The Dime Museum Murders

XII: The Minotaur

"At least tell me where we're going, Dash," Harry said, as our cab clattered across Broadway.

"Harry," I returned, "you can't expect me to divulge the particulars. It's traditional that the detective remain tight-lipped until he reaches the scene of the crime."

"But-but the Toy Emporium is in the opposite direction."

"The first crime scene, Harry. I said I knew who killed Branford Wintour."

"Is it not the same man?"

"No, actually. I don't think so, anyway. We'll know soon enough."

"The Wintour mansion," he said, as we rolled to a stop outside. "So, the mystery ends where it began! Tell me, Dash, is Mrs. Wintour the murderer?"

"Harry, let's not-"

"The butler?"

"I--"

"The brother-in-law?"

I smiled and put a finger to my lips. "Not another word, Harry." I climbed down, paid the driver, and

made my way up the marble steps. Harry followed a few steps behind.

Phillips, the butler, greeted us with the frigid civility one normally reserves for bill collectors. "I do not believe that Mrs. Wintour is expecting you, gentlemen," he said, "unless you've come to deliver more of your mother's soup?"

"We're here to see Mr. Crain," I said. "Would you please tell him that we've brought an answer from our mutual friend, Mr. Harrington?"

"So, it is the brother-in-law," Harry whispered, as the old butler withdrew down the main corridor. "I knew it all along!"

"It's not the brother-in-law," I said. "I just needed an excuse to get back into Wintour's study. Once we're in, find a reason to send him out of the room."

"But-"

"Just think of something, Harry. You're supposed to be the master of misdirection, aren't you? We need to be alone in the study."

"Very well." Harry furrowed his brow as Phillips returned with Henry Crain at his elbow.

"Gentlemen," said Crain apprehensively. "I hadn't expected to see you again so soon."

"I apologize for the intrusion," I said. "Normally we wouldn't think of appearing unannounced. Do you recall the matter we discussed the other day?"

"I do," said Crain, with a furtive glance toward the butler.

"We have some rather urgent news in that regard. Perhaps we might discuss it in the study?"

"I-yes, I don't see any reason why not. Phillips, I shall be in the study. See that we're not disturbed."

"Very good, sir," the butler said, though his expres-

sion indicated a certain irritation over Crain's highhanded behavior.

"Follow me, gentlemen," the young man said, leading us toward the study, "we can have a bit of privacy in here."

"That's very kind of you, sir," I said. "Again, I apologize for the imposition."

I noticed that Crain had now taken possession of his late brother-in-law's key ring, having apparently wrested control away from Dr. Blanton. He unlocked the door and showed us into the room, waving us to a seat in front of the dead man's desk. "Now, then," he said. "I take it your friend Mr. Harrington is interested in purchasing these"-he swept his hand toward the toy collection-"these trinkets?"

"He is, indeed, sir," I said. "Would you be willing to entertain an offer?"

"If the matter can be kept confidential. What sort of offer is Mr. Harrington prepared to make?"

"A very generous one."

"Yes, but exactly how generous?"

"Twenty thousand dollars." What the hell, I thought to myself.

Crain's eyes bulged slightly. "Twenty thousand dollars," he repeated. "Yes, I believe we might be able to come to an agreement over that figure. How soon might we be able to make the transaction?"

"Mr. Harrington is eager to proceed immediately, if that would be acceptable."

"Yes. Yes, it would."

During this exchange, Harry rose from his seat and wandered over toward the library table where much of the dead man's toy collection was arrayed. "This is a

very interesting item," Harry said, fingering a heavy gold medallion. "What is it, exactly?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't say," Crain answered. "I've never seen it before."

"The image is most unusual. A stallion of some kind? Well, no matter." Harry set it down and picked up a cast-iron penny bank in the shape of a barking dog. "Marvelous," he said, tugging the dog's tail to work its hinged jaws. "Absolutely marvelous."

"To return to the matter at hand," Crain said, "as I have mentioned, I do not wish to upset my sister by involving her in this business. We shall have to proceed carefully."

"Mr. Harrington is the very soul of discretion," I said, wondering how much longer I would have to keep up my end of the conversation. I shot a look at Harry.

"A very impressive collection, Mr. Crain," my brother said, stepping away from the library table. "You're to be congratulated, sir."

"Why, I-thank you."

"Dash," said Harry, turning to me, "may I have my pills now?"

"Your pills?"

"Don't tell me you've forgotten them?"

