The Dime Museum Murders (31 page)

They
must have fallen ten, perhaps twelve feet before I heard the taut
zing of the safety wire. They took a hard bounce and bobbed up and
down for a few moments before coming to a lazy, gentle swing at the
end of the wire.

"Are
you all right?" I shouted, cupping my hands to make myself heard
over the rising wind.

Harry,
still upside-down, gave a cheery salute. "Cranston is
unconscious," he called. "I think that went rather well,
don't you?"

We
had a far easier time getting Cranston off the building. I had
brought along a bottle of nerve tonic, and we administered a generous
dose before stuffing him back into Harry's sack. We carried him down
to the street and loaded him onto the back of the coal cart, then
headed back toward his brownstone.

We
debated briefly whether or not to turn him over to Lieutenant Murray,
but in the end we decided that such a course might create unwanted
problems with Jake Stein. Cranston had told us what we wanted to
know; we were happy enough to put him back where we found him.

Dawn
had broken by the time we dragged the sack through the delivery
entrance and carried Cranston up to his own bed. We put what remained
of his money back in the wall safe and removed all remaining traces
of our visit. I stood back and watched as Harry settled the cotton
sleeping cap back onto Cranston's head. "Perhaps when he awakes
he will think it was all a narcotic dream," Harry said.

"Until
he sees those rope burns on his ankles," I replied. "Come
on, Harry, let's go."

Moments
later, as we drove away in the coal cart, Harry looked back at the
brownstone and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "The burning rope
was a brilliant suggestion, Dash," he said. "I thought the
poor man was having an apoplectic fit."

"I'm
surprised he didn't," I replied. "You were quite impressive
up there, Harry."

"I
was, was I not?" he agreed. "A shame that no one witnessed
the display but ourselves. I wonder ..." His eyes drifted upward
at the passing skyline.

We
drove on in silence for quite some time. Whenever I looked over at
Harry, he appeared to be lost in thought. After ten minutes or so, I
cleared my throat.

"Harry—"
I began.

"No,
Dash—don't bother. All that you have to say has already crossed
my mind."

"Then
you know that we're not going to capture Mr. Gittles ourselves."

His
head sank down to his chest. "I know."

"And
you know that we're going to police headquarters to turn the
information over to Lieutenant Murray."

"Yes,"
he said dejectedly. "I know."

I
looked over at him again. "I expected more of an argument,"
I said.

"I'm
tired of arguing with you, Dash."

"I
mean, be reasonable, Harry. The police take a dim view of citizens
who make arrests. What did you think we were going to do? Hog-tie
Gittles and dump him on the steps at Mulberry Street? Maybe with a
little note pinned to his chest—'Compliments of H. Houdini'?"

"No,"
Harry said. "I would have brought him inside."

"It's
not how these things are done in New York."

"Perhaps
they should be," Harry replied with some heat. "You know
perfectly well what will happen when we tell our story to Lieutenant
Murray. He'll fold his arms and shrug his shoulders and tell us to
mind our own business. I can hear him now. 'The police can manage
this investigation quite well without your assistance, Mr. Houdini.'
Honestly, Dash, I don't know why you place such confidence in that
man."

He
pulled his collar up around his chin and would not speak to me for
the rest of the ride to Mulberry Street.

To
his credit, Lieutenant Murray did not tell us to mind our own
business. He didn't even fold his arms or shrug his shoulders. He
listened to our story with frank admiration, and knew better than to
press too hard when
we
glossed over certain details—such as our visit to Jake Stein
and our abduction of Joshua Cranston.

When
we finished, he leaned back in his chair and gave an appreciative
whistle. "Joshua Cranston," he said, with a note of
reverence in his voice. "The two of you got Joshua Cranston to
sing like a nightingale."

"Well,"
said Harry, trying to appear modest, "I suppose we did."

The
lieutenant turned to the desk sergeant who had taken down our
statement in longhand. "When was the last time we hauled Old
Brassnuts in here, Sergeant?"

"I
couldn't say," the sergeant replied. "Can't be more than
three weeks, though."

"He
tell us anything useful?"

"No,
sir."

Lieutenant
Murray nodded. "I didn't think so. But somehow when these two
boys tapped him on the shoulder, he spat out a name. A real, live
name." He shook his head at the wonder of it. "How did you
do it?"

"Well,"
said Harry, perching awkwardly between discretion and boastfulness,
"we—we—"

"We
got him to see things from a fresh perspective," I said.

"All
right," said the lieutenant. "Play it your way. If this
pans out, the New York Police Department will be very much in your
debt. There may even be a citizen's commendation in it for you."
He noted Harry's glum expression and turned to me. "Why's he so
gloomy?"

"He
wanted to bring you Gittles himself."

"Did
he? How'd you talk him out of it?"

"I---"

"I
don't suppose you could take us along when you

arrest
Mr. Gittles?" Harry broke in. "I should like to see this
murderer face to face."

"There'll
be plenty of opportunity for that at the trial, Houdini. I'm afraid
we can't allow civilians to hitch along on an arrest run."

