The Dime Museum Murders (22 page)

Harry
dropped to his knees, his mouth working convulsively, though he made
no sound. He pressed his fists to his temples as if to force the
terrible scene from his mind. O'Donnell gripped the bars of the cell,
his eyes moving from the dead man to my brother to the lock-picks
scattered on the floor.

I
fell back against a bare brick wall, unable to catch my breath. My
head swirled with questions, but one thing had become perfectly
clear.

My
brother and I were no longer playing a game.

"All
right, Houdini," Lieutenant Murray said. "Let's have it
from the beginning."

Harry
laced his fingers around the coffee cup he had been clutching for
three hours. "1 can add nothing to what I have already told
you."

The
lieutenant turned to me. "How about you, Har-deen? Anything to
add?"

"I'm
happy to go over the details again, if I can be helpful."

He
looked at us both, his expression wavering between dark suspicion and
genuine curiosity. We had been sitting at a table in the police
interview room for the better part of the night, relating the events
of the evening for perhaps seven different officials. The lieutenant
had listened attentively to each reiteration, apparently uncertain as
to our motives and trustworthiness. Two floors below us, a team of
police investigators combed through the cell where Josef Graff had
died.

"Tell
me again how you knew that the old man was in danger," Murray
said.

"It
was obvious," Harry replied. "Mrs. Graff had

been
killed. Clearly the murderer felt it necessary to silence her. He
would not kill the wife and leave the husband to talk."

The
lieutenant nodded. "So you've said. But with respect, Houdini,
Mrs. Graff's murder looks a whole hell of a lot like the work of a
gang. Hit over the head, cut up the side. Gang boys. Irish. Italian.
We see this sort of thing often enough, though it doesn't always make
the papers. All those immigrant neighborhoods packed together.
There's always a bad element, always young people looking to make
trouble."

Harry
stared listlessly at a map of the city pinned to the wall across from
him.

"And
Mr. Graff," Murray continued, "that looks to have been a
suicide. There was even a note pinned to his chest. 'Forgive,' it
said. It would have been natural enough for the old man to take his
own life. He felt disgraced—you said it yourself, Houdini—and
his wife's death would have pushed him over the edge. My superiors
are tempted to close the book on the whole thing. Chalk up Graff's
suicide as an admission of guilt in the Wintour killing."

"You
don't believe that, Lieutenant," Harry said with quiet
certainty.

The
lieutenant let out a heavy sigh. "No, I don't." He stood
up, linking his hands behind his back as he walked to a grimy window.
"I might have believed it, if you two hadn't stirred up the
waxworks. But now? The timing is wrong."

"Timing
is very important in my business," Harry said.

"No
one was due to check the cells until tomorrow morning. By then, there
might have been time for Graff to have heard about his wife.
Possibly. If her body had
been
discovered last night, one of his neighbors might have brought him
word; shouted it up to him through the alley window. We would have
had no way of knowing one way or the other. It probably would have
been ruled a sucide."

"I'm
not sure I see the problem," I said. "The killer must have
been seen entering the building. Mr. Graff was dead when we got
there, so he must have been killed sometime before midnight. The
killer would have had to pass Sergeant O'Donnell in order to get down
to the cells."

Lieutenant
Murray laced his fingers behind his neck. "You'd think so,
wouldn't you?"

"What
do you mean?"

"A
few minutes before eleven, a pretty young girl comes running through
the doors of the station house. She says her poor aged mother has
turned her ankle just outside and please, Mr. Policeman, could you
help us get home? Well, this young lady is such an attractive
creature, and Sergeant O'Donnell is such a courtly gentleman, that he
leaves his post and helps the girl with her elderly mother. Must have
been gone for half an hour or so."

"Leaving
the desk unattended," I said.

"Precisely."

"He
never thought to check the cells when he returned?"

"I
gather it's not the first time the sergeant has deserted his post. He
had no reason to think anything was out of order."

"In
theory, then, Mr. Graff wouldn't have been discovered for another six
or seven hours." I tilted back in my chair. "We only found
Mrs. Graff's body because we were supposed to be meeting this
Harrington character. She might have been there for days before
anyone found her."

"She'd
have been found last night," Murray said. "We got a call,
someone reporting a disturbance. The roundsman was on his way to have
a look when he spotted the two of you tearing out the front door,
looking guilty as hell." He turned away from the window. "If
you hadn't run straight to a police station, I'd have you under lock
and key for killing the old lady."

"Why
that's the most—!"

"Harry,
we were seen fleeing from the store. It would have been a natural
conclusion."

Harry
folded his arms and glowered.

I
turned back to the lieutenant. "Is it possible that whoever
killed Mrs. Graff was attempting to pin her murder on us?"

