The Dime Museum Murders (32 page)

"Get
your pants on, Harry," 1 said. "I know who killed Branford
Wintour."

"At
least tell me where we're going, Dash," Harry said, as our cab
clattered across Broadway.

"Harry,"
I returned, "you can't expect me to divulge the particulars.
It's traditional that the detective remain tight-lipped until he
reaches the scene of the crime."

"But—but
the Toy Emporium is in the opposite direction."

"The
first crime scene, Harry. I said I knew who killed Branford Wintour."

"Is
it not the same man?"

"No,
actually. I don't think so, anyway. We'll know soon enough."

"The
Wintour mansion," he said, as we rolled to a stop outside. "So,
the mystery ends where it began! Tell me, Dash, is Mrs. Wintour the
murderer?"

"Harry,
let's not—"

"The
butler?"

"I---"

"The
brother-in-law?"

I
smiled and put a finger to my lips. "Not another word, Harry."
I climbed down, paid the driver, and

made
my way up the marble steps. Harry followed a few steps behind.

Phillips,
the butler, greeted us with the frigid civility one normally reserves
for bill collectors. "I do not believe that Mrs. Wintour is
expecting you, gentlemen," he said, "unless you've come to
deliver more of your mother's soup?"

"We're
here to see Mr. Crain," I said. "Would you please tell him
that we've brought an answer from our mutual friend, Mr. Harrington?"

"So,
it
is
the
brother-in-law," Harry whispered, as the old butler withdrew
down the main corridor. "I knew it all along!"

"It's
not the brother-in-law," I said. "I just needed an excuse
to get back into Wintour's study. Once we're in, find a reason to
send him out of the room."

"But—"

"Just
think of something, Harry. You're supposed to be the master of
misdirection, aren't you? We need to be alone in the study."

"Very
well." Harry furrowed his brow as Phillips returned with Henry
Crain at his elbow.

"Gentlemen,"
said Crain apprehensively. "I hadn't expected to see you again
so soon."

"I
apologize for the intrusion," I said. "Normally we wouldn't
think of appearing unannounced. Do you recall the matter we discussed
the other day?"

"I
do," said Crain, with a furtive glance toward the butler.

"We
have some rather urgent news in that regard. Perhaps we might discuss
it in the study?"

"I—yes,
I don't see any reason why not. Phillips, I shall be in the study.
See that we're not disturbed."

"Very
good, sir," the butler said, though his expres-

sion
indicated a certain irritation over Crain's highhanded behavior.

"Follow
me, gentlemen," the young man said, leading us toward the study,
"we can have a bit of privacy in here."

"That's
very kind of you, sir," I said. "Again, I apologize for the
imposition."

I
noticed that Crain had now taken possession of his late
brother-in-law's key ring, having apparently wrested control away
from Dr. Blanton. He unlocked the door and showed us into the room,
waving us to a seat in front of the dead man's desk. "Now,
then," he said. "I take it your friend Mr. Harrington is
interested in purchasing these"—he swept his hand toward
the toy collection—"these trinkets?"

"He
is, indeed, sir," I said. "Would you be willing to
entertain an offer?"

"If
the matter can be kept confidential. What sort of offer is Mr.
Harrington prepared to make?"

"A
very generous one."

"Yes,
but exactly how generous?"

"Twenty
thousand dollars."
What
the hell,
I
thought to myself.

Crain's
eyes bulged slightly. "Twenty thousand dollars," he
repeated. "Yes, I believe we might be able to come to an
agreement over that figure. How soon might we be able to make the
transaction?"

"Mr.
Harrington is eager to proceed immediately, if that would be
acceptable."

"Yes.
Yes, it would."

During
this exchange, Harry rose from his seat and wandered over toward the
library table where much of the dead man's toy collection was
arrayed. "This is a

very
interesting item," Harry said, fingering a heavy gold medallion.
"What is it, exactly?"

"I'm
afraid I couldn't say," Crain answered. "I've never seen it
before."

"The
image is most unusual. A stallion of some kind? Well, no matter."
Harry set it down and picked up a cast-iron penny bank in the shape
of a barking dog. "Marvelous," he said, tugging the dog's
tail to work its hinged jaws. "Absolutely marvelous."

"To
return to the matter at hand," Crain said, "as I have
mentioned, I do not wish to upset my sister by involving her in this
business. We shall have to proceed carefully."

