The Dime Museum Murders (18 page)

"I'll
pay you, of course. Anything you like. Only you must not fail me."

"It
is not a question of payment, I assure you. It is a matter of—"

"If
you fail me, Mr. Hardeen, my engagement to Lord Wycliffe will surely
be broken. I doubt if my reputation would stand this a second time.
Father would be crushed. Could you really stand by and allow this to
happen?''

I
looked again into those expressive eyes. I should have liked to say
many things. I might have told her, for instance, that I would have
rejoiced to hear that her engagement to Lord Wycliffe had been
broken. I might also have revealed that I planned one day to be a
wealthy man, and headline an act that would tour all the major
capitals of Europe. And I might even have added that I shared her
fondness for the poems of Mrs. Browning, especially the one that
began "How do I love thee?"

I
told her none of these things. Instead, I simply folded my arms and
said, "I'll see what I can do."

"That
woman killed Branford Wintour," my brother said. "There can
be no doubt."

"How
do you figure that, Harry?" I asked.

"Because
she's trying to get a gullible, love-struck young swain to cover her
tracks," he answered. "That would be you, Dash. She's
playing you for a fool."

"That
thought had occurred to me, Harry," I said. "But it doesn't
necessarily follow that she killed Mr. Wintour."

We
were crowded behind the scenery flats at Huber's Museum, where Harry
and Bess still had two more rotations of the ten-in-one ahead of
them. In between shows I filled Harry in on the Wintour funeral and
my visit to the Hendricks mansion. My brother listened with keen
attention, though the details of my encounter with Miss Katherine
left him indignant.

"Certainly
she killed him," Harry insisted. "What other explanation
can there be?''

"I
can think of several," I said, "including the one she
gave."

"You
believe that?" Harry scoffed. "She wrote this

man
an indiscreet letter in a moment of weakness and she needs us to
recover it? Absurd! She wrote to arrange a secret meeting. Wintour
gladly assented, hoping to renew their illicit acquaintance. Once
inside the study, unobserved by anyone in the house, she killed him.
Simple as that."

"How
did she get out again? The room was locked from the inside, as you'll
recall."

Harry
leaned in toward the mirror of his makeshift dressing table, dabbing
at his eyebrows with a heavy pencil. "I haven't worked that out
yet," he admitted. "But I will. Women are not to be
trusted, not even the best of them."

"What
a perfectly horrible thing to say!" cried Bess, who had been
listening intently while she repaired a hole in one of her ballet
slippers.

Harry
turned to her and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry, my dear.
It was a remark of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr.
Holmes never married, I take it?"

"Regrettably,
no." He turned away from the mirror as Miss Missy, the Armless
Wonder, appeared nudging her little tea trolley before her. Of
necessity, Missy supplemented her meager salary from Huber's by
selling tea and cakes outside the theater after each show. She never
failed to attract a long line of customers, most of them drawn by the
sheer novelty of a tea lady who gripped the dainty china handles of
the pot and cups with her feet. When her customers had gone, Missy
made the rounds of the other performers. With her cheery disposition
and pleasing smile, Missy was one of the most winning women I've ever
known. She also happened to brew the worst tea in New York, but she
needed the
extra
pennies so badly that no one ever had the heart to refuse a cup.

"I
have a little trouble picturing Miss Hendricks as the murderer,"
I said, watching as Missy poured out three cups of tea. "In the
first place—yes, Missy, I'll take milk. Lots of it. In the
first place, I'm hard pressed to see a motive for such a thing."
I reached over for my cup. "Furthermore, if she did kill him,
she would have been perfectly able to remove the incriminating
letters herself. Yes, Missy. Delicious, as always."

"Perhaps
she was interrupted before she had a chance to recover the letters,"
Harry said.

"It's
possible," I admitted, "but it hardly seems likely."

"I
think that we should speak with this Lord Randall Wycliffe,"
Harry said. "Perhaps Miss Hendricks is trying to shield him.
Perhaps he's a jealous type, and Miss Hendricks had written to warn
Mr. Wintour. That would incriminate him if the letters were
discovered. Lord Wycliffe could well be the true murderer."

"Harry,
according to you, half of New York is under suspicion."

"I
still think we should speak with him."

"What's
the point? After tonight, you and I are no longer in the detective
business. Remember our agreement? We'll go to the Toy Emporium this
evening to see if Mr. Harrington appears. After that, we're done."

"But
until then, you have agreed to help me gather information, have you
not?"

