mr. Graff, didn't you, sir?"

"Oh,
certainly," he said. "Though I never felt that Branford got
any particular pleasure out of his collection. I sometimes suspected
he bought up these things

simply
to keep me from getting my hands on them. He had quite a competitive
streak."

"When
Mr. Graff came across an unusual item, would he usually let you see
it first? Or did he take it to Mr. Wintour?"

"Me,
I would have said. I tried to make it worth his while."

"Last
night, you appeared surprised that
Le
Fantôme
had
been shown to Mr. Wintour without your knowledge."

Hendricks
stopped walking and reached into a pocket for his coin purse.
"Katherine," he said to his daughter, "would you mind
seeing if that flower girl has something for my buttonhole?" He
slipped a coin into her gloved hand. It was a transparent device to
send Miss Hendricks out of earshot for a few moments, and she frowned
at him to show what she thought of it. In spite of her obvious
displeasure, she turned without further protest and made her way
toward the flower stall at the corner.

Hendricks
watched her go, then spoke to me in a lowered tone. "I admit
that I was surprised when I heard about the automaton," he said.
"A real treasure like that—something with so much history
attached to it—I would have expected Mr. Graff to come straight
to me. When I heard otherwise I was afraid that—I thought
perhaps—," he paused, gazing reflectively at his coin
purse. "Well, Mr. Hardeen, I suppose it's no secret that my
business has been going through a stormy patch. That's why I happened
to be at Branford's place last night. I was hoping we might revive
our association in the light of a particularly delicate deal I have
in the works. I could have used his—well, no matter. In any
event, when I heard that Mr. Graff offered the automaton

to
Branford first, I was afraid he'd heard rumors of my recent
reversals. A man like Josef Graff wouldn't have wanted to embarrass
me. If he thought I couldn't afford
Le
Fantôme
he
would simply have taken it elsewhere. But I can't afford to let that
sort of thing pass unchallenged. Those sorts of rumors—those
sorts of assumptions about my finances—could prove highly
damaging. Appearances count for a great deal in New York and any hint
of—"

He
cut himself off as Miss Hendricks returned with a white carnation.
"Have you and Mr. Hardeen finished talking about money?"
she asked, threading the flower through her father's buttonhole. "Or
was it some other topic too coarse for my delicate ears?"