“No,” I agreed. “Nor does it seem likely that someone could have arranged a secret meeting with him and then slipped away unnoticed.”
“Unless Mr. Wintour himself desired to keep the meeting a secret,” said Harry, “which brings us back to the fair Miss Hendricks.”
“Yes,” I said. “It does, doesn’t it?” I walked to the fireplace and scanned the books on the lower shelves. “Let’s see... Byron... Wordsworth... Shelley... here we go! Elizabeth Barrett Browning.” I pulled a small volume from the shelf.
“Anything there?” asked Harry, climbing down from the ladder.
I flipped opened the front cover to see that the pages had been hollowed out to form a place of concealment. “I guess Mr. Wintour wasn’t much of a poetry fan,” I said.
“Are those the letters?” asked Harry, peering over my shoulder.
I lifted out a packet of some twenty or thirty envelopes tied with a silk ribbon. The paper was a pale violet hue and heavily scented with perfume. I untied the ribbon and scanned the envelopes. None of them was marked in any fashion. “They must have been delivered by hand,” I said, “which means that some third person was privy to their correspondence.”
Harry stroked his chin. “Couldn’t one of the servants have been running the letters back and forth?”
“Wintour and Hendricks were supposed to be feuding, remember? It would have attracted too much attention if there had been a butler or chambermaid scurrying back and forth. It was probably some mutual acquaintance.”
“Hmm. A mutual acquaintance who knew of Mr. Wintour’s continued interest in Miss Hendricks. This person could have used this information to arrange a clandestine meeting here in the study.”
“My thought exactly.”
“Dash, we should read those letters.”
“Read them? That’s not exactly gentlemanly of you, Harry.”
“They may well name the person who acted as courier. It could be a vital clue.”
“I admit that, but I don’t feel right—”
There was an urgent knock at the doors of the study. “Gentlemen?” called a voice from outside the room. “Are you still in there?”
I shoved the letters in my pocket and slipped the hollow book back onto the shelf. Harry crossed to the doors and unlocked them.
A stocky young man in a checked walking suit stood outside. I recognized him as Henry Crain, the dead man’s brother-in-law, whom I had seen at the funeral the day before. He looked to be a year or two short of his thirtieth year—not that much older than Harry and myself—but he carried himself with a certain pompous self-regard that made him seem a great deal older.
“Gentlemen,” he said, sweeping into the room, “may I ask why I was not consulted before you made yourself free with my late brother-in-law’s rooms?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harry. “We gained permission from Mrs. Wintour. We would not have dreamed of intruding otherwise. I am Harry Houdini and this is my brother Dash Hardeen.”
“I’m Henry Crain,” he said curtly, ignoring Harry’s outstretched hand. “My sister is in no condition to receive callers. Your presence here is an unwelcome intrusion, and I’m afraid I must ask you to leave immediately.” The butler appeared in the doorway with our hats and coats. Harry’s face began to turn an angry red.
“I regret any distress we’ve caused,” I said, steering Harry toward the door. “Please accept our apologies, along with our condolences.”
“But—” said my brother. “We haven’t—”
“Come along, Harry. I’m sure Mr. Crain is a very busy man.”
“One moment,” the young man called after us. Harry and I paused in the doorway. “What were you hoping to find in there?”
“Your sister didn’t tell you?” Harry asked.
“She mentioned some absurd notion involving a secret corridor,” Crain said scornfully. “You can’t expect me to believe that was your real purpose in coming here?”
Harry opened his mouth to object and I gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with my index finger. “You’re quite right,” I said, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. “We’re here on behalf of Mr. Harrington.”
Harry’s eyes widened with alarm. I gave him another poke in the ribs.
“Harrington?” said Crain. “The name means nothing to me.”
“May I speak in confidence?” I asked.
Crain narrowed his eyes for a moment. “Would you give us a moment, Phillips?” The butler nodded and withdrew. “I’m a busy man, Mr.—what was it?”
“Hardeen.”
“Yes. I’m a busy man, so I think you’d best come to the point.”
