The Dime Museum Murders (8 page)

"Thank
you, Lieutenant Murray," he said. "I must first correct a
misstatement in the lieutenant's kind introduction. I do not claim to
have solved the murder." A ripple of mock protest went up among
the officers. "No, no," Harry said. "I only wish to
demonstrate that
Le
Fantôme
is
blameless. You see, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever
remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

He
surveyed the group of young officers. “First, I will need a
volunteer from the audience. You, sir"—he pointed to a
strapping patrolman—"may I prevail upon you to join me
here at the front of the desk?"

The
officer received a desultory round of applause as he stepped forward.

Harry
reached into his pocket. "Your name is—? Robbins? Very
good. Now, Mr. Robbins, I hold here in
my
hands a perfectly ordinary pack of playing cards—"
Lieutenant Murray gave a loud cough. "Look here, Houdini—"

I
put a hand on his arm to restrain him. "Give him three minutes,"
I said in a low whisper. "He's on to something."

He
gave me a look that suggested I had just staked my life on the fact.

"Officer
Robbins," Harry continued, "will you examine the cards and
confirm that they are all different? You may shuffle them, if you
like." Grinning nervously, the young patrolman gave the cards an
awkward shuffle. "Thank you," said Harry. "Now I will
ask you to deal five cards off the top. Do you see the five ivory
tiles in front of
Le
Fantôme?
I
want you to place one card face down on top of each tile."

Robbins
bent over the desk, biting his lower lip as he dealt out the five
cards.

"Very
good," said Harry. "Now, while my back is turned, select
one of the five cards and show it to the aud—to the other
gentlemen."

Robbins
lifted a card—the five of clubs—off the desk and held it
up for inspection.

"Now
replace the card," Harry continued, "but remember what it
was. You are finished now? Excellent. Now, with the help of
Le
Fantôme,
I
shall attempt to locate the card you selected."

"See
here, Houdini," said Lieutenant Murray, "you can't tamper
with that thing—it killed a man tonight."

"I
assure you it did not." "Besides, there's no key to turn it
on."

"It
does not require a key," Harry said. "Observe." He
stretched his finger across the desk and depressed a
glass
bead on the figure's headdress. We heard a faint click, and slowly
the tiny figure stirred. In spite of himself, Lieutenant Murray
watched in fascination as the cross-legged figure slowly moved its
head from side to side, as if studying the five cards spread out
before it. We heard a soft creak as
Le
Fantôme'
's
left arm bent and its hand rose to stroke its temple, as though lost
in contemplation. Abruptly, the figure's head snapped upward and its
mouth opened in a crude simulation of a smile. I cannot claim that it
was a pleasant smile. In fact, it was downright spooky. Then the left
arm straightened and pointed to the middle card in the row of five.

From
the Chesterfield, Mrs. Hendricks began applauding at the apparent
conclusion of the effect. Her husband and Dr. Blanton joined in, as
did a handful of the policemen.
Le
Fantôme
nodded
its head as if to acknowledge the applause.

"You
see?" Harry cried. "It is a harmless trick, a simple effect
with cards. Officer Robbins, you may now turn over the card that
Le
Fantôme
has
indicated. It is the card you selected, is it not?"

Robbins
looked at the card, hesitated, and looked again. "Uh, no, sir,"
he said. "I picked the five of clubs. This is the nine of
diamonds."

"What?
Impossible!" Harry darted forward and snatched the card from the
patrolman's hand, glaring at it with undisguised annoyance. "This
cannot be!" He winced at the sound of sniggering from the back
of the room. "Le
Fantôme
is
foolproof! Possibly its workings have become fouled through the years
of disrepair, or perhaps I failed to—"

We
never learned what Harry might have failed to do. Throughout his
tirade, a remarkable change had come over
Le
Fantôme.
Unseen
by Harry, who had his back
to
the desk, the automaton stirred to life once again. This time, its
right hand—which held the tiny bamboo tube— rose from the
folds of its robe. With a swift, sure movement, the figure raised the
tube to its lips in the manner of a blow gun. Lieutenant Murray gave
a cry of warning and hurled himself across the desk at my brother.
The pair of them crashed to the floor just as some ten or twelve of
New York's finest dove for cover.

No
poison dart came. Instead we heard a gentle puff of air and the sound
of a wet splotch. Very deliberately, my brother disentangled himself
from Lieutenant Murray, dusted off his trousers, and rose to his
feet.

