The Dime Museum Murders

XI: The Upside-down Man

Mr. Cranston continued screaming for some time. His voice seemed to ebb and flow in the strong winds whipping around the top of the building, and there was a certain fascination in listening to the sound fall away, like a stone disappearing into a well. Tall buildings were not so common then as now, and from our lofty vantage atop the Bayard Building, which had only just been completed that year, we seemed to be looking down on a sleeping village at the foot of some majestic mountain. It made for quite a peaceful scene-apart from the very noisy distress of our companion-with everything shaded a faint lavender in the cool wash of dawn.

Harry, hanging upside-down beside Cranston, waited patiently for him to cease his vocalizations. "I assure you, Mr. Cranston, no one can hear you," Harry said, although we both doubted that this was true. "Do you see how far down the street is? No one is about at this hour." He folded his arms, swaying slightly in the morning breeze.

We had selected the Bayard Building to take advantage of a gear-action construction crane mounted on the ornate cornice, which, during daylight hours, was being used to haul a set of granite angels into position. It had been a considerable chore dragging Cranston's sleeping body across town and up to the top of the building, but the expression on our victim's face more than justified the effort.

"Now then, Mr. Cranston," said Harry blandly, as though opening a board meeting of some kind, "I think we have some business to discuss."

The little man screwed up his eyes and rubbed them, as if to make this terrible apparition disappear. When he opened them again, my brother winked and gave a cheery wave.

"What-what"-Cranston struggled for breath- "what is-why do-what is the meaning of this?" His face glowed red with the blood pooling in his cheeks. He stared at my brother with wild eyes. "I-I have money! Lots of money!"

"Would you be referring to this money?" Harry asked, waving two fat packets of notes.

"Impossible! How did-?"

"One should not place too much confidence in a Bering wall safe, Mr. Cranston. Even if it does have the new dual-chamber pin-plate.

"Keep the money! Just get me down from here! I beg of you!"

"We wouldn't think of keeping your money, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "However, we may not exactly give it back, either." He peeled off a few bills from one of the bundles and scattered them to the morning wind.

Cranston gave a shriek as the notes swirled and danced about his head. "God! No!" His hands darted out to snatch at the money, but the sudden movement set him swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently the motion did not agree with him. He made a harsh choking noise and clutched at his throat. The contents of his stomach spiralled twelve stories to the street below.

Harry took out his handkerchief, fluffed it open in the breeze, and held it out to Cranston, who reached for it with a tight, fragile movement, as though clinging to the railing on an icy set of steps. "What do you want from me?" he gasped, dabbing nervously at his lips. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry said.

"Harrington?" A sudden flash of cunning appeared in Cranston's eyes. "I-I do not know who that is."

Harry reached across and gave him a small push on the shoulder that set him swinging back and forth again. "Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry repeated.

"No!" Cranston cried. "I don't know who you're talking about! I don't know any Evan Harrington! Please stop it!"

Harry reached out and gave another push. "Evan Harrington," he said.

"I can't stand this!" Cranston shrieked, coughing wetly.

"Evan Harrington."

"I don't-"

"Looks a bit like me…" Harry said, giving Cranston another shove.

"Please-!"

"Tried to broker the sale of a valuable automaton…" Another shove.

"I don't-"

"Framed Josef Graff for murder…"

"No-no-''

"Responsible for three deaths in the past three days…" Harry reached out and clutched Cranston by the shoulder, abruptly halting the swinging motion. "I think you can tell me a great deal about Evan Harrington, Mr. Cranston. Begin now, please."

"I don't know a thing about any Evan Harrington! I don't know anything about any murders! You must have me mistaken for-"

"Look up towards your feet," Harry said. "Do you see that handsome fellow straddling the crane? What do you suppose he's doing? Why, it appears as if he's setting fire to the ropes that are anchoring us to the crane!" "No!" Cranston shouted. "You'll die! You'll die with me!"

"Yes, that is a bother," Harry admitted. "Look! The rope is burning quite merrily, having been soaked in kerosene. I would estimate, Mr. Cranston, that you and I have less than one minute before the fire eats through the rope. Then we will fall to the pavement below. It will be a horrible fate-but then, there have been so many deaths lately."

"I haven't killed anyone!"

"All the more regrettable, then."

"For God's sake! I haven't killed anyone!"

Harry grabbed Cranston's nightshirt and pulled his face close to his. "Name the killer," he said.

"I'm not responsible! A man approached me. He- I'll tell you everything, just put out that fire and haul me up!"

"Tell me now," Harry said calmly.

"You're insane!"

Harry merely smiled. "Who approached you?"

"I-I never met the man. He made contact through an intermediary. Most of them do. But I put him in touch with a man who could do the job. All confidential-safeguarded to ensure mutual discretion. I swear, I don't know who hired me!"

"And you passed the assignment on to someone?"

"I'm not a killer! I'm just the man in the middle!"

"The name, please."

"Fred Gittles. My best man."

"Goes by the name of Harrington, does he?"