"Mr.
Harrington is the very soul of discretion," I said, wondering
how much longer I would have to keep up my end of the conversation. I
shot a look at Harry.

"A
very impressive collection, Mr. Crain," my brother said,
stepping away from the library table. "You're to be
congratulated, sir."

"Why,
I—thank you."

"Dash,"
said Harry, turning to me, "may I have my pills now?"

"Your
pills?"

"Don't
tell me you've forgotten them?"

"I---"

"Never
mind. I'm sure it's nothing. Now then, Mr. Crain, I should like to
offer our assistance in the matter of—of—" Harry
staggered forward suddenly, his hands flying to his throat.

"Mr.
Houdini? Are you all right?"

"I—I'm
sure it's nothing—I"—he pulled at his collar—"you
must forgive me—I should not have—"

"Mr.
Houdini?"

At
this, Harry's eyes flickered and rolled back in his

head.
His shoulders twitched once, then again, as though he were dangling
at the end of a fishing line. A faint, croaking sound escaped from
his lips as his body went limp. He pitched forward onto the carpet,
landing with a heavy thud.

"Harry!"
I cried, springing from my chair.

"Is
he all right?" Crain crouched down beside me. "What
happened?"

I
rolled Harry onto his back. His eyes were open and his features were
composed in an expression of serene resignation. "M-mustn't
blame yourself, Dash," he struggled to say. "Tell Bess—tell
her I love her." A cool glaze came over his eyes and his right
arm flopped onto the floor in front of Crain.

"My
God! Mr. Hardeen, he's not breathing!" Crain snatched up Harry's
arm. "There's no pulse!"

"Get
a doctor!" I shouted. "Find Dr. Blanton! Hurry!"

Crain
leapt to his feet. "I'll be back as quickly as I can!" he
cried. He flung the door open and rushed into the foyer, calling
loudly for Dr. Blanton.

I
stood up and closed the door behind him. Then I lifted a sturdy
ladderback chair and wedged it under the door handle. I walked back
and bent over the fallen form of my brother. His eyes were much
brighter now, and the tranquil expression had broadened into a
gleeful smile.

"Was
that really necessary?" I asked.

He
stood up and brushed off his clothing. "You wanted him out of
the room. He's out of the room."

"Couldn't
you have sent him to fetch a newspaper?"

"Where's
the drama in fetching a newspaper?"

I
had no answer for that. "Come on, Harry, we'd

better
get to work. He'll be back here with Dr. Blanton any second."

"Don't
worry, I can always go back into the act."

"That
shouldn't be necessary." I had crossed the room to make a slow
circuit of the model train platform. "How did you stop your
pulse, by the way?"

"Ah!
An old trick of the Indian fakirs." He reached inside his suit
coat and withdrew the gold medallion he had been admiring earlier.
"This is just the right size and shape. I had it pressed between
my ribcage and the inside of my arm. It temporarily cut off the flow
of blood to my arm."

"Not
bad," I said.

"I
wonder if it would fool a trained physician?"

"Let's
not find out. Come over here, would you?" I had dropped onto my
hands and knees to study the heavy oblong platform upon which the
train set rested. "Here's something we missed when we were
sniffing around yesterday."

"Those
bolts, you mean? I made a note of them. They're simply there to
anchor the pedestal to the floor."

"Not
exactly, Harry. There's a big difference. I wouldn't have noticed if
I hadn't compared this train to the set-up in Mr. Graff's shop. Let
me show you something." I stood up and lifted the black
locomotive and carriage cars off of the train track. "The
Minotaur," I said. "Unusual name for a train, don't you
think? I'm going to set these cars aside for a minute. Do me a
favor—grab that little water tower from the side of the track."

"This
one? What do you need—this is odd. It's stuck.

It's
stuck solid. I can't lift it."

"Try
the switching station."

"It's
fastened down also. How odd!"

"Try
that little horse."

"I
can't budge it."

"How
about that little row of tulips?"

"Dash,
every single item is fixed solidly into place. What's the meaning of
this?"

"It
means that Mr. Wintour didn't want anything to fall off if the
platform changed position suddenly."

"Surely
you don't mean—?"

"I
certainly do."

We
heard a frantic banging at the door. "You in there!" came
Crain's voice. "Why is this door closed? I've brought Dr.
Blanton! Mr. Hardeen? Let us in, please!"