The Dime Museum Murders (7 page)

"Mr.
Houdini?" Lieutenant Murray stepped back as Harry, still on his
hands and knees, rounded a corner of the dead man's desk. "Mr.
Houdini? Is there something in particular you're looking for down
there?"

Harry
simply granted and continued his circuit of the desk. I looked at the
Chesterfield, where the two men in evening dress were looking on with
great amusement.

"Harry,"
I said, "this might not be the proper time for—"

"Silence,
Dash! I am like a bloodhound on the scent!"

"Look,
Mr. Houdini," Lieutenant Murray said with some asperity. "We
don't need you to tell us whether Wintour is dead or not. We figured
you'd know something about how the doll worked, seeing as how you and
this Robert-Houdin have the same name."

Harry
ignored the remark. "Dr. Peterson?" he called from the
floor. "Was Mr. Wintour already dead when he was found?"

"Oh,
absolutely," answered the police physician. "Though perhaps
you should ask my colleague Dr. Blanton. He examined the body before
I did."

"Dr.
Blanton?" Harry asked, his head bobbing up from behind the desk.
"Who is Dr. Blanton?"

One
of the dinner guests rose from a club chair. He was a small, rotund
man perhaps sixty years of age, with heavy dewlaps and large, moist
eyes. His long, delicate hands seemed to be in constant motion,
whether fiddling with the pearl buttons of his waistcoat or adjusting
the pince nez he wore at the end of a chain. "I'm Percy
Blanton," he said, clipping the spectacles onto his nose. "I've
been a friend of Bran's for more years than I care to count. I was
just arriving when—how shall I say it?— when the door to
the study was opened, so of course I was the first to examine the—let
me see—so of course I was the first to examine the subject."

Harry
sprang to his feet. "And was Mr. Wintour dead when you examined
him?"

"Mr.
Houdini—," Lieutenant Murray stepped between my brother
and Dr. Blanton.

"No,
it's quite all right, Lieutenant," the doctor said. "I
don't mind repeating my account."

"That's
kind of you, sir, but this man is not an investigator."

It
finally dawned on Harry that Lieutenant Murray
was
exasperated with him. "I do not wish to hamper your
investigation or inconvenience Mr. Wintour's guests," he said,
adopting a more diplomatic tone, "but what you say concerning
Le
Fantôme
seems
incredible to me, knowing its workings as I do. I am merely trying to
fix the scene in my mind, so as to judge whether the automaton could
have acted in the manner you describe."

The
lieutenant's hands dropped to his sides. He nodded at Blanton to
continue. He didn't look happy about it, though.

"As
I told the police," Dr. Blanton said, "Bran— that is,
Mr. Wintour—was seated at his desk when I entered the room. His
head was forward on the desk and I naturally supposed that he was
asleep. It was only when we stepped forward—"

"Pardon
me, sir," Harry interrupted. "Who was with you in the
room?"

"Why,
all of us. Myself, of course. Phillips, the butler. Mr. Hendricks and
his wife. And Margaret, naturally."

"Margaret?"

"Mrs.
Wintour."

"His
wife? Where is she now?"

"I
had to take her upstairs and give her a sleeping powder. She was
distraught, as you can well imagine."

"I
see. And who is Mr. Hendricks?"

"I
am," said the gentleman who had been seated on the Chesterfield.
He was tall and gaunt-faced, with brown curly hair and a Vandyke
beard covering what looked to be a jutting chin. I guessed his age to
be fifty or so, though his lined forehead and the dark hollows
beneath his eyes made it difficult to judge.

"When
Bran invited me here tonight he said he'd
made
the find of a lifetime," Hendricks said. "If what you say
about the automaton is true, I'd say he wasn't exaggerating. I've
often heard stories about the Blois collection, but I never dreamed
I'd actually see any of
it."

"Excuse
me, sir," Lieutenant Murray said. "What did you call the
collection?"

"The
Blois collection," Hendricks said, giving a careful
pronunciation. "That's what it's always been called. Blois is
the name of the city where Robert-Houdin lived."

"You
know something of these devices, then?" The lieutenant seemed to
be choosing his words carefully.

"I
own a great many automatons, Lieutenant. I daresay that's why Bran
invited me here this evening—to gloat over his prize."

"Have
you, ah, any experience of how they work?"

"Indeed
I do. I'm in the toy business myself. One doesn't run a manufacturing
concern without picking up a thing or two. I doubt if I'm as
knowledgeable as Mr. Houdini, but I have a decent understanding of
the basic mechanics. Don't look so alarmed, Lieutenant. I'm well
aware that this makes me a suspect."

The
woman sitting at his side—whose kindly face had encouraged me
in my earlier recitation—laid a hand on his arm. "Surely
you don't suspect my husband, do you, Lieutenant?"

"Of
course he does, Nora," Hendricks said, not unkindly. "I
dare say I'm at the very top of the list. There are only a handful of
men in New York who could get
Le
Fantôme
to
work after all these years. Three of us are in this room, and one of
us is dead. I can't speak for Mr. Houdini, but I certainly have my
share of motives. As soon as you begin to do a little digging,
Lieutenant,
you'll
discover that I'm a business rival of the dead man."