"Sometimes. Or Richard Feverel. He goes by lots of names. Please-"

"Where do I find Fred Gittles?"

"Thirty-ninth and Broadway. Number three-six-two. For God's sake-"

And then the rope snapped.

I watched Cranston as he fell. His face crumpled and his arms flailed and a sharp little scream died on his lips as though he'd been kicked in the throat. He and my brother seemed to hang in the empty space for a moment, like fish jumping in a summer stream, and then they began to sink in a twisting, corkscrew motion toward the street below.

They must have fallen ten, perhaps twelve feet before I heard the taut zing of the safety wire. They took a hard bounce and bobbed up and down for a few moments before coming to a lazy, gentle swing at the end of the wire.

"Are you all right?" I shouted, cupping my hands to make myself heard over the rising wind.

Harry, still upside-down, gave a cheery salute. "Cranston is unconscious," he called. "I think that went rather well, don't you?"

We had a far easier time getting Cranston off the building. I had brought along a bottle of nerve tonic, and we administered a generous dose before stuffing him back into Harry's sack. We carried him down to the street and loaded him onto the back of the coal cart, then headed back toward his brownstone.

We debated briefly whether or not to turn him over to Lieutenant Murray, but in the end we decided that such a course might create unwanted problems with Jake Stein. Cranston had told us what we wanted to know; we were happy enough to put him back where we found him.

Dawn had broken by the time we dragged the sack through the delivery entrance and carried Cranston up to his own bed. We put what remained of his money back in the wall safe and removed all remaining traces of our visit. I stood back and watched as Harry settled the cotton sleeping cap back onto Cranston's head. "Perhaps when he awakes he will think it was all a narcotic dream," Harry said.

"Until he sees those rope burns on his ankles," I replied. "Come on, Harry, let's go."

Moments later, as we drove away in the coal cart, Harry looked back at the brownstone and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "The burning rope was a brilliant suggestion, Dash," he said. "I thought the poor man was having an apoplectic fit."

"I'm surprised he didn't," I replied. "You were quite impressive up there, Harry."

"I was, was I not?" he agreed. "A shame that no one witnessed the display but ourselves. I wonder…" His eyes drifted upward at the passing skyline.

We drove on in silence for quite some time. Whenever I looked over at Harry, he appeared to be lost in thought. After ten minutes or so, I cleared my throat.

"Harry-" I began.

"No, Dash-don't bother. All that you have to say has already crossed my mind."

"Then you know that we're not going to capture Mr. Gittles ourselves."

His head sank down to his chest. "I know."

"And you know that we're going to police headquarters to turn the information over to Lieutenant Murray."

"Yes," he said dejectedly. "I know."

I looked over at him again. "I expected more of an argument," I said.

"I'm tired of arguing with you, Dash."

"I mean, be reasonable, Harry. The police take a dim view of citizens who make arrests. What did you think we were going to do? Hog-tie Gittles and dump him on the steps at Mulberry Street? Maybe with a little note pinned to his chest-'Compliments of H. Houdini'?"

"No," Harry said. "I would have brought him inside."

"It's not how these things are done in New York."

"Perhaps they should be," Harry replied with some heat. "You know perfectly well what will happen when we tell our story to Lieutenant Murray. He'll fold his arms and shrug his shoulders and tell us to mind our own business. I can hear him now. 'The police can manage this investigation quite well without your assistance, Mr. Houdini.' Honestly, Dash, I don't know why you place such confidence in that man."

He pulled his collar up around his chin and would not speak to me for the rest of the ride to Mulberry Street.

To his credit, Lieutenant Murray did not tell us to mind our own business. He didn't even fold his arms or shrug his shoulders. He listened to our story with frank admiration, and knew better than to press too hard when we glossed over certain details-such as our visit to Jake Stein and our abduction of Joshua Cranston.

When we finished, he leaned back in his chair and gave an appreciative whistle. "Joshua Cranston," he said, with a note of reverence in his voice. "The two of you got Joshua Cranston to sing like a nightingale."

"Well," said Harry, trying to appear modest, "I suppose we did."

The lieutenant turned to the desk sergeant who had taken down our statement in longhand. "When was the last time we hauled Old Brassnuts in here, Sergeant?"

"I couldn't say," the sergeant replied. "Can't be more than three weeks, though."

"He tell us anything useful?"

"No, sir."

Lieutenant Murray nodded. "I didn't think so. But somehow when these two boys tapped him on the shoulder, he spat out a name. A real, live name." He shook his head at the wonder of it. "How did you do it?"

"Well," said Harry, perching awkwardly between discretion and boastfulness, "we-we-"

"We got him to see things from a fresh perspective," I said.

"All right," said the lieutenant. "Play it your way. If this pans out, the New York Police Department will be very much in your debt. There may even be a citizen's commendation in it for you." He noted Harry's glum expression and turned to me. "Why's he so gloomy?"

"He wanted to bring you Gittles himself."

"Did he? How'd you talk him out of it?"

