Daniel Stashower - The Dime Museum Murders

"Well, goodbye, Mr. Hardeen," Hendricks said. "I'll take my leave now. I very much enjoyed your company the other day, and I'd prefer not to be here for this unpleasantness. As I said, it's a difficult thing to watch a friend die."

Hendricks turned and made his way down the tunnel, away from the ladder leading up to Branford Wintour's study. Gittles waited until the flickering light from the older man's lamp had receded. Then he turned to me and shook his head sadly. He stepped forward, reaching beneath his coat as he came. A long blade glinted in the torchlight. Crouching over me, Gittles spoke the first words I ever heard him say. "Nothing personal," he said. With that, he raised the blade high over his head.

That's when Harry returned from the dead. I heard him before I ever saw him. He sprang from the shadows with a wild cry, chains and straps hanging from his limbs, and plowed his head into Gittles's mid-section. The two men fell in a heap, rolling away from me into a pool of torchlight.

I pulled furiously at my constraints, desperate to get into the fight as Harry and Gittles got to their feet, warily circling one another. Gittles lashed out with the knife, but Harry jumped back and countered by swinging a length of chain at his attacker's head. Gittles let out a howl as the chain raked across his face, then made another thrust. Harry managed to ward off the blow with another swipe of the chain, and Gittles jumped back, readying for another thrust.

I could feel blood dripping down my arms as the restraints tore into my wrists. I tugged harder, blocking out the shock of pain that came with each movement. I now had a slight range of motion in my right arm-the chains were oiled with my blood-but every motion threatened to strip the flesh from my bones. I bit my lip and kept working.

Gittles lunged twice, slashing at Harry's eyes. My brother managed to parry, but lost his footing as he backed over a section of train track. Harry crashed to the ground, chains clattering off the metal track railings. Gittles vaulted forward, raising his knife for another plunge. Harry rolled onto his side, aiming a powerful kick at his opponent's knee. Gittles gave another shriek of pain and staggered backward into one of the work torches, which came crashing down onto his head. My brother leapt to his feet as the other man dropped the knife and frantically wiped oil and glass away from his eyes. Harry moved in for the kill, landing a solid right to the jaw and following it with a pair of vicious kidney punches. Gittles dropped to one knee, his face and hands still dripping with oil from the lamp. Harry cocked his arm. "Nothing personal," he said. Gittles tried to get his hands up but it was too late. Harry went over the top with a crashing straight, followed by a roundhouse that had his entire weight behind it. Gittles's head snapped back and his eyes swam. He went down hard and didn't move.

"Dash? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I just can't quite seem to shake these straps."

"Hold still. This won't take long." Harry opened his leather wallet and fished out a pick. "Hold still, I said." He worked at a small padlock that cinched a length of chain around my ankles. "You should be ashamed of yourself, Dash."

"Look, Harry, you're a better escape artist than I am. I admit it."

"That's not what I meant. For three days you insisted that we ran to Lieutenant Murray every time we so much as drew a breath. But what did you do when you figured out the murderer's identity? You decided to apprehend him yourself. 'The police take a dim view of citizens who make arrests.' Wasn't that what you said to me?" The lock snapped open and Harry began unwinding the chains from my legs. "You're a fine one to talk, Dash."

"I couldn't be sure I was right," I said. "The whole thing seemed too outlandish. And I certainly hadn't anticipated that we'd find Hendricks in the tunnel-much less that Gittles would be with him. I-Harry! Behind you!"

I saw a glint of steel and a rash of movement from the shadows. Fred Gittles, knife raised high, sprang towards us.

"Harry!"

My brother turned and instinctively raised his hands. The blade sank into his forearm. Harry gave a strangled cry and drew back, a jet of blood soaking through his sleeve. I straggled to my feet, my hands still pinned behind my back. Harry clutched at his wound, leaving himself wide open to attack. Gittles reared up for another thrust.

I had one chance. I lowered my shoulder and drove it into Gittles's stomach, driving him back across the cavern. I heard the knife fall from his hands as the air rushed from his lungs, but he recovered quickly. He straightened up and tagged me with two hard jabs to the nose. With my arms strapped behind me, I had no way of defending myself. Gittles hammered me with a straight to the jaw. I staggered backward, but stayed on my feet.

He kept coming, snatching up a length of wooden planking from the ground. Harry was back on his feet now, but Gittles sent him sprawling with a hard smack across the forehead. He turned to me and hefted the plank like a baseball bat, readying for another swing.

It turned out to be a mistake. The edge of the plank caught the oil lamp we'd brought down from Mr. Win-tour's desk. The glass globe shattered instantly, sending a shower of flame onto Gittles's oil-soaked clothing. His coat lit up like matchwood, with streaks of flame spreading quickly across his arms and legs. I watched helplessly as he flailed and thrashed, his screams filling the vast cavern.

Harry was there in an instant, knocking Gittles to the ground and slapping at the flames with his coat. A horrible, sickly smell filled the air as Harry tried to smother the fire, but his coat soon burst into flame. "Hold still!" Harry shouted. "Stop straggling!" He jumped up and grabbed a metal spade, desperately scooping up loose dirt and shovelling it onto the burning man. After a moment or two of furious labor, the last of the flames was extinguished.

Harry knelt down and brushed away a layer of dirt from what was left of Fred Gittles's face. It was a terrible sight, a patchwork of wet blisters and dark, cracked flaps of charred skin. A tortured, croaking sound escaped from the injured man's lips. "Thank you," he said. His head slumped to the side.

Harry said nothing as he released my hands from the remaining straps. Together we carried Fred Gittles down the tunnel to the wooden ladder. I went up first, working the metal ring to open the trap door as Harry followed behind with the injured man over his shoulder. In Bran-ford Wintour's study, we found that Dr. Blanton and

Henry Crain had been joined by Lieutenant Murray and a pair of uniformed patrolmen.

"What the hell-" Lieutenant Murray began at the sight of us emerging from the trap door. "What in God's-?"

"Dr. Blanton," I said. "This man is badly burned. He needs a hospital."

"What's happened?" the doctor cried. "What's going on here?"

I turned away from him. "Lieutenant," I said, "we need to get to the home of Michael Hendricks. Now."

"Hardeen, what's-?" He looked at my face and saw something there that made him stop. He turned to the uniformed officers. "Take the doc and get that man to a hospital," he said. "Hardeen, you and your brother come with me."

He led us outside to a waiting police wagon. Harry and I climbed in back while the lieutenant gave orders to the driver. As the wagon lurched forward, Lieutenant Murray dropped onto the seat opposite us. "You're sure you don't want the doctor first?"

I looked at Harry. He was filthy, his clothing was in shreds, there were streaks of black soot across his face, and he was clutching a bleeding wound on his forearm. I don't suppose I looked much better.

"Harry?" I said. He just shook his head.

No one spoke until we drew up in front of the Hendricks place. I reached back to help Harry down out of the wagon. "I'm fine, Dash," he said, shrugging off my hand. "Don't fuss over me."