Hendricks turned and made his way down the tunnel, away from the ladder leading up to Branford Wintour’s study. Gittles waited until the flickering light from the older man’s lamp had receded. Then he turned to me and shook his head sadly. He stepped forward, reaching beneath his coat as he came. A long blade glinted in the torchlight. Crouching over me, Gittles spoke the first words I ever heard him say. “Nothing personal,” he said. With that, he raised the blade high over his head.
That’s when Harry returned from the dead. I heard him before I ever saw him. He sprang from the shadows with a wild cry, chains and straps hanging from his limbs, and plowed his head into Gittles’s mid-section. The two men fell in a heap, rolling away from me into a pool of torchlight.
I pulled furiously at my constraints, desperate to get into the fight as Harry and Gittles got to their feet, warily circling one another. Gittles lashed out with the knife, but Harry jumped back and countered by swinging a length of chain at his attacker’s head. Gittles let out a howl as the chain raked across his face, then made another thrust. Harry managed to ward off the blow with another swipe of the chain, and Gittles jumped back, readying for another thrust.
I could feel blood dripping down my arms as the restraints tore into my wrists. I tugged harder, blocking out the shock of pain that came with each movement. I now had a slight range of motion in my right arm—the chains were oiled with my blood—but every motion threatened to strip the flesh from my bones. I bit my lip and kept working.
Gittles lunged twice, slashing at Harry’s eyes. My brother managed to parry, but lost his footing as he backed over a section of train track. Harry crashed to the ground, chains clattering off the metal track railings. Gittles vaulted forward, raising his knife for another plunge. Harry rolled onto his side, aiming a powerful kick at his opponent’s knee. Gittles gave another shriek of pain and staggered backward into one of the work torches, which came crashing down onto his head. My brother leapt to his feet as the other man dropped the knife and frantically wiped oil and glass away from his eyes. Harry moved in for the kill, landing a solid right to the jaw and following it with a pair of vicious kidney punches. Gittles dropped to one knee, his face and hands still dripping with oil from the lamp. Harry cocked his arm. “Nothing personal,” he said. Gittles tried to get his hands up but it was too late. Harry went over the top with a crushing straight, followed by a roundhouse that had his entire weight behind it. Gittles’s head snapped back and his eyes swam. He went down hard and didn’t move. “Dash? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I just can’t quite seem to shake these straps.”
“Hold still. This won’t take long.” Harry opened his leather wallet and fished out a pick. “Hold still, I said.” He worked at a small padlock that cinched a length of chain around my ankles. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Dash.”
“Look, Harry, you’re a better escape artist than I am. I admit it.”
“That’s not what I meant. For three days you insisted that we run to Lieutenant Murray every time we so much as drew a breath. But what did you do when you figured out the murderer’s identity? you decided to apprehend him yourself. ‘The police take a dim view of citizens who make arrests.’ Wasn’t that what you said to me?” The lock snapped open and Harry began unwinding the chains from my legs. “You’re a fine one to talk, Dash.”
“I couldn’t be sure I was right,” I said. “The whole thing seemed too outlandish. And I certainly hadn’t anticipated that we’d find Hendricks in the tunnel—much less that Gittles would be with him. I—Harry! Behind you!”
I saw a glint of steel and a rush of movement from the shadows. Fred Gittles, knife raised high, sprang towards us.
“Harry!”
My brother turned and instinctively raised his hands. The blade sank into his forearm. Harry gave a strangled cry and drew back, a jet of blood soaking through his sleeve. I struggled to my feet, my hands still pinned behind my back. Harry clutched at his wound, leaving himself wide open to attack. Gittles reared up for another thrust.
I had one chance. I lowered my shoulder and drove it into Gittles’s stomach, driving him back across the cavern. I heard the knife fall from his hands as the air rushed from his lungs, but he recovered quickly. He straightened up and tagged me with two hard jabs to the nose. With my arms strapped behind me, I had no way of defending myself. Gittles hammered me with a straight to the jaw. I staggered backward, but stayed on my feet.
