The Dime Museum Murders (33 page)

"We'd
better hurry," I said. I loosened the butterfly bolts that
appeared to anchor the wooden pedestal to the floor. "I hope I'm
right about this, Harry. Come over here and give me a hand."

Harry
joined me at the edge of the train platform. "Now push up at
this end—put your shoulder into it, Harry! Give it everything
you have!"

Harry
and I strained and grunted for a moment or two. Then we heard a
peculiar creaking noise as the entire platform lifted upward.
"Impossible!" Harry cried.

"Not
at all. The whole thing—the pedestal, the train set-up, even
the tiny little wooden tulips—it's nothing more than the hatch
of a giant trap door. No one would ever think of looking for an
opening here, because the train set appears too unwieldy to move."

Harry
shook his head, his eyes glowing with admiration. "It's
astonishing! With the trap door open, the train platform is tilted
completely onto its side. But everything stays as it was—the
track, the water tower, the horse—everything! It's the perfect
camouflage!"

"And
when the trap door drops back into place, you'd never know that
anything had ever been disturbed." I reached out to touch the
tiny figure of a station master, who now stood in a horizontal stance
as though walking up a sheer wall.

Harry
peered into the opening in the floor. A crude wooden ladder led down
into a deep black chasm. We couldn't see the bottom. "It's
enormous! The hole must be six feet square! Where does it go? Why
would anyone build such a thing?"

The
banging at the doors was getting louder. The lad-derback chair I had
wedged in place began to give way. "Grab that lantern off the
desk," I said. "We're going down there."

"But—what's
down there?"

"Something
you won't believe. Something that will make the Blois collection look
like a Delmarvelo Magic Set."

"But—"

"Hurry
up, Harry. I want to be out of here before Crain and Blanton burst
in."

Harry
darted to Wintour's desk and snatched up a large oil lamp. "Move,
Harry! Down the ladder!" He sprang onto the top rang and made
his way downward into the blackness. I grabbed a circular ring on the
inside of the open hatch and followed him down, pulling the trap door
shut behind us. I heard the doors of the study burst open just as the
hatch dropped into place.

Harry
and I stayed motionless for several moments, clinging to the top of
the ladder as our eyes adjusted to the gloom. To our surprise, we
could still hear muffled noise and movement from Wintour's study,
even though the sturdy trap door was sealed in place. Above our
heads, tiny pinpricks of illumination showed through the windows and
doors of the model train station, admitting sound and light.

"Mr.
Hardeen? Mr. Houdini?" Henry Crain's voice reached us as if from
a great distance, though he must have been standing no more than ten
feet away. "Where are you?"

"Where
could they have gone?" came Dr. Blanton's voice. "Phillips?
Did you see them go out?"

"No,
sir," said the butler.

"They
couldn't have left," Crain said with considerable exasperation.
"The door was jammed shut from the inside!"

"Perhaps
we should ring for the police," said the doctor. "This is
the most extraordinary thing since—"

"Yes,"
agreed Crain. "I'll ring for the police."

I
nudged Harry's shoulder with my foot and signalled him to continue
downward. We descended cautiously, our progress illuminated only by
the feeble glow of the oil desk lamp. Neither one of us spoke until
we had descended some twenty feet.

"So
this is how the murderer got in and out," Harry said in a hushed
voice, his eyes fixed on the blackness stretching below us.

"Apparently,"
I said.

"But
this hole is immense! Who built it? And why?" "Obviously
Mr. Wintour built it himself. As to why, if my guess is correct,
we'll know soon enough. Can you tell how much farther down we have to
go?"

Harry
fished a coin from his pocket and let it drop into the blackness. We
heard it clatter against something metal. "Not much more,"
he said. "Dash?"

"Yes,
Harry?"

"You've
changed your mind about who killed Mr. Wintour, haven't you? You
don't think Evan Harrington did it, do you?"

"Fred
Gittles, you mean? I think he's in it up to his eyes. But Jake Stein
told us that there were two killers at work, and I guess the old man
knew what he was talking about." My hands flailed in the dark
for a moment as I nearly lost my grip on one of the rungs. "Fred
Gittles never met Branford Wintour in his life. Wintour was killed by
someone he knew. And whoever that man was, he's the one who hired
Gittles to kill Josef and Frieda Graff."

"But
who? Who killed Mr. Wintour? I can't have been—Dash! I'm at the
bottom! What's down here? This lamp is practically worthless! I can't
see anything!"

I
let go of the ladder as my foot touched dirt flooring. "Stick
close, Harry. If we get lost down here we may never find our way out.
Perhaps our eyes will adjust in a moment or—"

I
saw a brilliant flare of light as something hard slammed against the
back of my head. I felt myself fall, but I don't recall landing.

