Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"So you said this morning. I'm afraid Wilson's isn't the type of establishment where they put out the red carpet for the police."

"How do you mean?" Harry asked.

"You've heard of Jake Stein?"

"The notorious criminal?" Harry's eyes brightened. "The nefarious gangland chieftain?"

"Yes, Houdini," said the lieutenant, rolling his eyes slightly. "That's the one."

"Jake Stein is a habitue of Wilson's saloon?"

"Hardly. No one's seen Jake Stein in years. But he runs every bar and disorderly house down there. A clean officer can't get anything out of those people, and the dirty ones aren't about to bite the hand that feeds them."

"How intriguing," said Harry. "A genuine den of iniquity. Tell me, Lieutenant, if I wanted to have someone killed, is Wilson's saloon the sort of place I might turn?"

"Pardon me?" The lieutenant's mouth twitched with amusement. "You and the wife not getting along, Houdini?"

"My wife is the very center of my existence, sir. Let's say I wished to remove a troublesome business rival. My brother, for instance."

"I don't think you want to have me killed, Harry," I said. "Mother would be very cross."

"I mean a truly first-rate job," Harry continued, ignoring me. "Something that might confuse the police and obscure the motive."

"You're talking about the Graffs," said Lieutenant Murray flatly.

"I am."

He sighed heavily. "You think the Graffs were killed by a hired gun?"

"It seems apparent to me that they were."

"I'm sorry, Houdini, I know these people were important to you, but in all candor-"

"Oh, I don't argue that it was artfully done," my brother said. "That was the reason for my question. Where would I go if I wanted to find someone who could perform such a task?"

"Someone who could kill both of them and make it look like a gang killing and a suicide?"

"Exactly."

"Why, that would take a real magician, wouldn't it, Houdini?"

My brother considered for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I suppose it would."

The two of them debated the matter for some time, with Lieutenant Murray probing us rather more skillfully than we questioned him. I jotted down a good many notes over the course of the discussion, but I noticed that the lieutenant filled many more pages of his pad than I did. He also managed to put away an uncommon amount of whiskey at my expense.

After an hour or so, Lieutenant Murray closed his notebook and rose to take his leave.

"One last thing," Harry said. "If my brother and I should happen across Mr. Harrington, would you be interested in speaking with him?"

The lieutenant's face turned hard. "Don't be a jackass, Houdini. Stay out of my road."

"We meet a good many people in our travels. It's not impossible that we should make his acquaintance,"

Lieutenant Murray leaned across the table and thrust his index finger under Harry's nose. "Houdini," he said, "you are quite possibly the biggest son of a bitch I've ever-"

"Lieutenant," said Harry primly, "I will thank you to leave my sainted mother out of this."

The anger drained from the lieutenant's face. "All right," he said with his short, barking laugh, "but you are the most pig-headed, irritating bas-er-individual I've ever come across."

"You are welcome to your opinion," Harry said.

"I'm grateful for that, Mr. Houdini." The lieutenant settled his hat on his head. "Thanks for the drinks, gentlemen. Now go back to pulling bunnies from top hats. Leave the police work to me." He turned and headed for the door.

Harry watched him go, rolling a coin across his knuckles. "What a most unreasonably stubborn man," he said. "One must be more open to opposing views in this world."

"You don't say."

"Oh, indeed! As our late father often said, 'Toleration is good for all or it is good for none.' "

"I don't recall him ever saying that."

"No? Someone else, perhaps."

"Harry, Lieutenant Murray has just shot down virtually every theory and idea you've had about this business. And he's ordered us to mind our own affairs. You seem to be taking this in remarkably good spirits."

"The lieutenant is not the only source of information in this town," Harry said, smiling happily.

"No," I said, tilting my glass back to finish up the last swallow of whiskey, "there's also the library."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Jake Stein."

A hot jet of whiskey went down the wrong pipe. "Harry," I coughed. "No."

"Why not?" he asked, patting me on the back. "If one cannot get satisfaction from the law, he must turn to the outlaw."

"Harry, this is Jake Stein you're talking about. You don't just pop in for tea with Jake Stein."

"Fine," said Harry brightly. "No tea, then. Just polite conversation." He continued rolling the coin across his knuckles.

Jake Stein is forgotten today, but in our boyhood he was a figure of awe in the neighborhood, a son of immigrants who rose to control much of the criminal activity of the Lower East Side. As children we spoke of him in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of his name would call down fearsome acts of vengeance upon ourselves and our families. "Careful what you say," the older boys would tell us. "Jake's men can hear you."

I studied my brother's open, smiling face. "So, Harry, you want to march into Jake Stein's office, wherever it might be, and ask him if he killed the Graffs?''

"Well, no," he answered, "that might be imprudent. I want to ask him if he knows of anyone else who might have killed the Graffs."

"You know, Harry, I've seen you do a lot of crazy things. I've seen you sink to the bottom of the East River with one hundred pounds worth of manacles hanging off you. I've seen you-"

"I just want to ask him a question. The man knows everything that goes on around him. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them."

"I believe you're thinking of Professor Moriarty. Tell me, why should Jake Stein even agree to see us?"

"Why not? I just want to know if he recognizes the work of a certain killer. He may have an appreciation of such things." He took the coin he had been rolling, held it at his fingertips and then-with a sharp, twitch of a motion-caused it to vanish. "You see that? A perfect back palm. When I see that, I think instantly of the work of T. Nelson Downs, the 'King of Koins.' I have an appreciation of such things. Perhaps it is the same with Mr. Stein."

"You think Stein is a connoisseur of murder?"

He seemed to consider it seriously. "Perhaps, yes. In any event, we must find out or our investigation is at a standstill." He stood up and reached for his coat.

We continued this strange conversation all the way to Mott Street, with Harry refusing to listen to any of my sensible arguments in favor of health and longevity.

"If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times," Harry said, as we stood outside Wilson's saloon, "you have-"

"-no imagination. I know, Harry, I know."

He turned and pushed through the clouded glass doors. I hesitated for a moment, gave a shrug, and followed him in.

At first glance, Wilson's appeared to be a rather nicer establishment than the one we had just left. The floor was clean and the brasswork gleaming, and a row of polished mirrors and gas jets on the far wall gave the room a bright, rosy glow. Only the clientele gave any indication of a less salubrious atmosphere. The scattering of sullen men at the bar, and clustered around the low round tables, gave an unmistakable air of menace.

Incongruously, Harry whistled a happy tune and marched to the bar, where the bartender was mopping the counter with a rag. "I say, good fellow," Harry said brightly, "would you happen to know where we might call upon Mr. Jake Stein?"