The Dime Museum Murders (29 page)

As
I recall, the dream I was having found me strolling arm-in-arm along
Sixth Avenue in the company of Miss Katherine Hendricks, who seemed
to find me handsome and fascinating to a degree that surprised us
both. We had just paused to admire the window displays at
Simpson-Crawford when she turned to me with a coquettish giggle,
squeezed my hand, and said, "Dash! Wake up!"

I
pulled a pillow over my head. "Go away, Harry."

A
hand—definitely not Miss Hendricks's—shook me by the
shoulder. "Come on, Dash! The game's afoot!"

I
threw the pillow aside and blocked my eyes against the light of
Harry's bull's-eye lantern. "Haven't you been to bed yet, Harry?
What time is it?"

"A
little past midnight."

I
fumbled for my Elgin on the table beside my bed. "It's three
o'clock!"

"Is
it? Well, that's all the better. Come on, get dressed! Mr. Cranston
has finally returned!"

It
seemed pointless to argue, since he would have stood there shaking my
shoulder until morning anyway.

I
swung my feet onto the floor and padded over to the wash basin,
poured some cold water out of the jug, and splashed my face. Slowly,
the events of the previous day came back into focus.

We
had spent the evening lounging outside a brown-stone on Twenty-third
Street, trying to look inconspicuous. The brownstone belonged to a
Mr. Joshua Cranston, whose name and address had been on the slip of
paper that Jake Stein had given us. For a time we idled on a wrought
iron bench directly across the street, but after an hour or so we
feared we would be taken for vagrants. We began strolling around the
block, in the manner of two young swells seeking "healthful
exercise" along a route that happened to bring them down the
same street every three minutes. Soon enough we began to attract
unwanted attention from the neighborhood doormen. We returned to the
bench across the street, artfully concealing ourselves behind a late
edition of the
Herald.

Almost
from the moment we left Jake Stein's presence—his goons,
apparently satisfied by our vow of secrecy, had not insisted on
blindfolds—I had debated with my brother over the wisdom of
pursuing Joshua Cranston. I did not relish the idea of being beholden
to a gangland figure, and I sensed that Stein was using us as pawns
in some private agenda. Harry brushed aside my objections. "In
this world," he told me, "the big thief condemns the little
thief."

As
night fell, and no lights came on inside the brown-stone, we began to
suspect that no one was at home in the Cranston residence. We kept
watch for two more hours, by which stage my complaints of hunger had
reached a pitch that even Harry could not ignore. We agreed to
withdraw for the night and resume our vigil in the morning.

It
was now apparent that Harry had not gone home after all. "I
decided to climb one of the trees across the street," he
explained, "so that I would be able to watch the house without
drawing attention to myself. It was actually quite comfortable,
rather like that leafy old spruce we used to climb in Appleton. In
fact, after an hour or so I fell asleep, only to be awakened just
moments ago by the arrival of a four-wheeler. Cranston got out and
went into the brownstone. Drunk as a lord, I might add."

"You're
sure it was Cranston?"

"The
coachman addressed him by name."

"Wouldn't
we do better to wait until morning?" I asked, reaching for the
trousers of my brown wool suit. "He'll be asleep by the time we
get back over there."

"Forget
the fancy clothes," Harry said. "Wear those old rags from
the black art routine."

He
was referring to an act we used to do called "Graveyard Ghouls,"
in which a pair of grinning skeletons were seen to float and dance in
a mysterious fashion. Much depended on the machinations of an unseen
assistant—myself—who was clothed entirely in black. "What
are you planning, Harry?" I asked.

"I
simply do not wish to attract attention," he said. "It
would not do to appear as a strutting Beau Brum-mel."

I
shrugged and clicked the latches on my old costume trunk in the
corner. "Wouldn't we do better to wait until morning?" I
repeated as I rooted around in the trunk.

"He
is seldom abroad in daylight."

"How
do you know that?"

"I
know a great deal about Mr. Cranston now. He lives alone, he operates
almost exclusively at night, he is extremely partial to wine and
spirits, and he is suspected in the disappearance of Muggins."

"Muggins?"

"A
poodle belonging to Mrs. Roth."

"And
Mrs. Roth would be ... ?"

"She
and her husband occupy the neighboring house."

"How
did you come to know all this, Harry?" I asked, pulling a heavy
black tunic over my head.

"You'll
recall that you abandoned me for a time at the very height of our
surveillance?"

"Harry,
I had to find a water closet."

"I
used the occasion of your absence to make myself charming to Mrs.
Roth's nursemaid, who was taking little Jeremy for a stroll."

"When
were you going to tell me this?"

"When
it suited me."

"Harry,"
I said, buttoning up my black wool trousers, "normal people
sometimes have to answer the call of nature. Normal people sometimes
get hungry. Normal people sometimes sleep. I realize that such ideas
are foreign to you, but—"

"One
of us had to remain alert. And see what has come of it? We are now
ready to beard the lion in his den. Good Lord, Dash, stop preening!
Every moment is crucial!"

I
was now dressed and had been running a comb through my hair. "We're
going to knock on the door at three in the morning?"

