Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"That's Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."

"Ah! So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."

Biggs and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs. Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."

"I don't recall seeing him last night," I said.

"I wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him, but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to-well, well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat trimmed with netting.

"Steady, Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.

"She's extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to compare."

"There are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to her left-who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."

I fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. "Who is he?" I whispered.

"I can't be certain, but I believe it's Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a wealthy American bride to shore up his family's dwindling fortunes."

"That fellow is a British aristocrat?"

"They don't all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is considered quite a catch, though it's said he's not terribly well-endowed between the ears. Still, he's good-looking enough."

I studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the young Englishman. "She could do better," I said.

"Could she now?" Biggs chuckled. "Ah-here comes the main attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory." A tall, thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle, stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about her, as I've known professional boxers who appeared frail in comparison.

"At the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach," Biggs told me. "That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the marriage didn't agree with her." We watched as Mrs. Wintour paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.

"She'll play this scene for all it's worth," Biggs muttered, "although everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another. She'll be well provided for, though, and she'll never want for company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune."

"Really, Biggs," I said, raising an eyebrow at my friend. "The woman is attending her husband's funeral! Have you always been such a cynic?"

He gave me a wide grin. "I used to be plucky and high-spirited, Dash, but I found it grated on people's nerves." He jerked his head toward the seats. "So there you have it, my friend. The ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne'er-do-well younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?"

"I don't know that any of them killed Wintour," I said, waving aside his facetious commentary. "Certainly the police don't think so."

"Ah, yes!" Biggs said. "The kindly old toy peddler. Let's not forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches of-"

"Biggs," I said, "you really are an ass."

"I've been hoping someone would notice," he said. "Seen enough? I have all I need. We really should make our escape now-before the tributes begin."

We slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth at Timborio's, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. "Order whatever you like, Dash," Biggs said. "The World will see to it."

"Oh no," I said. "That's quite all right."

"You're a valuable resource, Dash. You and your brother are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police department who've been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful Event. If you think I'm letting you roam free, only to be pounced upon by those leeches at the Times, you've another think coming."

"I've already told you everything I can," I said.

"Not everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?" He set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was "quite drinkable," though my knowledge of such things was fairly limited.

"All right, young Theodore," Biggs said when the wine had been decanted, "what makes you and the swaggering Harry think you can solve the Wintour murder?"

"I told you. The police wanted Harry to tell them about the automaton. We're not trying to solve the murder."

"So you said. Forgive me, but everything your brother knows about automatons-or any other subject for that matter-could be printed very comfortably on this wine cork. Your brother could very easily have shared the sum total of his knowledge with the police without pausing to draw breath. He is not, shall we say, a deep thinker. And yet here you are, the faithful brother, racing about trying to scare up information on the Win-tour set. This is more than idle curiosity, I think."

"Mr. Graff-" I began.

"Yes, yes," he waved his hand impatiently. "I know all about Mr. Graff and his charming little toy emporium. That certainly explains why the Handcuff Czar should bother himself in the matter, but what about you, young Dash? Aren't you getting a bit old to be trailing along in Harry's wake?"

"He's my brother," I said simply.

"Dash, I'm aware of that. We grew up together, as you'll recall. And don't tell me again how he dragged you from the East River and saved you from drowning. He tells me himself every time I see him."

"He did pull me out of the East River."

"I know that. But he was also the one who pushed you in, remember?"

I lifted my wine glass and stared into the bowl. "I know that you and Harry have never gotten along," I began. "He can be a bully. He can be arrogant-"

"-if you happen to catch him in a good mood."

I set down my glass. "You don't know him as I do."

"Nor would I care to, based on my past experience of him."

A waiter arrived with our fish course. I waited until he had withdrawn into the kitchen. "Do you see those doors?" I asked, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

"The doors to the kitchen?" Biggs asked, spearing a piece of fish.

"Behind those doors, there will be two or three young boys in shirtsleeves washing dishes over a steaming basin of hot water. Harry and I did that job off and on for fourteen months, usually for five hours at a time, sometimes two shifts a day. At the end of a shift our hands would be so red and shrivelled that my mother would rub them with cooking fat. I was twelve years old at the time."