"I
agreed to see Biggs," I said. "I even checked out the lay
of the land with Hendricks and his daughter. But I'm not about to—"

"Only
until this evening," he said, cutting me off. "After the
last show, we shall call on the young aristocrat." He stood up
and started off toward the performance platform. "But first,
my
public
awaits."

"Tell
me again how we're going to get into the Cairo
Club,
Harry?"

"It
is a gambling club, and I am the King of Kards. What could be
simpler?"

"I
see. Wouldn't it be easier to call on Lord Wycliffe at his hotel? I
believe he's taken a suite at the Belgrave."

"No,
we must not put him on his guard. That is why I asked young Jack
Hawkins to shadow his movements. A messenger boy attracts very little
attention, but he sees a great deal. Jack tells me that Lord Wycliffe
departed for the Cairo less than an hour ago. We have the opportunity
to observe him going about his business, unaware that he has come
under the watchful eye of the Great Houdini."

"But
we're not members of the Cairo. It's rather exclusive."

"Something
will present itself. We must be prepared to seize our opportunity
when it comes."

"Harry—"

"Trust
me, Dash. As you say, it will all be over after this evening."

We
were standing in the kitchen of the apartment on Sixty-ninth Street,
and we were wearing nothing but our undergarments. After the last
show, Harry and I had taken Bess back home and wolfed down a couple
of bowls of borscht with brown bread. Then Harry led me into the back
room where our old costume trunk was stored. After a fair bit of
rummaging, he located the old tailcoats we used to wear as the
Brothers Houdini. We would need our evening clothes, he explained, in
order
to
present ourselves as a pair of young gadabouts seeking diversion in
one of the swankier gambling establishments. I looked at our wrinkled
old costumes, with their worn knees and shiny elbows, and doubted
that anyone would mistake us for young gadabouts. My impressions were
confirmed by our mother, who refused to let us out of the house in
such shabby-looking garments. She insisted on touching up the old
costumes with a hot iron, which left us standing in front of the
kitchen fire in our linen, waiting for her to finish her
ministrations.

"Uh,
Harry," I said, "have you ever been to the Cairo?"

"Of
course not. It is a club where men go to smoke and gamble. I do
neither. Why should I go there?"

"Actually,
Harry, it's a place where men do many other things in addition to
smoking and gambling, and I just sort of thought it might not be the
ideal setting for an encounter with young Lord Wycliffe."

"Ah!
I see what you mean!" He tapped his forehead with an index
finger. "There is drinking, as well! That might possibly work to
our advantage!"

"That's
not precisely what I meant, Harry. Some of the men who go to the
Cairo are looking for—" I broke off as Bess wandered into
the kitchen. "Er, Bess, I wonder if you wouldn't mind—?"

"Come,
now, Dash," she laughed. "I've seen a man in his
underthings before."

"Well,
yes, but—"

"For
goodness sakes, Dash. Harry thinks nothing of stripping down to a
loin cloth when he does a bridge leap—"

"It
is a swimming costume," Harry interjected, quietly.

"—but
you're embarrassed to be seen in your long-drawers. Sometimes I
wonder how the two of you came to be in the same family."

"But
I was only—"

She
put her finger to my lips to silence me. "Harry," she said,
"I think what Dash is trying to tell you is that the Cairo
caters to a certain class of young men who are not quite as virtuous
as you are."

"So
I hear!" he said excitedly. "They drink and smoke and
gamble!" He gave a knowing wink.

"Well,
Harry," Bess said carefully, "it is possible that there may
also—," she caught herself as Mother appeared with our
trousers.

"Mama,"
said Harry, "we are going to an illicit nightclub! Can you
imagine?"

"That's
nice, Ehrich," Mother said.

Bess
leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Keep an eye on him, will
you, Dash?"

"I
always do," I answered.

"Besides,"
Harry continued, "we are not due at Mr. Graff's shop for another
three hours. If I don't keep you on your feet, you'll fall asleep in
front of the fire."

"Which
sounds like a very attractive notion to me," I answered. "What
possible reason could this Mr. Harrington have had for insisting on
such a late meeting?"

"Mr.
Graff assured us that this was not so unusual. Possibly Mr.
Harrington is on the ran from the law. The automaton may have been
stolen from its rightful owner."

"Perhaps,"
said Bess, "but if
Le
Fantôme
was
stolen, Lieutenant Murray would have known of it."

"Not
necessarily. It would almost certainly have come from a collection in
Europe. That would surely fall outside of Lieutenant Murray's
jurisdiction."

"At
least Lieutenant Murray has a jurisdiction,

Harry,"
I said. "We're just busy-bodies."

"No
imagination, Dash. It is your greatest failing." He turned away
and pulled on his trousers.