Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

It was now apparent that Harry had not gone home after all. "I decided to climb one of the trees across the street," he explained, "so that I would be able to watch the house without drawing attention to myself. It was actually quite comfortable, rather like that leafy old spruce we used to climb in Appleton. In fact, after an hour or so I fell asleep, only to be awakened just moments ago by the arrival of a four-wheeler. Cranston got out and went into the brownstone. Drunk as a lord, I might add."

"You're sure it was Cranston?"

"The coachman addressed him by name."

"Wouldn't we do better to wait until morning?" I asked, reaching for the trousers of my brown wool suit. "He'll be asleep by the time we get back over there."

"Forget the fancy clothes," Harry said. "Wear those old rags from the black art routine."

He was referring to an act we used to do called "Graveyard Ghouls," in which a pair of grinning skeletons were seen to float and dance in a mysterious fashion. Much depended on the machinations of an unseen assistant-myself-who was clothed entirely in black. "What are you planning, Harry?" I asked.

"I simply do not wish to attract attention," he said. "It would not do to appear as a strutting Beau Brum-mel."

I shrugged and clicked the latches on my old costume trunk in the corner. "Wouldn't we do better to wait until morning?" I repeated as I rooted around in the trunk.

"He is seldom abroad in daylight."

"How do you know that?"

"I know a great deal about Mr. Cranston now. He lives alone, he operates almost exclusively at night, he is extremely partial to wine and spirits, and he is suspected in the disappearance of Muggins."

"Muggins?"

"A poodle belonging to Mrs. Roth."

"And Mrs. Roth would be…?"

"She and her husband occupy the neighboring house."

"How did you come to know all this, Harry?" I asked, pulling a heavy black tunic over my head.

"You'll recall that you abandoned me for a time at the very height of our surveillance?"

"Harry, I had to find a water closet."

"I used the occasion of your absence to make myself charming to Mrs. Roth's nursemaid, who was taking little Jeremy for a stroll."

"When were you going to tell me this?"

"When it suited me."

"Harry," I said, buttoning up my black wool trousers, "normal people sometimes have to answer the call of nature. Normal people sometimes get hungry. Normal people sometimes sleep. I realize that such ideas are foreign to you, but-"

"One of us had to remain alert. And see what has come of it? We are now ready to beard the lion in his den. Good Lord, Dash, stop preening! Every moment is crucial!"

I was now dressed and had been running a comb through my hair. "We're going to knock on the door at three in the morning?"

"Not precisely," Harry said. "Come along, I have a carriage waiting."

We left the boarding house on tiptoe so as not to wake the other tenants, and as we reached the street I saw that

Harry had hired an open, two-wheeled coal wagon, though the driver was nowhere to be seen.

"He seemed happy enough to let me use the rig," Harry explained. "Like you, he places his stomach above the demands of work."

We climbed onto the hardwood seat and I took the reins, as Harry was an uncommonly poor driver. I flicked the reins and the horse set off at an easy trot toward Twenty-third Street. It was a beautiful, crisp night, the entire city wrapped in a blanket of sleep. Only the rhythmic clatter of our hooves and wooden wheels broke the stillness. I looked over at Harry, who had pulled the collar of his shaggy astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. His eyes were gleaming. "The curtain is rising, Dash," he said. "The answers are almost within our grasp!"

Within moments we drew up outside Cranston's brownstone. "Now what?" I asked Harry.

"We go to the cellar delivery door," Harry said, swinging a heavy cloth sack onto his shoulder. "If anyone should happen to look out the window, they will assume we are bringing a weight of coal." "At this hour?"

"Mr. Cranston keeps an eccentric schedule," he assured me. "His tradesmen have had to accommodate him. It is the despair of the neighborhood."

I shrugged and walked the horse and wagon down a narrow service alley at the side of the house, stopping in front of a pair of wooden delivery doors. "Just a moment," Harry said, reaching for his lock-picks. "I'll have these doors open faster than-Dash! How did you manage that?"

"They weren't locked," I said, indicating the open doors. "Nobody locks their doors in this neighborhood."

"Oh," Harry looked a bit disappointed as he tucked his lock-pick wallet back into his pocket. "Well, then. Let us proceed."

"Wait, Harry." I put out a hand to stop him. "We're about to break into a man's home. If we're caught, we'll be arrested. Somehow I don't think Mr. Jake Stein will vouch for us at police headquarters. I need to know what we're doing here."

"It should be apparent," Harry answered in a low voice. "Mr. Stein told us that we would need either money or muscle to get what we wanted from Joshua Cranston. We have no money; therefore, we shall use muscle-as only the Brothers Houdini can."

"And how might that be, may I ask? By creeping around in black clothes?" I peered into the darkened coal cellar. "Suppose Cranston keeps a gun?"

"Then we must rely on the element of surprise," Harry said. He pushed past me and climbed down a half-flight of stone steps leading into the house.

I had little choice but to follow as Harry walked toward the center of the coal cellar. He fished around in the cloth sack he was carrying and pulled out his bull's-eye lantern. Lighting the flame, he adjusted the focusing lens into a narrow beam. "Come along," he whispered. "These stairs will lead us up through the kitchen. The master bedroom is on the second floor at the back."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Mrs. Roth's nursemaid told me. She had it from Cranston's valet. Stay behind me."

We crept up the stairs to the kitchen and passed through to a richly decorated parlor. Harry swept the beam of his lantern toward a winding staircase at the front of the house. "Just a moment, Dash," he said, reaching into the cloth sack. "Better put this on." He handed me a strip of black fabric.

It was one of those little domino masks such as Robin Hood or some operatic villain might have worn. "Harry," I whispered, "you're being preposterous! This is the sort of mask you might wear in stage melodrama!"

"We must safeguard our identity," Harry insisted. "Put it on."

"Raffles."

"What?"

"Raffles," I repeated. "You want to wear this mask because Raffles, the gentleman burglar, wears one." My voice had risen dangerously, but I found I was having trouble controlling it.

"Ridiculous," Harry whispered, petulantly.

"That's how you see yourself, isn't it? The Great Harry Houdini, amateur cracksman, slipping away from the ambassador's reception to relieve the duchess of her diamond tiara. Poor old Inspector Murray, the doddering chief of the Surete, has never managed to apprehend our dashing rogue, who always leaves a pair of silver handcuffs as his calling card. Oh, how many times have the hapless officials of-''

"Stop it, Dash!" my brother snapped. "It's not like that at all. I just thought we would need a proper costume if we are to frighten Mr. Cranston. He will naturally assume that we are dangerous burglars and tell us what we wish to know."

"Harry, no real burglar ever wore one of these things."

He fingered the delicate little mask wistfully. "Let us put them on anyway," he said.

"Suit yourself," I said, shoving mine into my pocket. "But why stop there? Think how frightened Cranston will be if he sees you twirling the ends of a wax moustache."

Harry gave the mask another mournful look. "You have no imagination, Dash," he said, slipping it back into the cloth sack.