He kept coming, snatching up a length of wooden planking from the ground. Harry was back on his feet now, but Gittles sent him sprawling with a hard smack across the forehead. He turned to me and hefted the plank like a baseball bat, readying for another swing.
It turned out to be a mistake. The edge of the plank caught the oil lamp we’d brought down from Mr. Wintour’s desk. The glass globe shattered instantly, sending a shower of flame onto Gittles’s oil-soaked clothing. His coat lit up like matchwood, with streaks of flame spreading quickly across his arms and legs. I watched helplessly as he flailed and thrashed, his screams filling the vast cavern.
Harry was there in an instant, knocking Gittles to the ground and slapping at the flames with his coat. A horrible, sickly smell filled the air as Harry tried to smother the fire, but his coat soon burst into flame. “Hold still!” Harry shouted. “Stop struggling!” He jumped up and grabbed a metal spade, desperately scooping up loose dirt and shoveling it onto the burning man. After a moment or two of furious labor, the last of the flames was extinguished.
Harry knelt down and brushed away a layer of dirt from what was left of Fred Gittles’s face. It was a terrible sight, a patchwork of wet blisters and dark, cracked flaps of charred skin. A tortured, croaking sound escaped from the injured man’s lips. “Thank you,” he said. His head slumped to the side.
Harry said nothing as he released my hands from the remaining straps. Together we carried Fred Gittles down the tunnel to the wooden ladder. I went up first, working the metal ring to open the trap door as Harry followed behind with the injured man over his shoulder. In Branford Wintour’s study, we found that Dr. Blanton and Henry Crain had been joined by Lieutenant Murray and a pair of uniformed patrolmen.
“What the hell—” Lieutenant Murray began at the sight of us emerging from the trap door. “What in God’s—?”
“Dr. Blanton,” I said. “This man is badly burned. He needs a hospital.”
“What’s happened?” the doctor cried. “What’s going on here?”
I turned away from him. “Lieutenant,” I said, “we need to get to the home of Michael Hendricks. Now.”
“Hardeen, what’s—?” He looked at my face and saw something there that made him stop. He turned to the uniformed officers. “Take the doc and get that man to a hospital,” he said. “Hardeen, you and your brother come with me.”
He led us outside to a waiting police wagon. Harry and I climbed in back while the lieutenant gave orders to the driver. As the wagon lurched forward, Lieutenant Murray dropped onto the seat opposite us. “You’re sure you don’t want the doctor first?”
I looked at Harry. He was filthy, his clothing was in shreds, there were streaks of black soot across his face, and he was clutching a bleeding wound on his forearm. I don’t suppose I looked much better.
“Harry?” I said. He just shook his head.
No one spoke until we drew up in front of the Hendricks place. I reached back to help Harry down out of the wagon. “I’m fine, Dash,” he said, shrugging off my hand. “Don’t fuss over me.”
We hurried up the front path and hammered at the door. Lieutenant Murray pushed past the butler and led us down the hall, throwing open the doors to the study without even breaking stride.
I don’t know what I expected. Hendricks, sitting behind his desk, did not seem at all surprised to see that Harry and I were still alive. An expression of sadness and resignation washed over his face. He nodded at the lieutenant and set down the pen he had been holding. Pushing back his desk chair, he s
tood up and turned toward the bay window.
Harry saw it before I did. “Dash!” he shouted. “He has a pistol!”
Lieutenant Murray threw us both to the floor, shielding us with his body. His hand went to his belt, reaching for his own revolver. The gun hadn’t even cleared its holster when we heard the shot.
Michael Hendricks slumped to the floor, a ghastly splash of red on the window behind him. I stumbled to the edge of the desk, feeling a wave of burning gorge rise in my throat. “It’s finished, Dash,” Harry said. “There’s nothing more you could have done.” I looked down at the body on the carpet and remembered what Hendricks had told me in the tunnel.
It’s a difficult thing to watch a friend die—no matter what the reason.
14
THE JUSTLY-CELEBRATED SELF-LIBERATOR
“YOU KNOW, HOUDINI,” SAID LIEUTENANT MURRAY, “YOU’VE already received the citizen’s commendation medal and a special proclamation from the mayor. That would be enough for most people.”
