Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

Flinging the sack over his shoulder, Harry began a cautious ascent of the main staircase, clinging to the bannister and trying to lighten his tread on the potentially creaky floor boards. I followed suit, though it seemed to me that we had already made enough noise to rouse the dead.

At the top of the stairs we could hear the steady, two-note drone of a sleeping man snoring lustily. Harry flicked the shade on the bull's-eye lantern, masking the beam. Creeping to the door of the master bedroom, Harry nudged it open with his foot.

Cranston lay on his back at the center of a sprawling four-poster bed. He wore silk pajamas and a cotton night cap, and his hands were clasped contentedly over the modest bulge of his stomach.

"He doesn't look much like a killer, does he?" Harry whispered.

"He doesn't look as if he'd harm a fly," I answered. "Or Muggins the poodle, for that matter."

Harry passed me the lantern. "There's only one way to find out. When I give the signal, shine the beam in his eyes. I'm going to give him the fright of his life." He crept to the sleeping man's side and raised his arms in the manner of an animal about to pounce. "Now, Dash!"

I snapped the lantern's shade open and beamed the light onto Cranston's face. At the same time, Harry filled his lungs with air and let out the fearsome growl he had perfected as Yar, the primitive strong man of the dime museum circuit. "Joshua Cranston!" he shouted. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"

Cranston didn't stir. The snoring continued without interruption. Harry furrowed his brow. "He appears to be an uncommonly sound sleeper," Harry said at a more normal volume. He seized the sleeping man by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Cranston began to mumble and swipe at his eyes, as if to bat away the beam of the lantern. "Joshua Cranston!" Harry shouted at an even louder pitch. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"

The sleeping man muttered something that concerned a woman named Dolores, then rolled over and resumed snoring.

I swept the lantern beam to a low table beside the bed. "Harry," I said.

"Wait just a minute, Dash." He gripped the edge of the mattress and gave it a mighty heave upward. Cranston rolled off the opposite edge and onto the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. "Joshua Cranston!" he thundered. "Your day of judgement has arrived! Turn and face your accusers!"

Cranston flailed about groggily for a moment, found his pillow, and went back to sleep. "Harry," I said, "it's going to take more than judgement day to wake this man up." I held out a blue-glass vial.

"What is it?" Harry asked, pulling the cork stopper. "It smells vile!"

"Grunson's Nerve Tonic," I said. "An efficacious and healthful remedy for the treatment of persistent neuralgia and wakefulness."

Harry shoved the stopper back into the vial as if squashing a bug. "So. He is drugged."

"Heavily."

"How long before we can wake him?"

"No way of knowing."

"An hour?"

"At least."

Harry nudged the sleeping man with his foot. "Dash, I have a rather interesting idea."

Two hours later, Joshua Cranston began to stir.

As he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware that much had changed while he was under the influence of his sleeping draught. For one thing, he was no longer in his bedroom. For another, his legs were securely tied. Also, he was dangling head-down from a crane atop the Bayard Building, twelve stories high, looking straight down onto Bleecker Street.

When his screams subsided, he became aware of my brother Harry, dangling head-down beside him at the end of a sturdy rope.

"Good morning, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "Tell me, whatever became of Muggins the poodle?"

Mr. Cranston continued screaming for some time. His voice seemed to ebb and flow in the strong winds whipping around the top of the building, and there was a certain fascination in listening to the sound fall away, like a stone disappearing into a well. Tall buildings were not so common then as now, and from our lofty vantage atop the Bayard Building, which had only just been completed that year, we seemed to be looking down on a sleeping village at the foot of some majestic mountain. It made for quite a peaceful scene-apart from the very noisy distress of our companion-with everything shaded a faint lavender in the cool wash of dawn.

Harry, hanging upside-down beside Cranston, waited patiently for him to cease his vocalizations. "I assure you, Mr. Cranston, no one can hear you," Harry said, although we both doubted that this was true. "Do you see how far down the street is? No one is about at this hour." He folded his arms, swaying slightly in the morning breeze.

We had selected the Bayard Building to take advantage of a gear-action construction crane mounted on the ornate cornice, which, during daylight hours, was being used to haul a set of granite angels into position. It had been a considerable chore dragging Cranston's sleeping body across town and up to the top of the building, but the expression on our victim's face more than justified the effort.

"Now then, Mr. Cranston," said Harry blandly, as though opening a board meeting of some kind, "I think we have some business to discuss."

The little man screwed up his eyes and rubbed them, as if to make this terrible apparition disappear. When he opened them again, my brother winked and gave a cheery wave.

"What-what"-Cranston struggled for breath- "what is-why do-what is the meaning of this?" His face glowed red with the blood pooling in his cheeks. He stared at my brother with wild eyes. "I-I have money! Lots of money!"

"Would you be referring to this money?" Harry asked, waving two fat packets of notes.

"Impossible! How did-?"

"One should not place too much confidence in a Bering wall safe, Mr. Cranston. Even if it does have the new dual-chamber pin-plate.

"Keep the money! Just get me down from here! I beg of you!"

"We wouldn't think of keeping your money, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "However, we may not exactly give it back, either." He peeled off a few bills from one of the bundles and scattered them to the morning wind.

Cranston gave a shriek as the notes swirled and danced about his head. "God! No!" His hands darted out to snatch at the money, but the sudden movement set him swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently the motion did not agree with him. He made a harsh choking noise and clutched at his throat. The contents of his stomach spiralled twelve stories to the street below.

Harry took out his handkerchief, fluffed it open in the breeze, and held it out to Cranston, who reached for it with a tight, fragile movement, as though clinging to the railing on an icy set of steps. "What do you want from me?" he gasped, dabbing nervously at his lips. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry said.

"Harrington?" A sudden flash of cunning appeared in Cranston's eyes. "I-I do not know who that is."

Harry reached across and gave him a small push on the shoulder that set him swinging back and forth again. "Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry repeated.

"No!" Cranston cried. "I don't know who you're talking about! I don't know any Evan Harrington! Please stop it!"

Harry reached out and gave another push. "Evan Harrington," he said.

"I can't stand this!" Cranston shrieked, coughing wetly.

"Evan Harrington."

"I don't-"

"Looks a bit like me…" Harry said, giving Cranston another shove.

"Please-!"

"Tried to broker the sale of a valuable automaton…" Another shove.