Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"But-" said my brother. "We haven't-"

"Come along, Harry. I'm sure Mr. Grain is a very busy man."

"One moment,'' the young man called after us. Harry and I paused in the doorway. "What were you hoping to find in there?"

"Your sister didn't tell you?" Harry asked.

"She mentioned some absurd notion involving a secret corridor," Grain said scornfully. "You can't expect me to believe that was your real purpose in coming here?"

Harry opened his mouth to object and I gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with my index finger. "You're quite right," I said, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. "We're here on behalf of Mr. Harrington."

Harry's eyes widened with alarm. I gave him another poke in the ribs.

"Harrington?" said Grain. "The name means nothing to me."

"May I speak in confidence?" I asked.

Grain narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Would you give us a moment, Phillips?" The butler nodded and withdrew. "I'm a busy man, Mr.-what was it?"

"Hardeen."

"Yes. I'm a busy man, so I think you'd best come to

the point."

"Your late brother-in-law had a fine collection of mechanical toys and automatons," I said.

"I'm aware of that, sir. One of the damned things killed him."

"Mr. Harrington takes a very keen interest in automatons," I said. "A very keen interest."

"Go on."

"Perhaps Mr. Wintour's collection has a sentimental value for you and your sister. If so, we won't impose ourselves upon you any longer. If not…?"

I let the half-formed question hang in the air. Grain hesitated for a moment, then motioned us back into the study and closed the door behind us. "See here," he said, "are you saying that this Mr. Harrington will pay good money for these trinkets?"

"It's his business."

He glanced over at the array of wind-up figures on the library table. "You have some cheek, sir. You came in here with a cock-and-bull story about examining the study, but really you just wanted to size up my brother-in-law's valuables."

I turned to make for the door. "I can see that you won't be interested in dealing with Mr. Harrington," I said. "I apologize again if we've given offense. Come along, Harry."

"Wait!" the young man cried. "Wait just a moment." He looked around as though there might be someone else in the room. "I won't entirely rule out the possibility of a transaction," he said in a lowered tone, "but it would have to be done in strictest confidence."

"Of course," I said.

"How do I contact this Mr. Harrington?"

Harry bit his lip nervously.

"Well," I said, "Mr. Harrington is an extremely private person, like yourself. He prefers to work through

intermediaries. May we tell him that you would be willing to entertain an offer?"

Grain considered for a moment. "All right," he said, "but you'll have to be discreet. Do you understand?"

"I believe so, sir," I said. "You'll be hearing from us shortly."

"Very well." He led us out of the study and showed us to the front door. "And one last thing, gentlemen."

"Yes?"

"There's no need to mention any of this to Mrs. Wintour. Good day, gentlemen." With that, he closed the door behind us.

Harry waited until we had rounded a corner before speaking. "That man-" he began.

"I know, Harry, I know. You think that Henry Grain killed Branford Wintour." "Well, don't you?"

"If so, then he did it without any assistance from our friend Harrington. How do you explain that? Are you going to tell me that the entire business of Mr. Graff and the automaton was just a coincidence?"

"Of course not! He's bluffing! He knows perfectly well who Mr. Harrington is, for the simple reason that he himself is Mr. Harrington! He arranged the sale of Le Fant ф me as a clever pretext in order to-"

"Harry, the only thing we know about Mr, Harrington is that he looks something like you. Henry Grain does not look like you. Benny the Human Skye Terrier looks more like you than he does."

Harry frowned. "It was dark when Mr. Graff met with

Harrington," he said. "Harry."

"All right. But he could easily have hired this Mr. Harrington to do his dirty work for him. You have to admit that he has a powerful motive. He seems to be making himself very free with the dead man's treasures."

"I'll grant you that," I said.

"Seems to me there's only one way to be certain," Harry continued.

"How's that?"

"It should be obvious, Dash," Harry said. "We'll have to find Mr. Harrington and ask him for ourselves."

"You'll do no such thing," said Bess, tugging at the collar of her cloth winter coat. "Have you forgotten that this Mr. Harrington may well have killed Mr. and Mrs. Graff? You can't just go chasing after him like some sort of cowboy! Leave Mr. Harrington to the police!"

"I'm not afraid of Harrington, Bess," Harry said in a level tone. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"I know that, Harry," Bess answered. "I'm afraid for both of us."

We had just been to see the rabbi about funeral arrangements for the Graffs, which had left Harry in a despondent humor. "Don't you see, Bess? It's my fault that the Graffs are dead. I should have saved them."

"Saved them?" I asked, settling my trilby on my head. "I think you're being a little hard on yourself, Harry."

"Am I? Exactly what have I accomplished in these past few days? I failed to foresee the danger to Mr. and Mrs. Graff; I failed to arrive at any solution to the puzzle of Mr. Wintour's study; I failed to escape from the holding cell at police headquarters. Nothing but failure! I was

a fool to walk away from Huber's Museum. Even that modest rung of show business may yet prove too great for my talents. Dime Museum Harry. Perhaps that's all I'll ever be."

"Harry, you're just-"

"I believe I shall return to the tie-cutting factory on Broadway, if they will have me. Perhaps there is a position that would not tax the skills of the Great Hou-dini." He thrust his hands out and made a clipping motion, as if working a pair of shears. "Snip, snip," he said. "In the future I might do better to rely on my hands, rather than my brain."

Bess clutched his arm and laced her fingers through his. "Harry, you are behaving like a little boy. This must stop." My brother looked wounded at this, but said nothing. I fell in step behind them, marvelling once again over my sister-in-law's ability to quiet Harry's tempers. Up to this stage of his life, my brother had done very well behaving like a little boy, with Mama there to stroke his brow and make his cares disappear. Bess, whose fire and spirit had so attracted him during their courtship, would not stand for childishness. "I am not your mother," I often heard her say, "I am your wife."

We walked on for a time in silence, with Bess pausing every so often to look in a shop window.

"Harrington is the key," Harry said, as we climbed aboard a horse-drawn omnibus. "Once he learned that Lord Wycliffe possessed a valuable automaton, he used Mr. Graff to establish its authenticity. Through Mr. Graff, Harrington gained an entree into the reclusive Mr.Wintour's private study-which, I must assume, had been his object from the beginning."

"It's not a bad theory," I said, straggling to keep my footing as the omnibus lurched forward. "But where's the motive? Why should Harrington kill Wintour?"

"There are endless possibilities," Harry sighed. "Money. Revenge. A woman. When we find Harrington we will have our answer."

"Lieutenant Murray will find him soon enough," I said, as we found seats at the back. "He'll act on the information we got from Lord Wycliffe."