Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"Are you some type of investigator?" he asked.

"No, sir, I'm not. And I don't wish to burden you at such an unhappy time, but a good friend of mine has been detained in this matter, and I've promised his wife that I would do what little I could to assist in clearing his name."

"Yes," Hendricks said. "Poor old Josef. Are the police still holding him?"

"Yes, sir."

He studied my face, apparently trying to gauge my usefulness. "Hardeen, is it? What sort of name is that? Italian?"

"Hardly, sir. It's a stage name. I make my living, such as it is, as a performer. My brother thought it best if I took a different name. He feels there's only room enough for one Houdini in the world."

"I see. Why don't you walk along with us for a moment, Mr. Hardeen?" He held out his arm to his daughter and I fell in step beside them. "Well, Mr. Hardeen," he continued after a moment, "I don't know what I can tell you that you didn't see for yourself last night, but I'm absolutely certain that Josef Graff had nothing whatever to do with this thing. That man once walked halfway across Manhattan to return four cents to me-a real honest Abe, that one. I tried like anything to put him in my carriage, let my driver take him back home, but he wouldn't hear of it. Said it would end up costing me more than the four cents." He laughed. "We could use more like him in this city."

"You and Mr. Wintour both had dealings with Mr. Graff, didn't you, sir?"

"Oh, certainly," he said. "Though I never felt that Branford got any particular pleasure out of his collection. I sometimes suspected he bought up these things

simply to keep me from getting my hands on them. He had quite a competitive streak."

"When Mr. Graff came across an unusual item, would he usually let you see it first? Or did he take it to Mr. Wintour?"

"Me, I would have said. I tried to make it worth his while."

"Last night, you appeared surprised that Le Fant ф me had been shown to Mr. Wintour without your knowledge."

Hendricks stopped walking and reached into a pocket for his coin purse. "Katherine," he said to his daughter, "would you mind seeing if that flower girl has something for my buttonhole?" He slipped a coin into her gloved hand. It was a transparent device to send Miss Hendricks out of earshot for a few moments, and she frowned at him to show what she thought of it. In spite of her obvious displeasure, she turned without further protest and made her way toward the flower stall at the corner.

Hendricks watched her go, then spoke to me in a lowered tone. "I admit that I was surprised when I heard about the automaton," he said. "A real treasure like that-something with so much history attached to it-I would have expected Mr. Graff to come straight to me. When I heard otherwise I was afraid that-I thought perhaps-," he paused, gazing reflectively at his coin purse. "Well, Mr. Hardeen, I suppose it's no secret that my business has been going through a stormy patch. That's why I happened to be at Branford's place last night. I was hoping we might revive our association in the light of a particularly delicate deal I have in the works. I could have used his-well, no matter. In any event, when I heard that Mr. Graff offered the automaton

to Branford first, I was afraid he'd heard rumors of my recent reversals. A man like Josef Graff wouldn't have wanted to embarrass me. If he thought I couldn't afford Le Fant ф me he would simply have taken it elsewhere. But I can't afford to let that sort of thing pass unchallenged. Those sorts of rumors-those sorts of assumptions about my finances-could prove highly damaging. Appearances count for a great deal in New York and any hint of-"

He cut himself off as Miss Hendricks returned with a white carnation. "Have you and Mr. Hardeen finished talking about money?" she asked, threading the flower through her father's buttonhole. "Or was it some other topic too coarse for my delicate ears?"

"Nothing for you to concern yourself over, my dear," Hendricks answered.

"You're a very exasperating man, Father," Miss Hendricks said. "Don't feel left out, Mr. Hardeen. I've brought a flower for you, too."

"Why-why, thank you," I stammered as she arranged the flower on my lapel.

"There," she said. "You look quite smart now."

"Flowers are very lovely," I said, inanely. Her perfume appeared to be clouding my mind.

"I'll tell you another thing about Josef Graff," Hendricks said as we continued walking. "They'd better let him out of jail soon, because I can't get my train set-up running. He just sold me a big new locomotive with a double set of pilot tracks, and I can't get the blasted thing to work. Need him to come up and show me."

"Compound gears or worm-shaft?" I asked.

He stopped short. "Worm-shaft," he said. "Are you a model train enthusiast, Hardeen? A collector, perhaps?"

"Hardly," I said. "But I used to work for Mr. Graff, and I know my way around the switching yard."

"Just the man I've been needing," he said, patting his daughter's hand. "Come along and have a look at my set-up. We'll give you tea afterwards. Perhaps we can impose upon Katherine to join us, so that you won't find the experience entirely disagreeable."

Mercifully I had fallen a half-step behind them, so that no one saw the bloom of crimson on my cheeks. Miss Hendricks, walking arm-in-arm with her father, appeared to be admiring a row of blossoming trees as if they had amused her in some way.

We walked on for a time while Hendricks chatted enthusiastically about a line of new trains he expected from "those upstarts at Ivers." He solicited my opinion of a new type of collector pivot, and wondered idly whether such a device might have some practical application in the nation's railways. He had just begun to describe the loading ramp of his new lumber car when we reached our destination. "Ah! Here we are," he announced. "Be it ever so humble."

In truth, the structure could only have seemed humble in contrast to the sprawling luxury of the Wintour mansion. Mr. Hendricks's home proved to be a stately four-story wooden manor with a mansard roof and no fewer than seven brick chimneys breaking the roof line. We passed through a black wrought iron gate and followed a tree-lined walk to the front door, which was opened by a uniformed butler as we reached the top of the steps. "Thank you, Becking," said Hendricks as the butler took his hat and coat. "Mr. Hardeen and I will be in the study."

I passed my coat and my Trilby to the butler and followed Hendricks into a room off the main hall. Closing the door, he loosened his tie and headed for a sideboard covered with bottles and decanters. "Now, Mr. Hardeen," he said, rubbing his hands together, "what can I offer you?"

The study made a dramatic contrast to the room where we had seen Branford Wintour's body the night before. Where Mr. Wintour's study had appeared extravagant but sterile, Mr. Hendricks had created a private sanctuary with little regard to appearances. Books lay open on the arms of battered leather chairs. Papers and correspondence were stacked haphazardly on cluttered occasional tables. Stray articles of clothing were draped over the back of a plush sofa. A battered captain's desk stood in a bay window overlooking the street, its surface barely visible beneath an overlay of documents.

"Forgive the mess," Hendricks said. "The housemaid only gets in here once or twice a month. Even that's too often, if you ask me. Now, what can I get you? I'm having a whiskey and soda."

"That will be fine," I said. Hendricks poured two hearty measures of Walker & Sons whiskey into a pair of glasses, then squirted a stream of aerated water from a tall glass gasogene. "Your good health," he said, handing one of the glasses to me.

I raised my glass to return the salute. "This is a splendid room," I said.