The Dime Museum Murders

X: Return of the Graveyard Ghouls

As I recall, the dream I was having found me strolling arm-in-arm along Sixth Avenue in the company of Miss Katherine Hendricks, who seemed to find me handsome and fascinating to a degree that surprised us both. We had just paused to admire the window displays at Simpson-Crawford when she turned to me with a coquettish giggle, squeezed my hand, and said, "Dash! Wake up!"

I pulled a pillow over my head. "Go away, Harry."

A hand-definitely not Miss Hendricks's-shook me by the shoulder. "Come on, Dash! The game's afoot!"

I threw the pillow aside and blocked my eyes against the light of Harry's bull's-eye lantern. "Haven't you been to bed yet, Harry? What time is it?"

"A little past midnight."

I fumbled for my Elgin on the table beside my bed. "It's three o'clock!"

"Is it? Well, that's all the better. Come on, get dressed! Mr. Cranston has finally returned!"

It seemed pointless to argue, since he would have stood there shaking my shoulder until morning anyway.

I swung my feet onto the floor and padded over to the wash basin, poured some cold water out of the jug, and splashed my face. Slowly, the events of the previous day came back into focus.

We had spent the evening lounging outside a brown-stone on Twenty-third Street, trying to look inconspicuous. The brownstone belonged to a Mr. Joshua Cranston, whose name and address had been on the slip of paper that Jake Stein had given us. For a time we idled on a wrought iron bench directly across the street, but after an hour or so we feared we would be taken for vagrants. We began strolling around the block, in the manner of two young swells seeking "healthful exercise" along a route that happened to bring them down the same street every three minutes. Soon enough we began to attract unwanted attention from the neighborhood doormen. We returned to the bench across the street, artfully concealing ourselves behind a late edition of the Herald.

Almost from the moment we left Jake Stein's presence-his goons, apparently satisfied by our vow of secrecy, had not insisted on blindfolds-I had debated with my brother over the wisdom of pursuing Joshua Cranston. I did not relish the idea of being beholden to a gangland figure, and I sensed that Stein was using us as pawns in some private agenda. Harry brushed aside my objections. "In this world," he told me, "the big thief condemns the little thief."

As night fell, and no lights came on inside the brown-stone, we began to suspect that no one was at home in the Cranston residence. We kept watch for two more hours, by which stage my complaints of hunger had reached a pitch that even Harry could not ignore. We agreed to withdraw for the night and resume our vigil in the morning.

It was now apparent that Harry had not gone home after all. "I decided to climb one of the trees across the street," he explained, "so that I would be able to watch the house without drawing attention to myself. It was actually quite comfortable, rather like that leafy old spruce we used to climb in Appleton. In fact, after an hour or so I fell asleep, only to be awakened just moments ago by the arrival of a four-wheeler. Cranston got out and went into the brownstone. Drunk as a lord, I might add."

"You're sure it was Cranston?"

"The coachman addressed him by name."

"Wouldn't we do better to wait until morning?" I asked, reaching for the trousers of my brown wool suit. "He'll be asleep by the time we get back over there."

"Forget the fancy clothes," Harry said. "Wear those old rags from the black art routine."

He was referring to an act we used to do called "Graveyard Ghouls," in which a pair of grinning skeletons were seen to float and dance in a mysterious fashion. Much depended on the machinations of an unseen assistant-myself-who was clothed entirely in black. "What are you planning, Harry?" I asked.

"I simply do not wish to attract attention," he said. "It would not do to appear as a strutting Beau Brum-mel."

I shrugged and clicked the latches on my old costume trunk in the corner. "Wouldn't we do better to wait until morning?" I repeated as I rooted around in the trunk.

"He is seldom abroad in daylight."

"How do you know that?"

"I know a great deal about Mr. Cranston now. He lives alone, he operates almost exclusively at night, he is extremely partial to wine and spirits, and he is suspected in the disappearance of Muggins."

"Muggins?"

"A poodle belonging to Mrs. Roth."

"And Mrs. Roth would be…?"

"She and her husband occupy the neighboring house."

"How did you come to know all this, Harry?" I asked, pulling a heavy black tunic over my head.

"You'll recall that you abandoned me for a time at the very height of our surveillance?"

