Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

Harry shook his head, his eyes glowing with admiration. "It's astonishing! With the trap door open, the train platform is tilted completely onto its side. But everything stays as it was-the track, the water tower, the horse-everything! It's the perfect camouflage!"

"And when the trap door drops back into place, you'd never know that anything had ever been disturbed." I reached out to touch the tiny figure of a station master, who now stood in a horizontal stance as though walking up a sheer wall.

Harry peered into the opening in the floor. A crude wooden ladder led down into a deep black chasm. We couldn't see the bottom. "It's enormous! The hole must be six feet square! Where does it go? Why would anyone build such a thing?"

The banging at the doors was getting louder. The lad-derback chair I had wedged in place began to give way. "Grab that lantern off the desk," I said. "We're going down there."

"But-what's down there?"

"Something you won't believe. Something that will make the Blois collection look like a Delmarvelo Magic Set."

"But-"

"Hurry up, Harry. I want to be out of here before Crain and Blanton burst in."

Harry darted to Wintour's desk and snatched up a large oil lamp. "Move, Harry! Down the ladder!" He sprang onto the top rang and made his way downward into the blackness. I grabbed a circular ring on the inside of the open hatch and followed him down, pulling the trap door shut behind us. I heard the doors of the study burst open just as the hatch dropped into place.

Harry and I stayed motionless for several moments, clinging to the top of the ladder as our eyes adjusted to the gloom. To our surprise, we could still hear muffled noise and movement from Wintour's study, even though the sturdy trap door was sealed in place. Above our heads, tiny pinpricks of illumination showed through the windows and doors of the model train station, admitting sound and light.

"Mr. Hardeen? Mr. Houdini?" Henry Crain's voice reached us as if from a great distance, though he must have been standing no more than ten feet away. "Where are you?"

"Where could they have gone?" came Dr. Blanton's voice. "Phillips? Did you see them go out?"

"No, sir," said the butler.

"They couldn't have left," Crain said with considerable exasperation. "The door was jammed shut from the inside!"

"Perhaps we should ring for the police," said the doctor. "This is the most extraordinary thing since-"

"Yes," agreed Crain. "I'll ring for the police."

I nudged Harry's shoulder with my foot and signalled him to continue downward. We descended cautiously, our progress illuminated only by the feeble glow of the oil desk lamp. Neither one of us spoke until we had descended some twenty feet.

"So this is how the murderer got in and out," Harry said in a hushed voice, his eyes fixed on the blackness stretching below us.

"Apparently," I said.

"But this hole is immense! Who built it? And why?" "Obviously Mr. Wintour built it himself. As to why, if my guess is correct, we'll know soon enough. Can you tell how much farther down we have to go?"

Harry fished a coin from his pocket and let it drop into the blackness. We heard it clatter against something metal. "Not much more," he said. "Dash?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You've changed your mind about who killed Mr. Wintour, haven't you? You don't think Evan Harrington did it, do you?"

"Fred Gittles, you mean? I think he's in it up to his eyes. But Jake Stein told us that there were two killers at work, and I guess the old man knew what he was talking about." My hands flailed in the dark for a moment as I nearly lost my grip on one of the rungs. "Fred Gittles never met Branford Wintour in his life. Wintour was killed by someone he knew. And whoever that man was, he's the one who hired Gittles to kill Josef and Frieda Graff."

"But who? Who killed Mr. Wintour? I can't have been-Dash! I'm at the bottom! What's down here? This lamp is practically worthless! I can't see anything!"

I let go of the ladder as my foot touched dirt flooring. "Stick close, Harry. If we get lost down here we may never find our way out. Perhaps our eyes will adjust in a moment or-"

I saw a brilliant flare of light as something hard slammed against the back of my head. I felt myself fall, but I don't recall landing.

I don't know how much time passed. I regained consciousness by slow degrees, gradually becoming aware of a vast, dark cavern lit by tall oil torches. Harry lay motionless in the shadows a few feet behind me, and it was only when I saw his restraints-he was wrapped in a virtual cocoon of metal chains and leather straps-that I realized that I was also completely trammelled. I tried to move my hands, but there was no slack. Cold metal bit into my arms with even the slightest movement. "Harry?" I called.

"Your brother isn't awake yet," said a voice from behind me. "I hear he's clever at getting out of things That's not much use unless he's conscious, is it?"

"Who-?" I rolled over towards the sound

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Hardeen," said Michael Hendncks. "And welcome to the Fifth Avenue subway station!"

"Harry?" I said again.

"I believe your brother may be dead," said Mr. Hen-dricks, as if remarking on a sudden change of weather. "My associate seems to have hit him rather hard. I don't know that you've met Mr. Gittles, have you?" He indicated a short, powerfully built man standing behind him. "I expect you knew him as Harrington."

My face was pressed against a clod of hard earth. I strained to lift my head, but the movement sent a jolt of pain down my arms. Harry didn't seem to be moving at all. Behind him, I could see a tall stack of wooden packing cases, along with digging tools, haulage carts, and building materials. "What is this place?" I asked.

"I told you. The Fifth Avenue subway station. Or it will be, at any rate. We're going to build New York City's first underground public transportation system. See to Mr. Houdini, will you, Mr. Gittles?"

Gittles stepped forward and nudged Harry with his foot. When Harry didn't move, Gittles rolled him into a shallow trench behind one of the torches. Gittles moved toward me, waiting for Hendricks to give the next order.

"You're going to put omnibuses down here?" I asked, stalling for time.

"No, Mr. Hardeen. Trains. Big, beautiful Minotaur trains, all built by Daedalus Incorporated. That train in my study is no toy. It's a scale model of the first Minotaur underground train."

"You're going to build a full-size train and put it underground?"

"Don't play stupid, Mr. Hardeen. You're not as convincing as your brother. I know perfectly well that you've been nosing around. Mr. Gittles has been watching you day and night. When did you figure it out? When you were going through old Josef's files?"

I tried to shift position, hoping my head would clear. Tugging at my arms brought more pain, but no slack whatever. I was wrapped like a mummy. I doubted if even Harry could escape from these chains, assuming he was still alive. I squirmed onto my side, straining for a better view.

"Well, Mr. Hardeen?" Hendricks shined a lantern into my eyes.

I figured I'd better keep talking. "Sand," I said.

"Come again?" Hendricks took a step closer.

"You wrote up an order for sand. For the fire buckets. What sort of model train has real sand in the fire buckets?"

Hendricks considered the question. "Train enthusiasts have a great appreciation for that sort of detail, Mr. Hardeen. You know that perfectly well. We could have been planning to put real sand in the fire buckets."

"Half a ton of it?"

He gave out a barking laugh. "Very good! I'm surprised Josef never noticed!"