"I--"

"I don't suppose you could take us along when you

arrest Mr. Gittles?" Harry broke in. "I should like to see this murderer face to face."

"There'll be plenty of opportunity for that at the trial, Houdini. I'm afraid we can't allow civilians to hitch along on an arrest run."

"But-"

"Houdini, you did the right thing coming down here. If you and your brother had tried to snatch this Gittles character by your lonesome, he'd have got himself some fancy-pants attorney and claimed unlawful detention." He stood up and reached for a leather gun holster that had been hanging over the coat rack. "I'd like to have you with us when we nab him, but our hands are tied."

Harry gave a bitter laugh. "If only our hands were tied," he said, "that would be the least of my troubles."

Harry continued to sulk as we left the precinct house and returned the coal wagon to its rightful owner. "It's just not fair, Dash," he said as we made our way north to Sixty-ninth Street. "I wanted to hear the man confess. We earned that right."

He kept on in this vein for some time, and I managed to ignore most of it until we found ourselves standing outside the apartment building. "Get some sleep, Harry," I said. "Then you and I had better find ourselves some honest work."

"What, you're not coming in? Mama will have breakfast ready!"

"I'm bushed, Harry. I just want to crawl into bed for a few hours."

He shook his head, despairing over the lay-about habits of his younger brother. "Very well, Dash. Go on home to bed." He sighed and turned toward the building. "Dash," he called after me, "try not to sleep your life away."

I walked the six blocks to my boarding house and wearily climbed the stairs to my room. I felt exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I stripped off my dark clothing, took a quick bath, and shaved. Then I changed my linen and pulled on a clean suit. I was back on the street again inside of an hour.

I caught the elevated train and headed downtown. On the way, I chewed over what Joshua Cranston had told us that morning. As far as I knew, every word of it was true. It didn't matter a bit to me. The police were welcome to Fred Gittles. I wanted to know who hired him. If Cranston didn't know who was pulling the strings, neither would Gittles. That was the name I wanted. That was the only name that really mattered. I didn't know who it was, but I had a hunch.

You may wonder why I didn't share any of this with my brother. The truth is, I wasn't quite as much of a lay-about as he imagined. Much as I loved him, there were times when I would rather have taken that leap off the Brooklyn Bridge than listened to another moment of his self-absorbed prattle. There were times when I preferred to be something other than the brother of the Great Houdini.

It must have been about nine o'clock by the time I reached the Toy Emporium. The door was shuttered and the windows were soaped to discourage gawkers. The police had fastened a warded Hocking padlock onto the hasp. Luckily, my brother isn't the only one in the family who's handy with a crescent-pick. I gave a cheery whistle and handled my pick as if it were a standard key, hoping that any passers-by would think I belonged there.

I had the lock open in seconds. I stepped inside and pulled the door fast behind me. I hadn't been in the store since the discovery of Mrs. Graff's body, and though I knew her remains had long since been carted away, I could not suppress a shudder as I peered into the back room. No evidence remained of the horrors of the previous evening, apart from a greasy stain on the duck's-egg carpet.

I pushed back through the curtain into the main section of the store. A Minotaur Express Steam-Action Electric Train was set up on a display platform at the center of the room. A heavy black circuit panel sat on the floor below, with thick, cloth-covered wires snaking upward toward the track connector points. I reached down and tripped the swing-lever. The crackle and hum of electricity coursed through the circuits.

A wooden panel with seven control knobs sat at one end of the track. I reached across and turned the knob closest to me. The black cast-iron locomotive gave a shrill whistle. I turned another knob and the draw bars strained as the train lurched forward. I watched for several minutes as the train made a stately progress around the platform, passing beneath a small trestle bridge and through a miniature town, complete with a station, post office, and water tower. A pricing slip dangled from the control box. I reached over and pulled it up. Seven dollars and fifteen cents. I tried to imagine the life of a boy whose parents could afford such a toy.

I switched off the buzzing electricity and unhooked the black locomotive. I lifted it off the track and copied down the model number. Replacing the car on the track, I went back into Mr. Graff's office.

Josef Graff had been one of the smartest merchants in New York, as he himself had told us only two nights earlier. I knew that he would not have stocked such an expensive item if he did not expect to sell two or three of them, and I also knew that he would have kept a careful record of each transaction. I pulled open the file drawer of his battered old desk and found a green stock folder marked with the name "Minotaur." I pulled it out and spread it on the desk.

I read through the file carefully-sales receipts, stock orders, manufacturer's specifications, the works. Then I read it again to be certain I hadn't missed anything. The specifics were a whole lot more detailed than I expected. When I finished, I gathered up the documents and put them back in the drawer. Minutes later, I was back on the street, the door carefully locked behind me.

It took about twenty minutes to get to Sixty-ninth Street. I breezed through the kitchen, said a quick good morning to my mother and Bess, and headed straight for the back bedroom. "Come on, Harry," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up. Let's not sleep our lives away."

"What-? Dash? What are you doing here?"

"Get your pants on, Harry," I said. "I know who killed Branford Wintour."