"Three
bodies in two days," Murray said, ignoring my question. "All
connected to this little toy."

"A
very expensive toy," Harry said.

"Three
people. A lot of killing over one little toy."

"As
I have said," Harry continued, "it may be only one of—"

"I
know, I know. A valuable cache of magical treasures. I still don't
buy it. Whoever killed Wintour is covering his tracks. He didn't want
the Graffs to be able to identify him. Still—" he leaned
across the table, his palms flat on the scarred surface. "You're
sure the wife never saw this guy?"

"Yes,"
said Harry. "She said he only came to the shop late at night.
What else did she say? Oh, yes. She said that he was 'a queer bird.'"

Murray
let out another sigh. "That's wonderful. I'll just comb the city
until I find a queer bird." He jerked his head suddenly toward
the door. "All right, gentlemen, I'm through with you for the
night. Stay out of my way and don't bring me any more bodies."

Harry
opened his mouth to reply but I grabbed him by the shoulder and
pulled him out into the night.

We
walked in silence to Mother's apartment building. When we got there,
I could see the outline of Bess standing in the window, waiting for
Harry. He glanced up at the window. "Tomorrow we begin again to
look for Mr. Harrington," he said. "Call for me in the
morning."

I
nodded. "What about the dime museum?"

"I'll
send a wire in the morning," he answered. "I have a new job
now." He turned and walked into the building. I waited, looking
up at the shadow in the window. After a moment, I saw Harry fold his
arms around her. I turned and jammed my fists into my pockets,
keeping my head down as I walked the six blocks to the boarding
house.

The
following morning at half past nine, Phillips the butler answered our
knock at the door of the Wintour mansion. "Mrs. Wintour is
expecting you," he told us, as if surprised by this information.

The
butler conducted us through the vast entry hall and down a wide
corridor lined with Impressionist paintings and Chinese urns. There
was also a suit of armor clutching a pikestaff, and one of those big
glass domes with a stuffed pheasant in it. I half-expected to see the
eyes in one of the paintings follow our progress down the hall.

At
the far end of the corridor Phillips opened a set of double doors
into the family greenhouse, a two-story glass cathedral filled to
capacity with exotic plants and trees. Mrs. Wintour, wearing
traditional black and a veil of thin netting, sat at a small glass
table some twenty
yards
away. Dr. Blanton, looking somber in a gray frock-coat, hovered at
her elbow.

The
butler announced us and withdrew as Mrs. Win-tour extended her hand
in our direction. Harry crossed the distance to the table in a
graceful sliding run and raised the hand to his lips, clicking his
heels as he did so. I contented myself by removing my hat.

"It
is kind of you to see us, Mrs. Wintour," said my brother. "I
know how difficult it must be for you to receive callers at such a
time."

"Indeed,
Mr. Houdini. But your note was so kind, and the flowers were so
lovely. If I can help in any way, I feel I must."

Biggs
had been right about the abrasiveness of Mrs. Wintour's voice. A
drowning cat would have been positively tuneful in comparison. Even
Harry, with his face composed in a mask of sympathetic charm, could
not entirely conceal a wince. "Your courage is an inspiration,"
he said. He held out a covered bowl he had been cradling beneath his
arm. "My mother wished you to have this," he said.

Mrs.
Wintour tugged at a corner of her veil. "What is it, may I ask?"

"Chicken
soup."

The
widow hesitated, apparently trying to decide whether to find the
gesture charming or gauche. After a moment, a crooked smile broke
across her features. "Please set it down here, Mr. Houdini,"
she said, gesturing at the glass table. "It is really too kind
of your mother. You must tell her how exceedingly grateful I am."

Harry
smiled and nodded.

"Forgive
me," Mrs. Wintour continued, "I have been rude. May I
introduce Dr. Blanton, my personal physician?" She indicated the
grim figure at her side. "My nerves are in a bit of a state at
the moment, and he has been seeing to them."

"Of
course. We met Dr. Blanton the other night." Harry and I nodded
at the doctor, who gave no more response than the suit of armor in
the hall.

"May
I offer you tea?" Mrs. Wintour asked. She had raised her veil
and placed a lorgnette to her eyes, giving my brother a frank
appraisal. She seemed to be warming to him by the moment.

"We
will not impose on you any longer than necessary," Harry said.
"We merely wished to gain your consent to examine your husband's
study."

"Bran's
study? Whatever for?"

"To
uncover a means of slipping in and out without disturbing the locks."

"The
locks? Percy?" She glanced uncertainly at Dr. Blanton.

The
doctor cleared his throat. "It would appear these men wish to
ascertain if anyone might have entered Branford's study and—I
mean—on the night in question."