“Your late brother-in-law had a fine collection of mechanical toys and automatons,” I said.
“I’m aware of that, sir. One of the damned things killed him.”
“Mr. Harrington takes a very keen interest in automatons,” I said. “A very keen interest.”
“Go on.”
“Perhaps Mr. Wintour’s collection has a sentimental value for you and your sister. If so, we won’t impose ourselves upon you any longer. If not...?”
I let the half-formed question hang in the air. Crain hesitated for a moment, then motioned us back into the study and closed the door behind us. “See here,” he said, “are you saying that this Mr. Harrington will pay good money for these trinkets?”
“It’s his business.”
He glanced over at the array of wind-up figures on the library table. “You have some cheek, sir. you came in here with a cock-and-bull story about examining the study, but really you just wanted to size up my brother-in-law’s valuables.”
I turned to make for the door. “I can see that you won’t be interested in dealing with Mr. Harrington,” I said. “I apologize again if we’ve given offense. Come along, Harry.”
“Wait!” the young man cried. “Wait just a moment.” He looked around as though there might be someone else in the room. “I won’t entirely rule out the possibility of a transaction,” he said in a lowered tone, “but it would have to be done in strictest confidence.”
“Of course,” I said.
“How do I contact this Mr. Harrington?”
Harry bit his lip nervously.
“Well,” I said, “Mr. Harrington is an extremely private person, like yourself. He prefers to work through intermediaries. May we tell him that you would be willing to entertain an offer?”
Crain considered for a moment. “All right,” he said, “but you’ll have to be discreet. Do you understand?”
“I believe so, sir,” I said. “You’ll be hearing from us shortly.”
“Very well.” He led us out of the study and showed us to the front door. “And one last thing, gentlemen.”
“Yes?”
“There’s no need to mention any of this to Mrs. Wintour. Good day, gentlemen.” With that, he closed the door behind us.
Harry waited until we had rounded a corner before speaking. “That man—” he began.
“I know, Harry, I know. you think that Henry Crain killed Branford Wintour.”
“Well, don’t you?”
“If so, then he did it without any assistance from our friend Harrington. How do you explain that? Are you going to tell me that the entire business of Mr. Graff and the automaton was just a coincidence?”
“Of course not! He’s bluffing! He knows perfectly well who Mr. Harrington is, for the simple reason that he himself is Mr. Harrington! He arranged the sale of Le Fantôme as a clever pretext in order to—”
“Harry, the only thing we know about Mr. Harrington is that he looks something like you. Henry Crain does not look like you. Benny the Human Skye Terrier looks more like you than he does.”
Harry frowned. “It was dark when Mr. Graff met with Harrington,” he said.
“Harry.”
“All right. But he could easily have hired this Mr. Harrington to do his dirty work for him. you have to admit that he has a powerful motive. He seems to be making him
self very free with the dead man’s treasures.”
“I’ll grant you that,” I said.
“Seems to me there’s only one way to be certain,” Harry continued.
“How’s that?”
“It should be obvious, Dash,” Harry said. “We’ll have to find Mr. Harrington and ask him for ourselves.”
8
THE LIVING SPONGE
“YOU’LL DO NO SUCH THING,” SAID BESS, TUGGING AT THE COLLAR of her cloth winter coat. “Have you forgotten that this Mr. Harrington may well have killed Mr. and Mrs. Graff? You can’t just go chasing after him like some sort of cowboy! Leave Mr. Harrington to the police!”
“I’m not afraid of Harrington, Bess,” Harry said in a level tone. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“I know that, Harry,” Bess answered. “I’m afraid for both of us.”
We had just been to see the rabbi about funeral arrangements for the Graffs, which had left Harry in a despondent humor. “Don’t you see, Bess? It’s my fault that the Graffs are dead. I should have saved them.”
“Saved them?” I asked, settling my trilby on my head. “I think you’re being a little hard on yourself, Harry.”
