The Dime Museum Murders

XIII: Buried Alive

"Harry?" I said again.

"I believe your brother may be dead," said Mr. Hen-dricks, as if remarking on a sudden change of weather. "My associate seems to have hit him rather hard. I don't know that you've met Mr. Gittles, have you?" He indicated a short, powerfully built man standing behind him. "I expect you knew him as Harrington."

My face was pressed against a clod of hard earth. I strained to lift my head, but the movement sent a jolt of pain down my arms. Harry didn't seem to be moving at all. Behind him, I could see a tall stack of wooden packing cases, along with digging tools, haulage carts, and building materials. "What is this place?" I asked.

"I told you. The Fifth Avenue subway station. Or it will be, at any rate. We're going to build New York City's first underground public transportation system. See to Mr. Houdini, will you, Mr. Gittles?"

Gittles stepped forward and nudged Harry with his foot. When Harry didn't move, Gittles rolled him into a shallow trench behind one of the torches. Gittles moved toward me, waiting for Hendricks to give the next order.

"You're going to put omnibuses down here?" I asked, stalling for time.

"No, Mr. Hardeen. Trains. Big, beautiful Minotaur trains, all built by Daedalus Incorporated. That train in my study is no toy. It's a scale model of the first Minotaur underground train."

"You're going to build a full-size train and put it underground?"

"Don't play stupid, Mr. Hardeen. You're not as convincing as your brother. I know perfectly well that you've been nosing around. Mr. Gittles has been watching you day and night. When did you figure it out? When you were going through old Josef's files?"

I tried to shift position, hoping my head would clear. Tugging at my arms brought more pain, but no slack whatever. I was wrapped like a mummy. I doubted if even Harry could escape from these chains, assuming he was still alive. I squirmed onto my side, straining for a better view.

"Well, Mr. Hardeen?" Hendricks shined a lantern into my eyes.

I figured I'd better keep talking. "Sand," I said.

"Come again?" Hendricks took a step closer.

"You wrote up an order for sand. For the fire buckets. What sort of model train has real sand in the fire buckets?"

Hendricks considered the question. "Train enthusiasts have a great appreciation for that sort of detail, Mr. Hardeen. You know that perfectly well. We could have been planning to put real sand in the fire buckets."

"Half a ton of it?"

He gave out a barking laugh. "Very good! I'm surprised Josef never noticed!"

"He didn't know, then? About the underground train?"

"Josef? No, we let him think we were trying to take over the model train market. Of course we swore him to secrecy. Bran told him that our competitors were trying to steal our ideas, and that it would all go to pieces if he breathed a word of what we were doing."

"But it doesn't make sense! No toy train design would ever work on a real railroad! You can't have expected that it would haul passengers!"

"Of course not, Mr. Hardeen. The design is worthless. There is no train. But there soon will be."

"I don't understand."

Hendricks sat down on, a wooden shipping crate. "It's very simple," he said. "Three weeks from tomorrow, Senator Platt is going to haul his lying, cheating politician's hide in front of the city control board and announce that he's taking bids for the development of the New York Underground Transportation Foundation. It's been an open secret for months now, ever since Boston got its system running. New York can't be second to Boston, so our trains will have to be even bigger and better. Platt has all the support he needs; he even has Tammany Hall behind him. But, of course, Boss Platt being what he is, he's already grooming one of his cronies for the job, complete with a hefty gratuity for himself. So what's an honest businessman to do?"

While Hendricks spoke, I could hear a faint rattling and clinking of chains behind me. Harry, I thought to myself. He's alive and he's trying to escape. I tugged again at my own restraints. Even Harry wouldn't be able to shake this metal cocoon easily. I figured he'd have a better chance if I could keep Hendricks talking. "I don't understand," I said. "If Senator Platt already has one of his own pals lined up, what's the point of all this?"

Hendricks stood up and swept his arm through the shadowy cavern. "I simply decided to start without him," he said. "As soon as the project is announced, I'm going to go before the press and tell them that my company, Daedalus Incorporated, has already launched construction of the underground railway, at a savings to the New York taxpayer of one million dollars."

"But this isn't any underground railway!"