“I am not like most people,” my brother said.
The lieutenant nodded in vigorous agreement. “Yes,” he said, “I guess we can agree on that.”
Five days had passed. In that time, much had changed in our lives. The death of Michael Hendricks had set a remarkable series of events in motion, culminating in a four-hour emergency conference at the mansion of Mr. William Russell Grace, the former mayor. The governor, half a dozen state representatives, and the exalted Thomas Collier Platt were also in attendance, and a more grave and earnest assembly could hardly be imagined.
Harry and I were not included in this august gathering. Instead, we had been summoned to the Grace mansion and installed in a palatial antechamber to await the outcome of the deliberations. Lieutenant Murray was sequestered with us, and he spent the long vigil with a comically dainty tea cup clutched in his meaty paws, staring quizzically at a mysterious array of tiny bread wedges adorned with cucumber.
“You know,” the lieutenant informed us, “they’re in there cooking up a giant fish story. They won’t let Michael Hendricks be the villain of this piece. Wouldn’t look right. Wait and see.”
“But Mr. Hendricks was the villain,” Harry insisted, pinching one of the cucumber parcels between his thumb and forefinger. “I regret that he felt compelled to take his own life, but that is hardly an expiation for his sins.”
“They’ll make Gittles the villain,” Lieutenant Murray said. “It’s the only way Hendricks gets to keep his reputation.”
“Seems to me there’s more than enough guilt for both of them,” I said. “How’s Gittles doing, anyway?”
“Not so good. He may live; he may die. Once these fellows are done with him, he may prefer the latter. How are you two doing? you both went through the meat grinder back there.”
“We are recovering nicely, thank you,” said Harry. “Apart from the cut on my arm, I am feeling very little pain.” He fingered the heavy bandages on his forearm. “The doctor tells me I was fortunate that the blade did not do more damage.”
“You were lucky,” Lieutenant Murray agreed. “Both of you. you could just as easily have been killed. That was a hell of a foolish stunt you pulled.”
Harry and I didn’t bother trying to defend our actions. The lieutenant’s reproaches had been mild compared to those of Bess, who had unleashed a blast of white hot fury when we finally straggled home after our adventure in the tunnel. The anger soon gave way to hysteria, followed by a long period of moody silence. It would be some days before the atmosphere returned to normal on Sixty-ninth Street.
For me, the five days since Michael Hendricks’s death had been a time of moody introspection. I had spent many long hours alone with my thoughts, either sitting in my room or taking long walks through the city. One of these walks found me standing outside the Hendricks mansion, where, on a sudden impulse, I decided to call in and pay my respects. I cannot say what I hoped to gain by this gesture. Perhaps I sought to ease my conscience. Perhaps I sought solace of a different kind. Katherine Hendricks had received me in a small drawing room on the ground floor, her lovely eyes ringed with heavy shadows. I offered a few clumsy words of condolence, then passed over the packet of letters I had retrieved from Branford Wintour’s study. She accepted them without a word, and I turned to take my leave.
“Mr. Hardeen,” she said quietly, as I paused with my hand upon the doorknob.
“Yes?”
“He was quite taken with you. My father.”
“You are kind to say so.”
“He told me as much. ‘One need not be an English lord to cut a path in this world.’ That was how he phrased it.”
I said nothing. My throat had grown very tight.
“Of course, my own prospects are much changed now,” she said evenly. “Much changed.”
I nodded.
“Lord Wycliffe and I must wait a decent interval, of course. We shall make the announcement next spring, I should think.”
My hand felt quite hot on the doorknob. “I wish you every happiness,” I said. “I’ll show myself out.”
My last sight of her, as I closed the door behind me, saw her tossing the packet of letters onto the fire.
“Dash?” said Harry, recalling me to the present. “I believe the lieutenant asked you a question.”
“I’m sorry?” I said, turning away from the window. “I was thinking of something else, I’m afraid.”