"But—"

"Houdini,
you did the right thing coming down here. If you and your brother had
tried to snatch this Gittles character by your lonesome, he'd have
got himself some fancy-pants attorney and claimed unlawful
detention." He stood up and reached for a leather gun holster
that had been hanging over the coat rack. "I'd like to have you
with us when we nab him, but our hands are tied."

Harry
gave a bitter laugh. "If only our hands
were
tied,"
he said, "that would be the least of my troubles."

Harry
continued to sulk as we left the precinct house and returned the coal
wagon to its rightful owner. "It's just not fair, Dash," he
said as we made our way north to Sixty-ninth Street. "I wanted
to hear the man confess. We earned that right."

He
kept on in this vein for some time, and I managed to ignore most of
it until we found ourselves standing outside the apartment building.
"Get some sleep, Harry," I said. "Then you and I had
better find ourselves some honest work."

"What,
you're not coming in? Mama will have breakfast ready!"

"I'm
bushed, Harry. I just want to crawl into bed for a few hours."

He
shook his head, despairing over the lay-about habits of his younger
brother. "Very well, Dash. Go on home to bed." He sighed
and turned toward the building. "Dash," he called after me,
"try not to sleep your life away."

I
walked the six blocks to my boarding house and wearily climbed the
stairs to my room. I felt exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be able to
sleep. I stripped off my dark clothing, took a quick bath, and
shaved. Then I changed my linen and pulled on a clean suit. I was
back on the street again inside of an hour.

I
caught the elevated train and headed downtown. On the way, I chewed
over what Joshua Cranston had told us that morning. As far as I knew,
every word of it was true. It didn't matter a bit to me. The police
were welcome to Fred Gittles. I wanted to know who hired him. If
Cranston didn't know who was pulling the strings, neither would
Gittles. That was the name I wanted. That was the only name that
really mattered. I didn't know who it was, but I had a hunch.

You
may wonder why I didn't share any of this with my brother. The truth
is, I wasn't quite as much of a lay-about as he imagined. Much as I
loved him, there were times when I would rather have taken that leap
off the Brooklyn Bridge than listened to another moment of his
self-absorbed prattle. There were times when I preferred to be
something other than the brother of the Great Houdini.

It
must have been about nine o'clock by the time I reached the Toy
Emporium. The door was shuttered and the windows were soaped to
discourage gawkers. The police had fastened a warded Hocking padlock
onto the hasp. Luckily, my brother isn't the only one in the family
who's handy with a crescent-pick. I gave a cheery whistle and handled
my pick as if it were a standard key, hoping that any passers-by
would think I belonged there.

I
had the lock open in seconds. I stepped inside and pulled the door
fast behind me. I hadn't been in the store since the discovery of
Mrs. Graff's body, and though I knew her remains had long since been
carted away, I could not suppress a shudder as I peered into the back
room. No evidence remained of the horrors of the previous evening,
apart from a greasy stain on the duck's-egg carpet.

I
pushed back through the curtain into the main section of the store. A
Minotaur Express Steam-Action Electric Train was set up on a display
platform at the center of the room. A heavy black circuit panel sat
on the floor below, with thick, cloth-covered wires snaking upward
toward the track connector points. I reached down and tripped the
swing-lever. The crackle and hum of electricity coursed through the
circuits.

A
wooden panel with seven control knobs sat at one end of the track. I
reached across and turned the knob closest to me. The black cast-iron
locomotive gave a shrill whistle. I turned another knob and the draw
bars strained as the train lurched forward. I watched for several
minutes as the train made a stately progress around the platform,
passing beneath a small trestle bridge and through a miniature town,
complete with a station, post office, and water tower. A pricing slip
dangled from the control box. I reached over and pulled it up. Seven
dollars and fifteen cents. I tried to imagine the life of a boy whose
parents could afford such a toy.

I
switched off the buzzing electricity and unhooked the black
locomotive. I lifted it off the track and copied down the model
number. Replacing the car on the track, I went back into Mr. Graff's
office.

Josef
Graff had been one of the smartest merchants in New York, as he
himself had told us only two nights earlier. I knew that he would not
have stocked such an expensive item if he did not expect to sell two
or three of them, and I also knew that he would have kept a careful
record of each transaction. I pulled open the file drawer of his
battered old desk and found a green stock folder marked with the name
"Minotaur." I pulled it out and spread it on the desk.

I
read through the file carefully—sales receipts, stock orders,
manufacturer's specifications, the works. Then I read it again to be
certain I hadn't missed anything. The specifics were a whole lot more
detailed than I expected. When I finished, I gathered up the
documents and put them back in the drawer. Minutes later, I was back
on the street, the door carefully locked behind me.

It
took about twenty minutes to get to Sixty-ninth Street. I breezed
through the kitchen, said a quick good morning to my mother and Bess,
and headed straight for the back bedroom. "Come on, Harry,"
I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up. Let's not sleep
our lives away."

"What—?
Dash? What are you doing here?"