I
don't know how much time passed. I regained consciousness by slow
degrees, gradually becoming aware of a vast, dark cavern lit by tall
oil torches. Harry lay motionless in the shadows a few feet behind
me, and it was only when I saw his restraints—he was wrapped in
a virtual cocoon of metal chains and leather straps—that I
realized that I was also completely trammelled. I tried to move my
hands, but there was no slack. Cold metal bit into my arms with even
the slightest movement. "Harry?" I called.

"Your
brother isn't awake yet," said a voice from behind me. "I
hear he's clever at getting out of things That's not much use unless
he's conscious, is it?"

"Who—?"
I rolled over towards the sound

"Nice
to see you again, Mr. Hardeen," said Michael Hendncks. "And
welcome to the Fifth Avenue subway station!"

"Harry?"
I said again.

"I
believe your brother may be dead," said Mr. Hen-dricks, as if
remarking on a sudden change of weather. "My associate seems to
have hit him rather hard. I don't know that you've met Mr. Gittles,
have you?" He indicated a short, powerfully built man standing
behind him. "I expect you knew him as Harrington."

My
face was pressed against a clod of hard earth. I strained to lift my
head, but the movement sent a jolt of pain down my arms. Harry didn't
seem to be moving at all. Behind him, I could see a tall stack of
wooden packing cases, along with digging tools, haulage carts, and
building materials. "What is this place?" I asked.

"I
told you. The Fifth Avenue subway station. Or it will be, at any
rate. We're going to build New York City's first underground public
transportation system. See to Mr. Houdini, will you, Mr. Gittles?"

Gittles
stepped forward and nudged Harry with his foot. When Harry didn't
move, Gittles rolled him into a shallow trench behind one of the
torches. Gittles moved toward me, waiting for Hendricks to give the
next order.

"You're
going to put omnibuses down here?" I asked, stalling for time.

"No,
Mr. Hardeen. Trains. Big, beautiful Minotaur trains, all built by
Daedalus Incorporated. That train in my study is no toy. It's a scale
model of the first Minotaur underground train."

"You're
going to build a full-size train and put it underground?"

"Don't
play stupid, Mr. Hardeen. You're not as convincing as your brother. I
know perfectly well that you've been nosing around. Mr. Gittles has
been watching you day and night. When did you figure it out? When you
were going through old Josef's files?"

I
tried to shift position, hoping my head would clear. Tugging at my
arms brought more pain, but no slack whatever. I was wrapped like a
mummy. I doubted if even Harry could escape from these chains,
assuming he was still alive. I squirmed onto my side, straining for a
better view.

"Well,
Mr. Hardeen?" Hendricks shined a lantern into my eyes.

I
figured I'd better keep talking. "Sand," I said.

"Come
again?" Hendricks took a step closer.

"You
wrote up an order for sand. For the fire buckets. What sort of model
train has real sand in the fire buckets?"

Hendricks
considered the question. "Train enthusiasts have a great
appreciation for that sort of detail, Mr. Hardeen. You know that
perfectly well. We could have been planning to put real sand in the
fire buckets."

"Half
a ton of it?"

He
gave out a barking laugh. "Very good! I'm surprised Josef never
noticed!"

"He
didn't know, then? About the underground train?"

"Josef?
No, we let him think we were trying to take over the model train
market. Of course we swore him to secrecy. Bran told him that our
competitors were trying to steal our ideas, and that it would all go
to pieces if he breathed a word of what we were doing."

"But
it doesn't make sense! No toy train design would ever work on a real
railroad! You can't have expected that it would haul passengers!"

"Of
course not, Mr. Hardeen. The design is worthless. There is no train.
But there soon will be."

"I
don't understand."

Hendricks
sat down on, a wooden shipping crate. "It's very simple,"
he said. "Three weeks from tomorrow, Senator Platt is going to
haul his lying, cheating politician's hide in front of the city
control board and announce that he's taking bids for the development
of the New York Underground Transportation Foundation. It's been an
open secret for months now, ever since Boston got its system running.
New York can't be second to Boston, so our trains will have to be
even bigger and better. Platt has all the support he needs; he even
has Tammany Hall behind him. But, of course, Boss Platt being what he
is, he's already grooming one of his cronies for the job, complete
with a hefty gratuity for himself. So what's an honest businessman to
do?"

While
Hendricks spoke, I could hear a faint rattling and clinking of chains
behind me.
Harry,
I
thought to myself.
He's
alive and he's trying to escape.
I
tugged again at my own restraints. Even Harry wouldn't be able to
shake this metal cocoon easily. I figured he'd have a better chance
if I could keep Hendricks talking. "I don't understand," I
said. "If Senator Platt already has one of his own pals lined
up, what's the point of all this?"