Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"I don't-"

"Framed Josef Graff for murder…"

"No-no-''

"Responsible for three deaths in the past three days…" Harry reached out and clutched Cranston by the shoulder, abruptly halting the swinging motion. "I think you can tell me a great deal about Evan Harrington, Mr. Cranston. Begin now, please."

"I don't know a thing about any Evan Harrington! I don't know anything about any murders! You must have me mistaken for-"

"Look up towards your feet," Harry said. "Do you see that handsome fellow straddling the crane? What do you suppose he's doing? Why, it appears as if he's setting fire to the ropes that are anchoring us to the crane!" "No!" Cranston shouted. "You'll die! You'll die with me!"

"Yes, that is a bother," Harry admitted. "Look! The rope is burning quite merrily, having been soaked in kerosene. I would estimate, Mr. Cranston, that you and I have less than one minute before the fire eats through the rope. Then we will fall to the pavement below. It will be a horrible fate-but then, there have been so many deaths lately."

"I haven't killed anyone!"

"All the more regrettable, then."

"For God's sake! I haven't killed anyone!"

Harry grabbed Cranston's nightshirt and pulled his face close to his. "Name the killer," he said.

"I'm not responsible! A man approached me. He- I'll tell you everything, just put out that fire and haul me up!"

"Tell me now," Harry said calmly.

"You're insane!"

Harry merely smiled. "Who approached you?"

"I-I never met the man. He made contact through an intermediary. Most of them do. But I put him in touch with a man who could do the job. All confidential-safeguarded to ensure mutual discretion. I swear, I don't know who hired me!"

"And you passed the assignment on to someone?"

"I'm not a killer! I'm just the man in the middle!"

"The name, please."

"Fred Gittles. My best man."

"Goes by the name of Harrington, does he?"

"Sometimes. Or Richard Feverel. He goes by lots of names. Please-"

"Where do I find Fred Gittles?"

"Thirty-ninth and Broadway. Number three-six-two. For God's sake-"

And then the rope snapped.

I watched Cranston as he fell. His face crumpled and his arms flailed and a sharp little scream died on his lips as though he'd been kicked in the throat. He and my brother seemed to hang in the empty space for a moment, like fish jumping in a summer stream, and then they began to sink in a twisting, corkscrew motion toward the street below.

They must have fallen ten, perhaps twelve feet before I heard the taut zing of the safety wire. They took a hard bounce and bobbed up and down for a few moments before coming to a lazy, gentle swing at the end of the wire.

"Are you all right?" I shouted, cupping my hands to make myself heard over the rising wind.

Harry, still upside-down, gave a cheery salute. "Cranston is unconscious," he called. "I think that went rather well, don't you?"

We had a far easier time getting Cranston off the building. I had brought along a bottle of nerve tonic, and we administered a generous dose before stuffing him back into Harry's sack. We carried him down to the street and loaded him onto the back of the coal cart, then headed back toward his brownstone.

We debated briefly whether or not to turn him over to Lieutenant Murray, but in the end we decided that such a course might create unwanted problems with Jake Stein. Cranston had told us what we wanted to know; we were happy enough to put him back where we found him.

Dawn had broken by the time we dragged the sack through the delivery entrance and carried Cranston up to his own bed. We put what remained of his money back in the wall safe and removed all remaining traces of our visit. I stood back and watched as Harry settled the cotton sleeping cap back onto Cranston's head. "Perhaps when he awakes he will think it was all a narcotic dream," Harry said.

"Until he sees those rope burns on his ankles," I replied. "Come on, Harry, let's go."

Moments later, as we drove away in the coal cart, Harry looked back at the brownstone and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "The burning rope was a brilliant suggestion, Dash," he said. "I thought the poor man was having an apoplectic fit."

"I'm surprised he didn't," I replied. "You were quite impressive up there, Harry."

"I was, was I not?" he agreed. "A shame that no one witnessed the display but ourselves. I wonder…" His eyes drifted upward at the passing skyline.

We drove on in silence for quite some time. Whenever I looked over at Harry, he appeared to be lost in thought. After ten minutes or so, I cleared my throat.

"Harry-" I began.

"No, Dash-don't bother. All that you have to say has already crossed my mind."

"Then you know that we're not going to capture Mr. Gittles ourselves."

His head sank down to his chest. "I know."

"And you know that we're going to police headquarters to turn the information over to Lieutenant Murray."

"Yes," he said dejectedly. "I know."

I looked over at him again. "I expected more of an argument," I said.

"I'm tired of arguing with you, Dash."

"I mean, be reasonable, Harry. The police take a dim view of citizens who make arrests. What did you think we were going to do? Hog-tie Gittles and dump him on the steps at Mulberry Street? Maybe with a little note pinned to his chest-'Compliments of H. Houdini'?"

"No," Harry said. "I would have brought him inside."

"It's not how these things are done in New York."

"Perhaps they should be," Harry replied with some heat. "You know perfectly well what will happen when we tell our story to Lieutenant Murray. He'll fold his arms and shrug his shoulders and tell us to mind our own business. I can hear him now. 'The police can manage this investigation quite well without your assistance, Mr. Houdini.' Honestly, Dash, I don't know why you place such confidence in that man."

He pulled his collar up around his chin and would not speak to me for the rest of the ride to Mulberry Street.

To his credit, Lieutenant Murray did not tell us to mind our own business. He didn't even fold his arms or shrug his shoulders. He listened to our story with frank admiration, and knew better than to press too hard when we glossed over certain details-such as our visit to Jake Stein and our abduction of Joshua Cranston.

When we finished, he leaned back in his chair and gave an appreciative whistle. "Joshua Cranston," he said, with a note of reverence in his voice. "The two of you got Joshua Cranston to sing like a nightingale."

"Well," said Harry, trying to appear modest, "I suppose we did."

The lieutenant turned to the desk sergeant who had taken down our statement in longhand. "When was the last time we hauled Old Brassnuts in here, Sergeant?"

"I couldn't say," the sergeant replied. "Can't be more than three weeks, though."

"He tell us anything useful?"

"No, sir."

Lieutenant Murray nodded. "I didn't think so. But somehow when these two boys tapped him on the shoulder, he spat out a name. A real, live name." He shook his head at the wonder of it. "How did you do it?"

"Well," said Harry, perching awkwardly between discretion and boastfulness, "we-we-"

"We got him to see things from a fresh perspective," I said.

"All right," said the lieutenant. "Play it your way. If this pans out, the New York Police Department will be very much in your debt. There may even be a citizen's commendation in it for you." He noted Harry's glum expression and turned to me. "Why's he so gloomy?"

"He wanted to bring you Gittles himself."

"Did he? How'd you talk him out of it?"

"I--"

"I don't suppose you could take us along when you

arrest Mr. Gittles?" Harry broke in. "I should like to see this murderer face to face."