The Dime Museum Murders (19 page)

Moments
later, the Brothers Houdini descended to street level. Resplendent in
our rabbit-scented tailcoats and top hats, we headed toward the night
club district on foot to conserve what little cash we had between us.
As Harry had promised, an opportunity to get inside the Cairo
presented itself almost immediately. We arrived just as two carriages
drew up at the entrance, disgorging a large group of high-spirited
young men. Seizing our chance, we darted between the two carriages
and mixed in with the herd, so that we were swept along into the main
parlor of the club without anyone taking note of our shabby clothes
or empty wallets.

Inside,
Harry and I took up a position beside an enormous potted palm. Before
us stretched a vast billiards room with a row of four green baize
gaming tables beyond. Young women circulated with trays of clear
effervescent liquid which I knew to be champagne, although I had
never seen this exotic wine before. The ladies who carried these
trays, I could not help but notice, were dressed in an arresting form
of dishabille. After a moment, one of these fascinating creatures
made her way towards us.

"May
I offer you gentlemen a beverage?" she asked.

"Thank
you, no," said Harry, frantically averting his eyes. "Alcohol
is detrimental to the careful balance of the bodily humors."

"He
means he doesn't drink," I said, trying to be helpful.

"What
about a cigar, then?" she asked.

"Tobacco
is also forbidden if one wishes to preserve the vital forces,"
Harry told the potted palm.

"You?"
she said to me. "Worried about your vital forces?"

I
tugged at the lining of my pockets to signal that I had no money.

"Call
me if you change your minds," she said, turning away.

"My
God, Dash!" Harry cried. "These women are barely dressed!"

"1
hadn't noticed," I said.

"What
sort of place is this?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"It's
the sort of place where men go when they desire the society of
ladies. I tried to tell you this earlier."

"The
society of ladies? Would it not be better to remain at home? When I
desire the society of—oh." His mouth contracted into a
tight, open circle as the realization hit. "Oh," he said
again.

"Harry,
take a breath. Your face is bright red."

"We
should leave this place."

"Fine
by me."

"After
all, it is hardly the sort of place where one is likely to find an
English lord!"

"He's
right over there."

"What?"

I
pointed to the nearest of the green baize gaming tables, where Lord
Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, was enjoying a
hand of cards. He had a cigar clipped between the fingers of his left
hand, and a glass of whiskey within easy reach. He did not seem at
all troubled by any absence of aristocratic decorum.

"His
lordship is younger than I imagined," Harry said.

"I
know what you mean," I agreed. "He should have white hair
and mutton chop whiskers. Maybe a cavalry sword."

We
edged closer. The game was poker—five-card Betty—and his
lordship appeared to be winning, judging by the tall stacks of blue
and red wooden chips in front of him. Two older players sat scowling
across the table at him, and a large knot of onlookers had gathered
to see the handsome young foreigner relieve them of their money.

Harry
and I stood and watched for a time. I'm no stranger to the game of
poker, and it was clear that all three men were experienced players.
The older men played a solid but conservative game—nursing a
pair or three-of-a-kind, drawing two or three cards and hoping for
the best. Lord Wycliffe, who played a riskier and more aggressive
game, appeared to be toying with them. At the finish of each hand,
when the bets were made, he would gaze across the table and sigh
heavily, as if filled with regret over the failings of two
particularly dim-witted pupils. Then he would lay down his hand to
show a straight or a full house. "One has to take chances in
this game," he said more than once. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Dash,"
Harry whispered, "he's cheating."

"You
spotted that, did you?"

"Is
it not obvious? Does no one else see what's going on?"

"Harry,
nobody here knows what to look for."

"It
seems perfectly obvious to me. I can hardly be-lieve that anyone with
a pair of eyes and a brain could allow himself to be taken by so
craven a manipulation. One day I really must write up a book on this
subject. Or a trifling monograph, at the very least."

'"How
to Cheat at Cards'?"

"Something
of that nature. If I may warn the unwary and deter the youth of this
land from the fascinations of the green cloth, I shall feel that my
efforts have not been in vain," He turned his attention back to
Lord Wycliffe. "He's not even very good at it!" he said
indignantly. "With a few simple lessons I could have improved
his technique many times over."

"It
seems good enough. He's making a pile."

"The
Right Way to Do Wrong"

"What?"

"The
title of my book.
The
Right Way to Do Wrong."

"Catchy."

We
looked on as Lord Wycliffe won another hand and swept in his chips. A
murmur of appreciation rose from the onlookers. A sallow blonde in a
green satin concoction had now attached herself to his lordship,
squeezing his arm and sending up a delighted laugh with each win.

"What
shall we do?" Harry whispered. "We can't very well make an
open accusation! He might take offense!"

