Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"Dash-"

"I'm not trying to impress you with my tale of hard-

ship and woe. Plenty of people come from poor families, and lots of them had it tougher than we did. What I'm saying, though, is that Harry always managed to keep his eye on something better. We'd stand there side by side at the wash basin, and he'd fill my head with stories of the fantastic things we were going to do with our lives-travel the world, have adventures, perform for royalty. Even then, I could always spot a huckster, but my brother was no huckster. He honestly believed that these things were certain to happen. All he had to do, he always said, was to be ready when the time came. So he'd finish washing the dishes and then he'd go home and practice."

"That's the part I've never quite understood," Biggs said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Why did he want to be a magician? Why not an athlete, say, or a captain of industry?"

"Some boys want to grow up to be president. Harry wanted to be Robert-Houdin. I used to take it for granted-having a brother who could produce cakes from an empty hat, or find coins in my nose and ears. It took me some time to realize that not every family had one."

"Dash, I've seen you perform. You're every bit as good a magician as Harry."

"Kind of you to say so, but actually I'm not. No one is. I truly believe he's going to be the most famous man in the world."

Biggs shook his head sadly. "Like Kellar you mean? Or Signor Blitz? Dash, these tricks and stunts will only take him so far. Even the best magicians in the world are still only magicians. Who will remember Kellar ten years from now?"

"I yield to no one in my admiration for Kellar, but Harry is something entirely new."

"The escape artist business, you mean? Dash, not everyone shares Harry's fascination with handcuffs and ropes. I think your brother is betting too heavily on this idea. Will the public pay money to see a man who can- what?-get out of things? It's a strange notion for an entertainment. People tie him up; he escapes. Frankly, I don't see the appeal. There's some novelty, perhaps- like a fire-eater or a circus strong man-but nothing more."

"You think so, do you?"

"I do."

I took another swallow of wine. "There was a locksmith when we were growing up in Appleton-before my father brought us to New York. The locksmith's name was R. P. Gatts, and Harry used to help him take locks apart and put them back together. One day Mr. Gatts let Harry have a big rusty padlock from somebody's old grain locker. Harry took it home and we found a length of chain somewhere, and that's the first time I can remember him ever trying an escape. I wrapped the chain around his wrists and cinched the padlock so tightly that the chain actually bit into his wrists. Harry insisted on that-the chain had to be as tight as possible."

"And he escaped in a jiffy," Biggs said dismissively. "Leaving you wonderstruck."

"No," I said. "He didn't escape that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. But every day for three weeks I wrapped the chain around his wrists and snapped that rusty old padlock into place, and then I'd sit back and watch. One day the neighborhood kids came to the yard to get us for Red Robin, but when they saw Harry strag-

gling with that lock they dropped their sticks and their balls and sat down on the grass beside me. And they came back the next day. Harry pulled and tugged at that chain until his wrists went raw. He kept at it every afternoon until it was time to go in for supper. Then I'd unfasten the padlock and he'd shrug his shoulders and say, 'Same time tomorrow.' Some days his arms would be covered with blood and braises. He never complained. He told our mother he'd fallen out of a tree."

Biggs reached for his cutlery as the gamecock arrived. "Still, he did escape eventually, and you were dazzled, and the neighborhood boys lifted him up and carried him through the neighborhood in triumph. Is that it?"

"No, Biggs, that's the whole point. I honestly don't remember if he ever did escape. All I remember is the struggle. That's where the drama of the thing was. Day after day I sat there on the grass surrounded by our friends and we just watched-mesmerized. These were kids who had no patience for card tricks or coin flourishes. But they spent hours watching Harry-just to see if he could do it." I smiled at the memory. "He was nine years old at the time."

"All right, Dash," Biggs said, "I see your point. But do you really think that a bunch of kids in Appleton is the same thing as a New York audience?''

"So far as Harry is concerned, there's no difference."

Biggs fell silent for several moments, fixing his attention on the food. "You still haven't answered my original question, Dash," he said after a time. "Suppose that everything you say is true. Suppose that Harry is about to conquer the world with his daring feats of escape. Where do you fit in?"

"That should be obvious," I said.

"Enlighten me."

"He couldn't do any of it without me," I said, draining my wine glass. "My brother needs an audience."

When I left Timborio's I still had a good three hours before it would be time to meet Harry at the dime museum. I decided that a walk would clear my head. I set off without any fixed sense of a destination and after a time found myself standing outside the Wintour mansion on Fifth Avenue. Taking up a position across the street, I spent nearly an hour watching as expensive carriages rolled up and a series of well-wishers climbed the steps to pay their respects to the widow.

After a while I rolled a cigarette and began wondering what I was doing there. The answer came to me when I saw Mr. Michael Hendricks and his daughter, the lovely Katherine, coming down the steps from the house. I tossed my cigarette aside and hurried across the street. "Mr. Hendricks?" I called.

He stopped and turned toward me. "Yes? Can I help you, young man?"

If anything, Hendricks appeared even more gaunt and haggard than he had the previous evening. Seeing him at close range, however, I was struck by the bright energy in his eyes. They gave the impression of an eager boy trapped in an old man's body.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, sir," I began. "You see, I-"

"You're the young magical fellow from last night," he said. "You and the other boy-your brother, was it?-the pair of you made quite the fools of New York's finest, I must say."

"I'm afraid my brother can be a bit overly zealous," I said. "We didn't mean to leave the police with egg on their faces."

"Nonsense! The law needs a bit of humbling now and again. Keeps them on their toes. What can I do for you, young man? Houdini, was it?"

"Houdini is my brother. My name is Hardeen. Dash Hardeen."

He stuck out a hand which, to my surprise, was red and rough like a curtain-puller's. "Good to know you, Hardeen," he said, pumping my hand with unexpected strength. "I'm Michael Hendricks, and this is my daughter, Katherine."

I raised my hat to Miss Hendricks and she returned a dazzling smile. A more polished young man might have offered a comment on the weather, or ventured some other remark of topical interest. I chose instead to stand motionless with a frozen rictus of a smile stamped on my features, swaying slightly in the autumn breeze. The power of speech had abruptly fled. It would have taken a keen eye to detect an appreciable difference between myself and a lamp post.

"Mr. Hardeen?" said Hendricks. "Was there something you wanted from me?"

"Yes, sir," I said, struggling to regain my composure. "I wondered if I might ask you one or two questions about Mr. Wintour."