"Not
precisely," Harry said. "Come along, I have a carriage
waiting."

We
left the boarding house on tiptoe so as not to wake the other
tenants, and as we reached the street I saw that

Harry
had hired an open, two-wheeled coal wagon, though the driver was
nowhere to be seen.

"He
seemed happy enough to let me use the rig," Harry explained.
"Like you, he places his stomach above the demands of work."

We
climbed onto the hardwood seat and I took the reins, as Harry was an
uncommonly poor driver. I flicked the reins and the horse set off at
an easy trot toward Twenty-third Street. It was a beautiful, crisp
night, the entire city wrapped in a blanket of sleep. Only the
rhythmic clatter of our hooves and wooden wheels broke the stillness.
I looked over at Harry, who had pulled the collar of his shaggy
astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. His eyes were gleaming. "The
curtain is rising, Dash," he said. "The answers are almost
within our grasp!"

Within
moments we drew up outside Cranston's brownstone. "Now what?"
I asked Harry.

"We
go to the cellar delivery door," Harry said, swinging a heavy
cloth sack onto his shoulder. "If anyone should happen to look
out the window, they will assume we are bringing a weight of coal."
"At this hour?"

"Mr.
Cranston keeps an eccentric schedule," he assured me. "His
tradesmen have had to accommodate him. It is the despair of the
neighborhood."

I
shrugged and walked the horse and wagon down a narrow service alley
at the side of the house, stopping in front of a pair of wooden
delivery doors. "Just a moment," Harry said, reaching for
his lock-picks. "I'll have these doors open faster than—Dash!
How did you manage that?"

"They
weren't locked," I said, indicating the open doors. "Nobody
locks their doors in this neighborhood."

"Oh,"
Harry looked a bit disappointed as he tucked his lock-pick wallet
back into his pocket. "Well, then. Let us proceed."

"Wait,
Harry." I put out a hand to stop him. "We're about to break
into a man's home. If we're caught, we'll be arrested. Somehow I
don't think Mr. Jake Stein will vouch for us at police headquarters.
I need to know what we're doing here."

"It
should be apparent," Harry answered in a low voice. "Mr.
Stein told us that we would need either money or muscle to get what
we wanted from Joshua Cranston. We have no money; therefore, we shall
use muscle—as only the Brothers Houdini can."

"And
how might that be, may I ask? By creeping around in black clothes?"
I peered into the darkened coal cellar. "Suppose Cranston keeps
a gun?"

"Then
we must rely on the element of surprise," Harry said. He pushed
past me and climbed down a half-flight of stone steps leading into
the house.

I
had little choice but to follow as Harry walked toward the center of
the coal cellar. He fished around in the cloth sack he was carrying
and pulled out his bull's-eye lantern. Lighting the flame, he
adjusted the focusing lens into a narrow beam. "Come along,"
he whispered. "These stairs will lead us up through the kitchen.
The master bedroom is on the second floor at the back."

"How
do you know that?" I asked.

"Mrs.
Roth's nursemaid told me. She had it from Cranston's valet. Stay
behind me."

We
crept up the stairs to the kitchen and passed through to a richly
decorated parlor. Harry swept the beam of his lantern toward a
winding staircase at the front of the house. "Just a moment,
Dash," he said, reaching into the cloth sack. "Better put
this on." He handed me a strip of black fabric.

It
was one of those little domino masks such as Robin Hood or some
operatic villain might have worn. "Harry," I whispered,
"you're being preposterous! This is the sort of mask you might
wear in stage melodrama!"

"We
must safeguard our identity," Harry insisted. "Put it on."

"Raffles."

"What?"

"Raffles,"
I repeated. "You want to wear this mask because Raffles, the
gentleman burglar, wears one." My voice had risen dangerously,
but I found I was having trouble controlling it.

"Ridiculous,"
Harry whispered, petulantly.

"That's
how you see yourself, isn't it? The Great Harry Houdini, amateur
cracksman, slipping away from the ambassador's reception to relieve
the duchess of her diamond tiara. Poor old Inspector Murray, the
doddering chief of the Surete, has never managed to apprehend our
dashing rogue, who always leaves a pair of silver handcuffs as his
calling card. Oh, how many times have the hapless officials of—''

"Stop
it, Dash!" my brother snapped. "It's not like that at all.
I just thought we would need a proper costume if we are to frighten
Mr. Cranston. He will naturally assume that we are dangerous burglars
and tell us what we wish to know."

"Harry,
no real burglar ever wore one of these things."

He
fingered the delicate little mask wistfully. "Let us put them on
anyway," he said.

"Suit
yourself," I said, shoving mine into my pocket. "But why
stop there? Think how frightened Cranston will be if he sees you
twirling the ends of a wax moustache."

Harry
gave the mask another mournful look. "You have no imagination,
Dash," he said, slipping it back into the cloth sack.

Flinging
the sack over his shoulder, Harry began a cautious ascent of the main
staircase, clinging to the bannister and trying to lighten his tread
on the potentially creaky floor boards. I followed suit, though it
seemed to me that we had already made enough noise to rouse the dead.