"Harry, I had to find a water closet."

"I used the occasion of your absence to make myself charming to Mrs. Roth's nursemaid, who was taking little Jeremy for a stroll."

"When were you going to tell me this?"

"When it suited me."

"Harry," I said, buttoning up my black wool trousers, "normal people sometimes have to answer the call of nature. Normal people sometimes get hungry. Normal people sometimes sleep. I realize that such ideas are foreign to you, but-"

"One of us had to remain alert. And see what has come of it? We are now ready to beard the lion in his den. Good Lord, Dash, stop preening! Every moment is crucial!"

I was now dressed and had been running a comb through my hair. "We're going to knock on the door at three in the morning?"

"Not precisely," Harry said. "Come along, I have a carriage waiting."

We left the boarding house on tiptoe so as not to wake the other tenants, and as we reached the street I saw that

Harry had hired an open, two-wheeled coal wagon, though the driver was nowhere to be seen.

"He seemed happy enough to let me use the rig," Harry explained. "Like you, he places his stomach above the demands of work."

We climbed onto the hardwood seat and I took the reins, as Harry was an uncommonly poor driver. I flicked the reins and the horse set off at an easy trot toward Twenty-third Street. It was a beautiful, crisp night, the entire city wrapped in a blanket of sleep. Only the rhythmic clatter of our hooves and wooden wheels broke the stillness. I looked over at Harry, who had pulled the collar of his shaggy astrakhan overcoat up around his ears. His eyes were gleaming. "The curtain is rising, Dash," he said. "The answers are almost within our grasp!"

Within moments we drew up outside Cranston's brownstone. "Now what?" I asked Harry.

"We go to the cellar delivery door," Harry said, swinging a heavy cloth sack onto his shoulder. "If anyone should happen to look out the window, they will assume we are bringing a weight of coal." "At this hour?"

"Mr. Cranston keeps an eccentric schedule," he assured me. "His tradesmen have had to accommodate him. It is the despair of the neighborhood."

I shrugged and walked the horse and wagon down a narrow service alley at the side of the house, stopping in front of a pair of wooden delivery doors. "Just a moment," Harry said, reaching for his lock-picks. "I'll have these doors open faster than-Dash! How did you manage that?"

"They weren't locked," I said, indicating the open doors. "Nobody locks their doors in this neighborhood."

"Oh," Harry looked a bit disappointed as he tucked his lock-pick wallet back into his pocket. "Well, then. Let us proceed."

"Wait, Harry." I put out a hand to stop him. "We're about to break into a man's home. If we're caught, we'll be arrested. Somehow I don't think Mr. Jake Stein will vouch for us at police headquarters. I need to know what we're doing here."

"It should be apparent," Harry answered in a low voice. "Mr. Stein told us that we would need either money or muscle to get what we wanted from Joshua Cranston. We have no money; therefore, we shall use muscle-as only the Brothers Houdini can."

"And how might that be, may I ask? By creeping around in black clothes?" I peered into the darkened coal cellar. "Suppose Cranston keeps a gun?"

"Then we must rely on the element of surprise," Harry said. He pushed past me and climbed down a half-flight of stone steps leading into the house.

I had little choice but to follow as Harry walked toward the center of the coal cellar. He fished around in the cloth sack he was carrying and pulled out his bull's-eye lantern. Lighting the flame, he adjusted the focusing lens into a narrow beam. "Come along," he whispered. "These stairs will lead us up through the kitchen. The master bedroom is on the second floor at the back."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Mrs. Roth's nursemaid told me. She had it from Cranston's valet. Stay behind me."

We crept up the stairs to the kitchen and passed through to a richly decorated parlor. Harry swept the beam of his lantern toward a winding staircase at the front of the house. "Just a moment, Dash," he said, reaching into the cloth sack. "Better put this on." He handed me a strip of black fabric.

It was one of those little domino masks such as Robin Hood or some operatic villain might have worn. "Harry," I whispered, "you're being preposterous! This is the sort of mask you might wear in stage melodrama!"

"We must safeguard our identity," Harry insisted. "Put it on."

"Raffles."

"What?"

"Raffles," I repeated. "You want to wear this mask because Raffles, the gentleman burglar, wears one." My voice had risen dangerously, but I found I was having trouble controlling it.