“Am I? Exactly what have I accomplished in these past few days? I failed to foresee the danger to Mr. and Mrs. Graff; I failed to arrive at any solution to the puzzle of Mr. Wintour’s study; I failed to escape from the holding cell at police headquarters. Nothing but failure! I was a fool to walk away from Huber’s Museum. Even that modest rung of show business may yet prove too great for my talents. Dime Museum Harry. Perhaps that’s all I’ll ever be.”
“Harry, you’re just—”
“I believe I shall return to the tie-cutting factory on Broadway, if they will have me. Perhaps there is a position that would not tax the skills of the Great Houdini.” He thrust his hands out and made a clipping motion, as if working a pair of shears. “Snip, snip,” he said. “In the future I might do better to rely on my hands, rather than my brain.”
Bess clutched his arm and laced her fingers through his. “Harry, you are behaving like a little boy. This must stop.” My brother looked wounded at this, but said nothing. I fell in step behind them, marveling once again over my sister-in-law’s ability to quiet Harry’s tempers. Up to this stage of his life, my brother had done very well behaving like a little boy, with Mama there to stroke his brow and make his cares disappear. Bess, whose fire and spirit had so attracted him during their courtship, would not stand for childishness. “I am not your mother,” I often heard her say, “I am your wife.”
We walked on for a time in silence, with Bess pausing every so often to look in a shop window.
“Harrington is the key,” Harry said, as we climbed aboard a horse-drawn omnibus. “Once he learned that Lord Wycliffe possessed a valuable automaton, he used Mr. Graff to establish its authenticity. Through Mr. Graff, Harrington gained an entree into the reclusive Mr. Wintour’s private study—which, I must assume, had been his object from the beginning.”
“It’s not a bad theory,” I said, struggling to keep my footing as the omnibus lurched forward. “But where’s the motive? Why should Harrington kill Wintour?”
“There are endless possibilities,” Harry sighed. “Money. Revenge. A woman. When we find Harrington we will have our answer.”
“Lieutenant Murray will find him soon enough,” I said, as we found seats at the back. “He’ll act on the information we got from Lord Wycliffe.”
“You give him too much credit,” Harry said. “That man is a shmendrick.”
“A what?” Bess asked.
“A good-for-nothing,” I explained. My brother tended to fall back on Yiddish whenever he felt especially frustrated.
“Lieutenant Murray will never solve this case,” Harry declared. “Not because he isn’t clever enough, he simply doesn’t care enough. Soon enough he’ll have to turn his attention to all the other crimes and killings and thefts that plague this city.”
“Branford Wintour’s murder won’t be forgotten. His money will see to that. His wealthy friends won’t let the police rest until they close the case.”
“His wealthy friends will prefer a verdict of death by misadventure to an unsolved murder. There will be meetings behind closed doors and the entire matter will be swept under the carpet. you wait and see. As for the Graffs, they’ll be forgotten soon enough—especially now that the Toy Emporium is to be sold.”
“Sold?” I asked.
“That’s why the rabbi took me aside as we were leaving. Apparently there has been an offer to buy the building, and the rabbi hoped I might help to clear out the shop, so that the stock can be sold to benefit the congregation.”
“Father’s old congregation,” I said.
“Yes,” Harry said. “That’s why the rabbi asked.”
“How sad,” said Bess. “Of course you’ll help.”
“Later,” Harry said. “It will have to wait until after we’ve found Harrington.”
“The shop is being sold?” I asked again.
“Yes, Dash,” Harry said. “Why does that surprise you so?”
I clawed at my jacket pocket for my note pad. A memory was struggling to emerge from the depths of my mind, but— like Harry battling his way out of a strait-jacket—it seemed to be having a hard time of it. “Who’s buying the place?” I asked.
Harry shrugged. “A downtown firm. It seems they plan to tear down the building to make room for something new. There’s been a great deal of building going on in the old neighborhood lately.”
“Do you recall the name of the firm?”
“Dash, you’re looking very strange all of a sudden. Of course I remember the name. Daedalus Incorporated. One could hardly forget such a name.”
“Daedalus,” I said, flipping through several pages of notes. “I wonder if—ah ha! How very odd!”