"I
appreciate your concern for my safety," he said, "but I
assure you it was not necessary. You will see that one of the
remaining cards is now marked with a spot of red pigment." He
held up the card to show a blob of red coloring. "This is what
Le
Fantôme
expels
from its pipe—and the only thing it is capable of expelling. So
you see,
Le
Fantôme
cannot
be the culprit. Therefore, someone else must have slipped into this
room, killed Mr. Wintour, and slipped out again without disturbing
the locks or arousing the suspicions of the household. I suspect,
Lieutenant Murray, that this will alter the direction of your
inquiries."

The
lieutenant said nothing. He stared down at
Le
Fantôme'
s
wooden
smile while the tendons in his neck worked back and forth.

"Oh,
and one last thing," my brother said. He held up the card with
the red splotch. "Officer Robbins, would you care to show our
friends the card which
Le
Fantôme
has
marked?"

Robbins
flipped the card face-front to show the five of clubs.

From
the desk, we heard a soft wooden creak as
Le
Fantôme's
lips
pulled back in a chilling smile.

"Harry,"
I said, after we had walked a few blocks from the Wintour mansion,
"you really can't treat the police like that."

"Why
can I not?" he asked.

"It's
disrespectful. Lieutenant Murray is just doing his work. It's one
thing to make a suggestion. It's another to humiliate him."

"I
needed to demonstrate that
Le
Fantôme
could
not have been the instrument of murder."

"It
would have been enough to explain it to him. You didn't need to put
on the whole song and dance routine."

He
seemed to consider it. "It is my nature," he said. "I
see these men in uniform and something in me grows angry. Men in
uniform have not always been kind to me—to our family." We
walked on for a few moments in silence before he continued. "Besides,
it is what I do," he said, as if considering the matter for the
first time. "I escape from restraints. Chains. Ropes. Handcuffs.
One day, this will mean something to people—to the immigrants
who escaped to America just as our
mother
and father did. They will see a man escaping from fetters and they
will recall their struggles. They will think of freedom."

I
studied his face as we passed under a street lamp. My brother was not
a man given to introspection. When it came, however, it was generally
worth the wait. "But you are probably right," he allowed.
"If I took an improper tone with Lieutenant Murray, I will
apologize in the morning."

"Are
you certain that you're right about this?" I asked. "Isn't
it possible that the automaton could have fired the dart?"

"Yes,"
he admitted, "but not without a splotch of red pigment. There is
no firing mechanism apart from a bladder filled with liquid. This is
squeezed between two cogwheels so that a small amount of dye squirts
forth. If the poison dart had been loaded into the figure's blow pipe
it might possibly have been propelled into the victim's neck, but not
without an accompanying splash mark."

We
stopped at a corner and waited for a horse and trap to pass by. "I
find that possibility very unlikely, though," Harry said. "If
I were attempting to stage manage the murder of Mr. Wintour, I would
never place my confidence in so unreliable a device. What is the
likelihood that a poison dart fired in such a way would find its
target? It seems incredible to me that it should have struck Mr.
Wintour at all, much less that it hit him in a vulnerable spot. How
could the murderer even be certain that the blow pipe would be facing
in Mr. Win-tour's direction when it fired?" He shook his head.
"If I were a murderer, I would not be content to leave so much
to chance."

"But
if
Le
Fantôme
didn't
kill him, how did the murderer get out of the study? It was locked
from the inside."

"A
pretty problem, is it not?"

"Yes,
Harry. A pretty problem. Do you have the answer?"

"I
confess I do not," he said. "Although no doubt the Great
Houdini could think of at least seven ways to enter the study
undetected. But I must gather more data. After all, I never guess. It
is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty."

"
'Destructive to the logical'—is that another bit of wisdom from
the pages of Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?"

He
pretended not to hear me.

"Where
are we going, by the way?" I asked. "The house is in the
other direction."

"We're
going to see Josef Graff."

"The
magic dealer? He's being held at police headquarters!"

"I'm
aware of that, Dash. That's why we're going to see him. I want to
assure him that the Great Houdini will secure his release at the
earliest opportunity."

"Harry—"

"Did
I not prove beyond all doubt that
Le
Fantôme
could
not have been the cause of Branford Wintour's death? And yet, when I
insisted that Mr. Graff be released, Lieutenant Murray refused!"