"I--"

"Never mind. I'm sure it's nothing. Now then, Mr. Crain, I should like to offer our assistance in the matter of-of-" Harry staggered forward suddenly, his hands flying to his throat.

"Mr. Houdini? Are you all right?"

"I-I'm sure it's nothing-I"-he pulled at his collar-"you must forgive me-I should not have-"

"Mr. Houdini?"

At this, Harry's eyes flickered and rolled back in his

head. His shoulders twitched once, then again, as though he were dangling at the end of a fishing line. A faint, croaking sound escaped from his lips as his body went limp. He pitched forward onto the carpet, landing with a heavy thud.

"Harry!" I cried, springing from my chair.

"Is he all right?" Crain crouched down beside me. "What happened?"

I rolled Harry onto his back. His eyes were open and his features were composed in an expression of serene resignation. "M-mustn't blame yourself, Dash," he struggled to say. "Tell Bess-tell her I love her." A cool glaze came over his eyes and his right arm flopped onto the floor in front of Crain.

"My God! Mr. Hardeen, he's not breathing!" Crain snatched up Harry's arm. "There's no pulse!"

"Get a doctor!" I shouted. "Find Dr. Blanton! Hurry!"

Crain leapt to his feet. "I'll be back as quickly as I can!" he cried. He flung the door open and rushed into the foyer, calling loudly for Dr. Blanton.

I stood up and closed the door behind him. Then I lifted a sturdy ladderback chair and wedged it under the door handle. I walked back and bent over the fallen form of my brother. His eyes were much brighter now, and the tranquil expression had broadened into a gleeful smile.

"Was that really necessary?" I asked.

He stood up and brushed off his clothing. "You wanted him out of the room. He's out of the room."

"Couldn't you have sent him to fetch a newspaper?"

"Where's the drama in fetching a newspaper?"

I had no answer for that. "Come on, Harry, we'd

better get to work. He'll be back here with Dr. Blanton any second."

"Don't worry, I can always go back into the act."

"That shouldn't be necessary." I had crossed the room to make a slow circuit of the model train platform. "How did you stop your pulse, by the way?"

"Ah! An old trick of the Indian fakirs." He reached inside his suit coat and withdrew the gold medallion he had been admiring earlier. "This is just the right size and shape. I had it pressed between my ribcage and the inside of my arm. It temporarily cut off the flow of blood to my arm."

"Not bad," I said.

"I wonder if it would fool a trained physician?"

"Let's not find out. Come over here, would you?" I had dropped onto my hands and knees to study the heavy oblong platform upon which the train set rested. "Here's something we missed when we were sniffing around yesterday."

"Those bolts, you mean? I made a note of them. They're simply there to anchor the pedestal to the floor."

"Not exactly, Harry. There's a big difference. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't compared this train to the set-up in Mr. Graff's shop. Let me show you something." I stood up and lifted the black locomotive and carriage cars off of the train track. "The Minotaur," I said. "Unusual name for a train, don't you think? I'm going to set these cars aside for a minute. Do me a favor-grab that little water tower from the side of the track."

"This one? What do you need-this is odd. It's stuck.

It's stuck solid. I can't lift it."

"Try the switching station."

"It's fastened down also. How odd!"

"Try that little horse."

"I can't budge it."

"How about that little row of tulips?"

"Dash, every single item is fixed solidly into place. What's the meaning of this?"

"It means that Mr. Wintour didn't want anything to fall off if the platform changed position suddenly."

"Surely you don't mean-?"

"I certainly do."

We heard a frantic banging at the door. "You in there!" came Crain's voice. "Why is this door closed? I've brought Dr. Blanton! Mr. Hardeen? Let us in, please!"

"We'd better hurry," I said. I loosened the butterfly bolts that appeared to anchor the wooden pedestal to the floor. "I hope I'm right about this, Harry. Come over here and give me a hand."

Harry joined me at the edge of the train platform. "Now push up at this end-put your shoulder into it, Harry! Give it everything you have!"

Harry and I strained and grunted for a moment or two. Then we heard a peculiar creaking noise as the entire platform lifted upward. "Impossible!" Harry cried.

"Not at all. The whole thing-the pedestal, the train set-up, even the tiny little wooden tulips-it's nothing more than the hatch of a giant trap door. No one would ever think of looking for an opening here, because the train set appears too unwieldy to move."

