Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"There'll be plenty of opportunity for that at the trial, Houdini. I'm afraid we can't allow civilians to hitch along on an arrest run."

"But-"

"Houdini, you did the right thing coming down here. If you and your brother had tried to snatch this Gittles character by your lonesome, he'd have got himself some fancy-pants attorney and claimed unlawful detention." He stood up and reached for a leather gun holster that had been hanging over the coat rack. "I'd like to have you with us when we nab him, but our hands are tied."

Harry gave a bitter laugh. "If only our hands were tied," he said, "that would be the least of my troubles."

Harry continued to sulk as we left the precinct house and returned the coal wagon to its rightful owner. "It's just not fair, Dash," he said as we made our way north to Sixty-ninth Street. "I wanted to hear the man confess. We earned that right."

He kept on in this vein for some time, and I managed to ignore most of it until we found ourselves standing outside the apartment building. "Get some sleep, Harry," I said. "Then you and I had better find ourselves some honest work."

"What, you're not coming in? Mama will have breakfast ready!"

"I'm bushed, Harry. I just want to crawl into bed for a few hours."

He shook his head, despairing over the lay-about habits of his younger brother. "Very well, Dash. Go on home to bed." He sighed and turned toward the building. "Dash," he called after me, "try not to sleep your life away."

I walked the six blocks to my boarding house and wearily climbed the stairs to my room. I felt exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I stripped off my dark clothing, took a quick bath, and shaved. Then I changed my linen and pulled on a clean suit. I was back on the street again inside of an hour.

I caught the elevated train and headed downtown. On the way, I chewed over what Joshua Cranston had told us that morning. As far as I knew, every word of it was true. It didn't matter a bit to me. The police were welcome to Fred Gittles. I wanted to know who hired him. If Cranston didn't know who was pulling the strings, neither would Gittles. That was the name I wanted. That was the only name that really mattered. I didn't know who it was, but I had a hunch.

You may wonder why I didn't share any of this with my brother. The truth is, I wasn't quite as much of a lay-about as he imagined. Much as I loved him, there were times when I would rather have taken that leap off the Brooklyn Bridge than listened to another moment of his self-absorbed prattle. There were times when I preferred to be something other than the brother of the Great Houdini.

It must have been about nine o'clock by the time I reached the Toy Emporium. The door was shuttered and the windows were soaped to discourage gawkers. The police had fastened a warded Hocking padlock onto the hasp. Luckily, my brother isn't the only one in the family who's handy with a crescent-pick. I gave a cheery whistle and handled my pick as if it were a standard key, hoping that any passers-by would think I belonged there.

I had the lock open in seconds. I stepped inside and pulled the door fast behind me. I hadn't been in the store since the discovery of Mrs. Graff's body, and though I knew her remains had long since been carted away, I could not suppress a shudder as I peered into the back room. No evidence remained of the horrors of the previous evening, apart from a greasy stain on the duck's-egg carpet.

I pushed back through the curtain into the main section of the store. A Minotaur Express Steam-Action Electric Train was set up on a display platform at the center of the room. A heavy black circuit panel sat on the floor below, with thick, cloth-covered wires snaking upward toward the track connector points. I reached down and tripped the swing-lever. The crackle and hum of electricity coursed through the circuits.

A wooden panel with seven control knobs sat at one end of the track. I reached across and turned the knob closest to me. The black cast-iron locomotive gave a shrill whistle. I turned another knob and the draw bars strained as the train lurched forward. I watched for several minutes as the train made a stately progress around the platform, passing beneath a small trestle bridge and through a miniature town, complete with a station, post office, and water tower. A pricing slip dangled from the control box. I reached over and pulled it up. Seven dollars and fifteen cents. I tried to imagine the life of a boy whose parents could afford such a toy.

I switched off the buzzing electricity and unhooked the black locomotive. I lifted it off the track and copied down the model number. Replacing the car on the track, I went back into Mr. Graff's office.

Josef Graff had been one of the smartest merchants in New York, as he himself had told us only two nights earlier. I knew that he would not have stocked such an expensive item if he did not expect to sell two or three of them, and I also knew that he would have kept a careful record of each transaction. I pulled open the file drawer of his battered old desk and found a green stock folder marked with the name "Minotaur." I pulled it out and spread it on the desk.

I read through the file carefully-sales receipts, stock orders, manufacturer's specifications, the works. Then I read it again to be certain I hadn't missed anything. The specifics were a whole lot more detailed than I expected. When I finished, I gathered up the documents and put them back in the drawer. Minutes later, I was back on the street, the door carefully locked behind me.

It took about twenty minutes to get to Sixty-ninth Street. I breezed through the kitchen, said a quick good morning to my mother and Bess, and headed straight for the back bedroom. "Come on, Harry," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up. Let's not sleep our lives away."

"What-? Dash? What are you doing here?"

"Get your pants on, Harry," I said. "I know who killed Branford Wintour."

"At least tell me where we're going, Dash," Harry said, as our cab clattered across Broadway.

"Harry," I returned, "you can't expect me to divulge the particulars. It's traditional that the detective remain tight-lipped until he reaches the scene of the crime."

"But-but the Toy Emporium is in the opposite direction."

"The first crime scene, Harry. I said I knew who killed Branford Wintour."

"Is it not the same man?"

"No, actually. I don't think so, anyway. We'll know soon enough."

"The Wintour mansion," he said, as we rolled to a stop outside. "So, the mystery ends where it began! Tell me, Dash, is Mrs. Wintour the murderer?"

"Harry, let's not-"

"The butler?"

"I--"

"The brother-in-law?"

I smiled and put a finger to my lips. "Not another word, Harry." I climbed down, paid the driver, and

made my way up the marble steps. Harry followed a few steps behind.

Phillips, the butler, greeted us with the frigid civility one normally reserves for bill collectors. "I do not believe that Mrs. Wintour is expecting you, gentlemen," he said, "unless you've come to deliver more of your mother's soup?"

"We're here to see Mr. Crain," I said. "Would you please tell him that we've brought an answer from our mutual friend, Mr. Harrington?"

"So, it is the brother-in-law," Harry whispered, as the old butler withdrew down the main corridor. "I knew it all along!"

"It's not the brother-in-law," I said. "I just needed an excuse to get back into Wintour's study. Once we're in, find a reason to send him out of the room."

"But-"

"Just think of something, Harry. You're supposed to be the master of misdirection, aren't you? We need to be alone in the study."