"Ridiculous," Harry whispered, petulantly.

"That's how you see yourself, isn't it? The Great Harry Houdini, amateur cracksman, slipping away from the ambassador's reception to relieve the duchess of her diamond tiara. Poor old Inspector Murray, the doddering chief of the Surete, has never managed to apprehend our dashing rogue, who always leaves a pair of silver handcuffs as his calling card. Oh, how many times have the hapless officials of-''

"Stop it, Dash!" my brother snapped. "It's not like that at all. I just thought we would need a proper costume if we are to frighten Mr. Cranston. He will naturally assume that we are dangerous burglars and tell us what we wish to know."

"Harry, no real burglar ever wore one of these things."

He fingered the delicate little mask wistfully. "Let us put them on anyway," he said.

"Suit yourself," I said, shoving mine into my pocket. "But why stop there? Think how frightened Cranston will be if he sees you twirling the ends of a wax moustache."

Harry gave the mask another mournful look. "You have no imagination, Dash," he said, slipping it back into the cloth sack.

Flinging the sack over his shoulder, Harry began a cautious ascent of the main staircase, clinging to the bannister and trying to lighten his tread on the potentially creaky floor boards. I followed suit, though it seemed to me that we had already made enough noise to rouse the dead.

At the top of the stairs we could hear the steady, two-note drone of a sleeping man snoring lustily. Harry flicked the shade on the bull's-eye lantern, masking the beam. Creeping to the door of the master bedroom, Harry nudged it open with his foot.

Cranston lay on his back at the center of a sprawling four-poster bed. He wore silk pajamas and a cotton night cap, and his hands were clasped contentedly over the modest bulge of his stomach.

"He doesn't look much like a killer, does he?" Harry whispered.

"He doesn't look as if he'd harm a fly," I answered. "Or Muggins the poodle, for that matter."

Harry passed me the lantern. "There's only one way to find out. When I give the signal, shine the beam in his eyes. I'm going to give him the fright of his life." He crept to the sleeping man's side and raised his arms in the manner of an animal about to pounce. "Now, Dash!"

I snapped the lantern's shade open and beamed the light onto Cranston's face. At the same time, Harry filled his lungs with air and let out the fearsome growl he had perfected as Yar, the primitive strong man of the dime museum circuit. "Joshua Cranston!" he shouted. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"

Cranston didn't stir. The snoring continued without interruption. Harry furrowed his brow. "He appears to be an uncommonly sound sleeper," Harry said at a more normal volume. He seized the sleeping man by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Cranston began to mumble and swipe at his eyes, as if to bat away the beam of the lantern. "Joshua Cranston!" Harry shouted at an even louder pitch. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"

The sleeping man muttered something that concerned a woman named Dolores, then rolled over and resumed snoring.

I swept the lantern beam to a low table beside the bed. "Harry," I said.

"Wait just a minute, Dash." He gripped the edge of the mattress and gave it a mighty heave upward. Cranston rolled off the opposite edge and onto the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. "Joshua Cranston!" he thundered. "Your day of judgement has arrived! Turn and face your accusers!"

Cranston flailed about groggily for a moment, found his pillow, and went back to sleep. "Harry," I said, "it's going to take more than judgement day to wake this man up." I held out a blue-glass vial.

"What is it?" Harry asked, pulling the cork stopper. "It smells vile!"

"Grunson's Nerve Tonic," I said. "An efficacious and healthful remedy for the treatment of persistent neuralgia and wakefulness."

Harry shoved the stopper back into the vial as if squashing a bug. "So. He is drugged."

"Heavily."

"How long before we can wake him?"

"No way of knowing."

"An hour?"

"At least."

Harry nudged the sleeping man with his foot. "Dash, I have a rather interesting idea."

Two hours later, Joshua Cranston began to stir.

As he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware that much had changed while he was under the influence of his sleeping draught. For one thing, he was no longer in his bedroom. For another, his legs were securely tied. Also, he was dangling head-down from a crane atop the Bayard Building, twelve stories high, looking straight down onto Bleecker Street.

When his screams subsided, he became aware of my brother Harry, dangling head-down beside him at the end of a sturdy rope.

"Good morning, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "Tell me, whatever became of Muggins the poodle?"