Harry shook his head, his eyes glowing with admiration. "It's astonishing! With the trap door open, the train platform is tilted completely onto its side. But everything stays as it was-the track, the water tower, the horse-everything! It's the perfect camouflage!"

"And when the trap door drops back into place, you'd never know that anything had ever been disturbed." I reached out to touch the tiny figure of a station master, who now stood in a horizontal stance as though walking up a sheer wall.

Harry peered into the opening in the floor. A crude wooden ladder led down into a deep black chasm. We couldn't see the bottom. "It's enormous! The hole must be six feet square! Where does it go? Why would anyone build such a thing?"

The banging at the doors was getting louder. The lad-derback chair I had wedged in place began to give way. "Grab that lantern off the desk," I said. "We're going down there."

"But-what's down there?"

"Something you won't believe. Something that will make the Blois collection look like a Delmarvelo Magic Set."

"But-"

"Hurry up, Harry. I want to be out of here before Crain and Blanton burst in."

Harry darted to Wintour's desk and snatched up a large oil lamp. "Move, Harry! Down the ladder!" He sprang onto the top rang and made his way downward into the blackness. I grabbed a circular ring on the inside of the open hatch and followed him down, pulling the trap door shut behind us. I heard the doors of the study burst open just as the hatch dropped into place.

Harry and I stayed motionless for several moments, clinging to the top of the ladder as our eyes adjusted to the gloom. To our surprise, we could still hear muffled noise and movement from Wintour's study, even though the sturdy trap door was sealed in place. Above our heads, tiny pinpricks of illumination showed through the windows and doors of the model train station, admitting sound and light.

"Mr. Hardeen? Mr. Houdini?" Henry Crain's voice reached us as if from a great distance, though he must have been standing no more than ten feet away. "Where are you?"

"Where could they have gone?" came Dr. Blanton's voice. "Phillips? Did you see them go out?"

"No, sir," said the butler.

"They couldn't have left," Crain said with considerable exasperation. "The door was jammed shut from the inside!"

"Perhaps we should ring for the police," said the doctor. "This is the most extraordinary thing since-"

"Yes," agreed Crain. "I'll ring for the police."

I nudged Harry's shoulder with my foot and signalled him to continue downward. We descended cautiously, our progress illuminated only by the feeble glow of the oil desk lamp. Neither one of us spoke until we had descended some twenty feet.

"So this is how the murderer got in and out," Harry said in a hushed voice, his eyes fixed on the blackness stretching below us.

"Apparently," I said.

"But this hole is immense! Who built it? And why?" "Obviously Mr. Wintour built it himself. As to why, if my guess is correct, we'll know soon enough. Can you tell how much farther down we have to go?"

Harry fished a coin from his pocket and let it drop into the blackness. We heard it clatter against something metal. "Not much more," he said. "Dash?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You've changed your mind about who killed Mr. Wintour, haven't you? You don't think Evan Harrington did it, do you?"

"Fred Gittles, you mean? I think he's in it up to his eyes. But Jake Stein told us that there were two killers at work, and I guess the old man knew what he was talking about." My hands flailed in the dark for a moment as I nearly lost my grip on one of the rungs. "Fred Gittles never met Branford Wintour in his life. Wintour was killed by someone he knew. And whoever that man was, he's the one who hired Gittles to kill Josef and Frieda Graff."

"But who? Who killed Mr. Wintour? I can't have been-Dash! I'm at the bottom! What's down here? This lamp is practically worthless! I can't see anything!"

I let go of the ladder as my foot touched dirt flooring. "Stick close, Harry. If we get lost down here we may never find our way out. Perhaps our eyes will adjust in a moment or-"

I saw a brilliant flare of light as something hard slammed against the back of my head. I felt myself fall, but I don't recall landing.

I don't know how much time passed. I regained consciousness by slow degrees, gradually becoming aware of a vast, dark cavern lit by tall oil torches. Harry lay motionless in the shadows a few feet behind me, and it was only when I saw his restraints-he was wrapped in a virtual cocoon of metal chains and leather straps-that I realized that I was also completely trammelled. I tried to move my hands, but there was no slack. Cold metal bit into my arms with even the slightest movement. "Harry?" I called.

"Your brother isn't awake yet," said a voice from behind me. "I hear he's clever at getting out of things That's not much use unless he's conscious, is it?"

"Who-?" I rolled over towards the sound

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Hardeen," said Michael Hendncks. "And welcome to the Fifth Avenue subway station!"