“Never mind,” Lieutenant Murray said. “Not important.”
“He’s been like this for days,” Harry told the lieutenant. “Bess thinks he hit his head.”
“My head is fine,” I said. I gestured toward the closed doors where the council of city elders was taking place. “Can they really expect to hush the entire matter up?” I wondered. “You realize, Lieutenant, that my brother has never been one to suppress his own exploits.”
“The public would be most interested—” Harry began.
“Tell me, Houdini,” said the lieutenant. “Are your citizenship papers in order?”
The color drained from Harry’s cheeks. “Don’t be absurd!” he cried. “I’m as American as you are! I was born in Appleton, Wisconsin!”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Budapest?” He set down his tea cup as carefully as if it had been a hatching chick. “Look, Houdini, I don’t give a tinker’s damn whether you were born in Wisconsin or in Hungary or on the planet Jupiter. I’m just warning you. That’s what they’re going to use to keep you quiet.” He sighed and looked at the closed doors. “These men always manage to get their way.”
Matters developed much as the lieutenant had predicted. When the city worthies emerged from behind the closed doors, Harry and I were informed that certain information would be withheld from the general public so as to spare the Hendricks family any further distress. “I think poor Mrs. Hendricks has borne enough sorrow, don’t you, gentlemen?” asked Mr. Grace. “Better for everyone if we keep this business to ourselves, wouldn’t you agree?”
When it was clear that the Brothers Houdini were not prepared to argue, a climate of merry good fellowship prevailed—complete with whiskey and cigars and a series of ribald jokes from Mr. Platt. By the time the whiskey decanter had been drained and refilled three times, the company had grown extremely jovial indeed. I was enjoying a rubber of whist with a pair of aldermen and the junior senator when I happened to spy Harry across the smoke-filled room, deep in conversation with Mr. Grace. “That’s the strangest request I’ve ever received, Mr. Houdini,” I heard him say. “People usually want my help going the other way!” He clapped his arm across my brother’s shoulders. “Let me see what I can fix up.”
And so it came to pass that Harry got himself locked up in the Sing-Sing State Prison after all, while a retinue of journalists awaited news of his success or failure in the warden’s office. It was arranged that I should join him in this adventure as well, so that I might share in the expected publicity windfall. Now, locked away in separate cells facing one another acro
ss a gloomy expanse of prison corridor, I found myself regretting my decision to participate. First of all, I had not realized that I would be obliged to submit to the most rigorous and degrading medical body search that one could possibly imagine. Also, Harry and I were both stark naked. The guards had taken away all of our clothing, to forestall any possibility that we had tools concealed in them.
“Harry,” I called, “can you hear me?” I leaned against the cell door and then quickly recoiled. The bars were freezing cold.
“of course I can hear you, Dash.”
“What are we doing here? you never did manage to break out of the lock-up at the precinct house. What makes you think you’ll have any better luck here at Sing-Sing?”
“Call it a hunch,” he answered. “I saw an opportunity and I seized it. We couldn’t possibly ask for a better advertisement! Did you see how many newspapermen there were out there? Our names will be in every paper in town!”
“Madman and Brother Locked Away at Own Request,” I said, imagining the headline my friend Biggs was likely to supply. “Best For All Concerned, Says Governor.” I sat down on the metal bunk in my cell. “Good Lord, that’s cold!” I cried, jumping up again. “Did they have to take away our clothing?”
“I’m afraid I insisted on it. I thought it would make our triumph more dramatic.”
“But Harry, I don’t see how you can possibly have concealed the lock-pick and reaching tool.”
“I didn’t.”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t have a lock-pick. I don’t have a reaching tool.”
I stepped to the door and gripped the bars. “Harry—”
“I learned a great deal down there in that tunnel beneath Mr. Wintour’s house,” Harry said. “I learned a great deal about treachery and deceit, and about what makes a man brave and what makes him foolish. I suppose Bess was right all along. I’m no hero, Dash. Josef and Frieda Graff are dead, and the world is no better for their passing. We might just as well have stayed at the dime museum.”
The Dime Museum Murders Page 21