"So?"

"Well,
he might demand satisfaction!"

"A
duel, you mean?" I turned and looked at the young Englishman,
who was appraising the girl in green as though she might be a race
horse. "He doesn't strike me as the type to go in for pistols at
dawn. Harry, I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"You
wanted to stay alert for whatever opportunity presented itself. We've
been handed one on a platter. When I give you the signal, I want you
to strip off your tailcoat and start doing those ridiculous 'muscular
expansionism' exercises of yours. All right?''

"My
exercises? But—"

"Just
this once, Harry, follow my lead and do exactly as I say. When I give
you the nod, go into the routine."

He
continued to grumble through five more rounds of play, but I managed
to ignore him. Lord Wycliffe, I noticed, was beginning to get cocky.
Up to this point he had allowed himself to lose a hand occasionally,
just to keep his marks hooked, but with his new blond friend at his
side, he began to take every hand. At the finish of each game he
would smirk and say, "Sorry, chaps," which was a phrase I
had never before encountered outside of a penny dreadful.

After
about half an hour, Lord Wycliffe's opponents threw down their cards
and declared themselves finished for the evening. "Anyone else?"
asked the young Englishman, glancing at the crowd of onlookers. "The
evening is young yet, surely." Seeing that there would be no
takers, he stood up and began to gather his chips.

I
seized the moment. Pushing forward as the rest of the crowd
dispersed, I appeared suddenly at his elbow. "Well played, your
lordship," I said, as though he and I had met before. "May
we assist you in cashing in your winnings?"

"Kind
of you," he said.

"Not
at all." I swept the chips into my top hat. "If you'll just
follow me?"

"You
see, I'm rather busy just now," he said, slipping an arm around
the waist of the girl in green. "May I collect them at a more
convenient time?"

"I
see no difficulty," I answered. "If you'll just step over
to the cashier's window, I'll give you a receipt."

"But---"

"It
won't take but a moment."

He
whispered into the ear of his young companion
and
slipped something into her hand. "Very well," he said to
me. "Let's be quick about it."

With
Harry trailing behind, I led Lord Wycliffe out of the main parlor and
through a smaller room where a team of bartenders was busily mixing
cocktails. "Where are we going?" Lord Wycliffe asked. "I've
never been back this way before."

Neither
had 1, but there was no reason for him to know this. "We'll need
to open the safe," I said. "We don't ordinarily keep such
large reserves of cash out on the main floor."

"But
I told you I only wanted a receipt."

"I'll
need to verify that we have the cash on hand. Bear with us, sir."
I found a heavy Dutch door and pulled it open. Behind it lay a flight
of bare wooden steps leading down into a cellar. "Follow me,
sir," I said, heading down the stairs. Harry brought up the
rear.

At
the bottom of the stairs we found ourselves standing on the dirt
floor of a large wine cellar. "This can't be right," Lord
Wycliffe said. "What are we doing
here?"

I
nodded at Harry. He shrugged, peeled off his tailcoat, and laid it
neatly across a wooden wine bin.

"Just
a few questions, if you'd be so kind, your lordship. We must take
precautions when a player enjoys such a remarkable run of luck."

"But
what are we doing in the wine cellar?"

"A
simple precaution. To avoid any possible embarrassment."

Harry
took two quick intakes of breath, rather in the manner of a snorting
bull. Then he pressed his fists together at his chest and flexed his
muscles, so that his arms and torso bulged alarmingly.

"I
don't know just what you mean," said Lord Wy-

cliffe,
glancing anxiously at my brother's peculiar display. "Say,
what's he on about?"

Harry
gave two more bull-snorts and cocked his fists at shoulder level. His
arm muscles pulsed and throbbed beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"We
don't often see a player of your caliber here in New York," I
said, ignoring my brother's posturing. "It's fortunate that you
don't pass this way often."

"Yes,
well." Lord Wycliffe's eyes shifted nervously from Harry to me.
"I had a bit of luck, is all."

"Luck?
You do yourself an injustice, sir."

"Look,
I really don't know what you're suggesting. Are you going to give me
a receipt, or—?"

"Hot
down here, don't you think?"

"I'm
sorry?"

"Hot.
Stuffy. Unseasonable."

"Yes,
but I'm not sure I—"

"Better
take off your coat, sir."

His
eyes locked on mine. Harry, meanwhile, had dropped into an awkward
squat and had his arms flexed over his head. "I think perhaps
I'd best get back upstairs," said his lordship.

"If
we could just ask you to take off your coat, sir," I repeated.

"I
don't—I don't—," he glanced at Harry, who had begun
to make a strange bovine sound, as if he might throw a calf. Lord
Wycliffe looked back at me. "This is intolerable."