"But
the two of you are friends," Mrs. Hendricks protested. "You
used to be partners."

"We
used to be, darling," her husband said, patting her hand. "I'm
afraid that's the point." He turned back toward the desk. "There
is something I've been wondering, Lieutenant. Are you certain it was
murder? Couldn't it have been an accident, like a gun going off
during a cleaning? Who knows how long it's been since anyone has
tinkered with those old gears."

"We're
looking into that, sir," the detective admitted. 'The man who
sold the doll to Mr. Wintour is answering questions downtown."

Harry,
who had resumed his study of the carpet» looked up in surprise.
"You don't mean Josef Graff, do you?"

Lieutenant
Murray consulted his notebook. "Yes, Josef Graff. Runs a toy
shop, I believe. On the side he arranges purchases for collectors
such as Mr. Wintour."

"A
fine fellow," offered Hendricks. "I deal with him myself on
occasion. You mean to say Josef sold
Le
Fantôme
to
Bran without offering it to me first?"

"In
the circumstances," Lieutenant Murray said, "I should think
you'd be grateful."

"You
don't suspect old Graff of having a hand in this?" Mr. Hendricks
appeared genuinely dismayed. "I've known the man for years!"

"As
have I," Harry said quietly.

"He
sold the doll to Wintour," the Lieutenant said flatly. "Now
Wintour is dead. I think it's reasonable to ask him a few questions."

"Is
he being detained?" Hendricks spoke as if dealing
with
an impertinent houseboy. "Has Josef Graff been placed under
arrest in this matter?"

I
glanced at Harry. His face had gone deathly pale. "So far as we
know, he was last to see the murdered man alive," Lieutenant
Murray said. "We would be remiss if we did not treat him with
some measure of suspicion."

"See
here!" Hendricks was on his feet now. "Graff is a feeble
old man! You can't just bung him in jail because—''

"With
respect, sir," Lieutenant Murray interrupted, "there are
elements of this investigation with which you are not familiar. I
would ask that you defer to my judgement for the time being."
The policeman's tone was even and deferential, but there was no
mistaking the core of iron.

Hendricks
studied Lieutenant Murray's face for a moment and saw that it was
pointless to argue. "I just don't understand the point of
detaining Mr. Graff, that's all," he said, sitting down beside
his wife. "He's a harmless old man."

My
brother had been silent during this exchange. Now he rose from his
contemplation of the floor and carefully brushed at the knees of his
trousers. "'I have completed my examination of the carpet,"
he announced.

"Have
you?" Lieutenant Murray turned to face my brother, his lips
pressed together in amusement.

"I
am prepared to announce my conclusions," Harry continued.

"Your
conclusions?" The lieutenant was smiling broadly now. "Look,
Mr. Houdini, as I said before, we just want you to show us how the
automaton works." "I will do so, of course. At the same
time, I will also
demonstrate
that Josef Graff had nothing whatever to do with Mr. Wintour's
death."

"I
beg your pardon?"

"Josef
Graff had nothing whatever to do with Mr. Wintour's death. He may
have sold
Le
Fantôme
to
the dead man, but he is completely innocent of any wrongdoing. I
promise you that on my mother's life."

"And
how can you be so certain of that?"

"Because
Le
Fantôme
did
not kill Branford Wintour."

All
traces of amusement drained from Lieutenant Murray's face. His eyes
became very still, the way a terrier's will when he's about to take a
chunk out of your hand. "May I ask how you arrived at that
conclusion, Mr. Houdini?"

"Because
there is no red dot," said my brother.

Dr.
Peterson, the police physician, perked up at this. "No blood,
you mean? There was a bit, if you looked closely, but the puncture
wasn't deep enough to cause any serious bleeding."

Dr.
Blanton, Mr. Wintour's friend, nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
"In some cases, the poison need not even enter the bloodstream
directly. The smallest scratch is sufficient to—"

"I
did not mean blood," Harry said. "I refer to a red dot of a
very different kind. A red dot that only Houdini would think to look
for. I have made an exhaustive search, gentlemen, and there is no red
dot on the body, or on the floor, or on the desk."

Lieutenant
Murray locked his hands behind his back. "I think you'll have to
explain yourself for us, Mr. Houdini."

"Of
course," my brother said, warming to the role. "You and
your men cannot be faulted if you are slow
to
grasp this. It is a matter where only the rarefied knowledge of
Houdini can be of service."

"Uh,
Harry—?" I began.

"That's
all right," Lieutenant Murray said to me. "Please, Mr.
Houdini, we'd be ever so grateful if you could put us on the right
track here." He held up his hands for silence. "Boys? Could
I ask you to stop with all this unnecessary police work for a moment?
It seems our visitor here has stumbled upon the solution to our
little problem, and I think we should all give him our attention."

There
was general laughter from the men in uniform, and even Mr. Hendricks
and Dr. Blanton appeared amused. A lesser man might have resented the
lieutenant's facetious tone. Harry, with his steel-plated vanity, did
not notice. Instead, he puffed out his chest and smoothed his lapels,
a gesture he invariably made when he was about to take the stage.