Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"I'm just admiring the books, Harry. I suppose I'm wondering how long it would take to read them all."

Harry lifted his head, as if seeing the books for the first time, rather than the shelves. "I have read some of them," he said, gesturing at one of the cases. "Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson. A fine book." He peered intently. "The Master of Ballantrae, also by Mr. Stevenson. I have not read that one. Perhaps I shall."

I squinted at the shelves. "Can you really read those titles from here?"

"Of course! Can't you? Our friend at the ten-in-one is not the only one with telescope eyes." He pointed to a row of books near the ceiling. "There is a complete set of Shakespeare. The green volume on the shelf below is Thackeray's Henry Esmond. Next to it is Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott."

"Hold it," I said. "Harry, I know perfectly well how the 'human telescope' act is done. You memorized those titles while I was flailing away under the wall hanging. Now you're trying to impress me by calling them off as if you're reading them with your telescope eyes. I'm not some boardwalk mark, Harry."

He folded his arms, grinning widely. "You do not believe me?"

"No, Harry. No one has eyes that sharp. Not even you."

"Try me."

I walked to the case and pointed to a leather spine. "What's this?"

"Tristram Shandy," he answered.

"Lucky guess. This?"

"The Vicar of Wakefield."

"This one?"

"The Peregrine Pickle. Perhaps you need spectacles, Dash, you really should be-all right. That one is Clarissa Harlowe, by Samuel Richardson. There is Martin Chuzzlewit. That one is Guy Mannering. That one is…" His voice trailed off. "Extraordinary," he said.

"I should say so. You have the eyes of a hawk."

"No, not that." He stood up and joined me at the center bookshelf. "Guy Mannering," he said, pulling the volume off the shelf. "By Sir Walter Scott."

"Yes, looks as if there's a complete set of Scott here."

"But that belongs over here." He walked to a row of shelves at the other side of the case and threw open the latticework doors. "I saw a copy of Ivanhoe on this shelf. I wonder if-yes! Two sets of Scott! Two copies of Ivanhoe\ Two copies of Guy Mannering!"

"Harry, books are just another form of property to a man like Wintour. He probably bought the second set as an investment. Or as part of a collection. How many copies of Discoverie of Witchcraft do you have?''

"No, Dash. Look-this second set is very high off the ground, so as to discourage the casual browser. Only Houdini, with his sharp eyes and uncanny powers of observation, would even have noticed it." He darted to the corner of the room and seized a rolling library ladder. "Do you not see, Dash? This second set of Scott novels is a mere facade. We are certain to discover that the spine of each volume has been sliced from its binding and fastened together to form a false layer. We often see illusions of this sort in our profession. It appears to be a row of books, but in reality it is a hiding place!"

Harry climbed to the top of the ladder and reached for the suspect volumes. "Behold! Now we shall see what is hidden behind these shelves!"

Harry gave a sharp tug, expecting to uncover a spring-panel, trip-switch, or some other means of concealment. Instead, an entire set of the collected works of Sir Walter Scott cascaded onto the floor. I believe The Bride of Lammermoor hit him on the head. At the top of the ladder, Harry stared at the now-empty shelf in disbelief. "Is it possible?" he asked. "Can it really be perfectly innocent? I simply cannot credit it. Why should the man have two sets of Scott if one of them is not concealing a passageway or a secret compartment?"

"I don't know, Harry," I said. "Perhaps he was uncommonly fond of historical romances."

Harry sat down on the top step of the ladder. "Dash," he said, "there is no secret panel, trap door, or hidden entrance of any kind in this room."

"I was beginning to form that impression."

"Then how did the murderer get in and out?"

"I think we can assume that Wintour knew his killer, and that he opened the door willingly."

"I'll grant you that," Harry said, "though it seems odd that no one else in the household was aware of any visitors. But how did the killer leave the door locked behind him? Someone bolted that door from the inside, and it certainly wasn't Mr. Wintour."

"No," I agreed. "Nor does it seem likely that someone could have arranged a secret meeting with him and then slipped away unnoticed."

"Unless Mr. Wintour himself desired to keep the meeting a secret," said Harry, "which brings us back to the fair Miss Hendricks."

"Yes," I said. "It does, doesn't it?" I walked to the fireplace and scanned the books on the lower shelves. "Let's see… Byron… Wordsworth… Shelley… here we go! Elizabeth Barrett Browning." I pulled a small volume from the shelf.

"Anything there?" asked Harry, climbing down from the ladder.

I flipped opened the front cover to see that the pages had been hollowed out to form a place of concealment. "I guess Mr. Wintour wasn't much of a poetry fan," I said.

"Are those the letters?" asked Harry, peering over my shoulder.

I lifted out a packet of some twenty or thirty envelopes tied with a silk ribbon. The paper was a pale violet hue and heavily scented with perfume. I untied the ribbon and scanned the envelopes. None of them was marked in any fashion. "They must have been delivered by hand," I said, "which means that some third person was privy to their correspondence."

Harry stroked his chin. "Couldn't one of the servants have been running the letters back and forth?"

"Wintour and Hendricks were supposed to be feuding, remember? It would have attracted too much attention if there had been a butler or chambermaid scurrying back and forth. It was probably some mutual acquaintance."

"Hmm. A mutual acquaintance who knew of Mr. Wintour's continued interest in Miss Hendricks. This person could have used this information to arrange a clandestine meeting here in the study."

"My thought exactly."

"Dash, we should read those letters."

"Read them? That's not exactly gentlemanly of you, Harry."

"They may well name the person who acted as courier. It could be a vital clue."

"I admit that, but I don't feel right-"

There was an urgent knock at the doors of the study. "Gentlemen?" called a voice from outside the room. "Are you still in there?"

I shoved the letters in my pocket and slipped the hollow book back onto the shelf. Harry crossed to the doors and unlocked them.

A stocky young man in a checked walking suit stood outside. I recognized him as Henry Gain, the dead man's brother-in-law, whom I had seen at the funeral the day before. He looked to be a year or two short of his thirtieth year-not that much older than Harry and myself-but he carried himself with a certain pompous self-regard that made him seem a great deal older.

"Gentlemen," he said, sweeping into the room, "may I ask why I was not consulted before you made yourself free with my late brother-in-law's rooms?"

"I beg your pardon," said Harry. "We gained permission from Mrs. Wintour. We would not have dreamed of intruding otherwise. I am Harry Houdini and this is my brother Dash Hardeen."

"I'm Henry Grain," he said curtly, ignoring Harry's outstretched hand. "My sister is in no condition to receive callers. Your presence here is an unwelcome intrusion, and I'm afraid I must ask you to leave immediately." The butler appeared in the doorway with our hats and coats. Harry's face began to turn an angry red.

"I regret any distress we've caused," I said, steering Harry toward the door. "Please accept our apologies, along with our condolences."