“What is it, Dash?” Bess asked.
“You’ll never guess who just bought the Toy Emporium.”
“I told you. Daedalus Incorporated.”
“And do you know who owns Daedalus Incorporated?”
“Who?”
I snapped my notebook shut. “Branford Wintour,” I said.
Lieutenant Murray was not on the premises when Harry and I arrived at Mulberry Street to share this fresh revelation with him. We were advised that his shift would end within the hour, and that there was some slight possibility of finding him in Donnegan’s Tavern, around the corner on Bayard.
Donnegan’s proved to be a dark and fragrant establishment, with sawdust on the floor and paintings from County on the walls. We took a booth near the door, and sat watching an energetic pair of arm wrestlers at the bar. Soon enough Lieutenant Murray appeared, looking even more rumpled than he had that morning, if possible.
To my surprise, he greeted us quite cordially. “Mr. Houdini!” he cried. “Mr. Hardeen! A pleasure to see you again! Come to set the department to rights? Got some fresh information on the Lincoln assassination, have you?”
To his credit, Harry took this in good part. “I have already apologized for my—my exuberance the other evening,” he said. “I did not mean to suggest that your investigation had not been thorough. As a further expression of my remorse, we should like to buy you a drink.”
“Would you now? That’s very grand of you, Mr. Houdini. Mine’s a Jameson’s and water.”
I went to the bar and ordered whiskies for the Lieutenant and myself, and a glass of minerals for Harry.
“Your health, gentlemen,” said the lieutenant, when I had carried the drinks back to the table. “I’m pleased to see you. Saves me the trouble of bringing you down to headquarters. I had a few more questions about—”
“That can wait,” Harry said. “Did you know that Mr. Graff’s shop has just been purchased by Branford Wintour?”
Murray cocked his eyebrows at me, amused. “I had heard something of the sort, Mr. Houdini,” he said drily.
“You don’t find it at all curious that a dea
d man should be acquiring business property?”
The lieutenant took a quaff of his whiskey. “Not especially,” he said. “Branford Wintour had dealings all over the city. Toys— pardon me, juvenile goods—were just a small part of his trade. I happen to know he had money in several department stores, a baking concern and at least three clothing manufacturers. An empire like that doesn’t just shut down over night. Wintour’s businesses will keep going for years, even if he isn’t around to pull the strings.”
“But the Toy Emporium! It’s too much of a coincidence!”
“Is it? I’ve been checking around. Branford Wintour had a finger in nearly every property deal south of Canal Street for the past three years. Apparently he was fond of the neighborhood.”
Harry folded his arms. “But who authorized the purchase?”
“The directors of Daedalus Incorporated.”
“Do we have their names?” I asked.
The lieutenant shook his head. “I’m working on it, though. I don’t like coincidences any more than you do. But you’re not going to find any sinister conspiracy here, gentlemen. In all likelihood, the members of the board were simply adhering to a policy established by Wintour before his death.” He knocked back the rest of his whiskey. “Of course, there is another possibility.”
“What’s that?” Harry asked.
“That Branford Wintour has returned from the dead in order to gain control of every toy shop in the city. For all we know, Wintour’s tortured spirit is doing a brisk business in cloth bears even as we speak.”
Harry lowered his chin, offended by the lieutenant’s flippant tone. “I suppose you’re prepared to disregard our information about Mr. Harrington just as readily?”
“Ah. That’s what I wanted to speak with you gentlemen about. I had an interesting conversation with Lord Randall Wycliffe this morning.”
“And?”
“I’m afraid he’s denying all knowledge of any Mr. Harrington.”
“What!” Harry leapt from his seat. “The man is a bald-faced liar!”
“He’s a bald-faced liar who’s taking advice from his attorneys,” Lieutenant Murray answered. “Sit down, Houdini. I know you’re telling the truth. I’m only saying that we’re not going to be getting much cooperation from his lordship. It’s clear he doesn’t want to be involved, and he’s willing to stake his word against yours to stay clear of the thing.”
The Dime Museum Murders Page 15