"No? I have a working model of the Minotaur Express. I have a detailed blueprint of the entire rail network. I have all the necessary permits and documents. Once the press boys are done with him, Platt will have no choice but to award the contract to me."

"But your train is no good!" I cried.

"Yes, that's quite true. But by the time anyone realizes that, the contract will be all signed and sealed."

"You mean it's a con? A bait and switch?"

"Not at all, Mr. Hardeen. It's business. This project will generate millions and millions of dollars. My job is to get the license to build the train by any means necessary. Once I have the contract, they'd never dare to take it away from me. Platt and his minions will have too much political capital invested in our success. And if my initial projections won't quite hold water, and if I can't quite deliver on my original promises, that's simply politics as usual in this city."

The clanking noises from behind me were getting louder. I knew I had to keep him talking. "If you already have your phony model and plans, why did you bother to dig a tunnel?"

"That's the beauty of it, Mr. Hardeen. I didn't have to dig the tunnel. Bran did it for me. He had it done when he built the house. It's a brigand's entrance he ordered for his own amusement-doesn't ran any farther than the stables out back. Only he and I knew about it."

"I don't follow you. If this is just a secret tunnel of some kind, what are all those packing crates and building materials doing here?"

"I would think that you'd be able to guess, young man. This is a stage set-a piece of elaborate scenery. I've dressed up the tunnel with a hundred feet of track, several crates of machine parts and a whole battery of work lights. It looks for all the world as if the diligent work crews of Daedalus Incorporated have been digging around the clock. And that's exactly what I'll tell all the city officials and journalists I'll be bringing down here. Why start digging on Broadway when we've already broken ground right here under Fifth Avenue?"

The rattling sounds increased sharply, though neither Hendricks nor Gittles appeared to notice. Harry, pipe down, I thought to myself. "But why did you kill Mr. Wintour? Surely he was in it from the beginning? The tunnel was on his property, and it must have been his idea to conceal the trap door with that train platform. The two of you were partners the whole time."

Hendricks mumbled something I didn't hear.

"I'm sorry?" I said, raising my voice to cover the sounds of Harry's struggle. "I didn't catch that."

"The Minotaur train was my idea," Hendricks said. "The planning, the timing, the execution. I worked out every last detail. But it was Bran's money. And so long as Bran was bankrolling the project, he dictated the terms. Eighty per cent of all future earnings were to go to him. Twenty for me. I was to be little more than an employee. Two years ago, before I lost my money, it would have been me in control of the operation. Now…" His voice trailed off, making the sounds of Harry's movements all the more conspicuous.

"That's it? You killed him for the money?"

"What else? I'm sorry if that disappoints you, Mr. Hardeen, but I'm hardly the first man who ever killed for money! Do you have any idea what sort of fortune is at stake here? Tens of millions! I'm going to make Rockefeller look like a rag-and-bone man! Good Lord, you and your brother were prepared to believe that Bran had been killed over a silly little Japanese toy! You can have your automatons, Mr. Hardeen. Me, I'll settle for becoming the richest man in New York."

"But why lay the blame on Mr. Graff? He didn't even know what you were planning!"

"Why?" Hendricks's voice rose to an angry pitch. "Because Bran saw fit to give him a three per cent share in Daedalus! And without so much as consulting me! All that man did was design the model-nothing more! I daresay you could have done it just as well yourself, Mr. Hardeen, and I doubt if you would have expected to be compensated with stock shares worth hundreds of thousands of dollars! And do you suppose this beneficence came out of Bran's share of the earnings? I assure you it did not. Bran was giving away my money hand over fist."

"I don't understand how you expected to get away with that. Sooner or later Mr. Graff would have told the police about the secret dealings he had with you and Mr. Wintour. That would have brought the police right to your doorstep."

"Eventually, yes," Hendricks agreed. "But I sent him a message after his arrest. An expression of sympathy and concern, if you will. I told him to keep quiet about Daedalus-told him that our lawyers were working on his release, but that we couldn't risk tipping our hand

on the very eve of our great triumph. He was happy enough to keep his mouth shut, especially when I told him I'd be needing a right-hand man-now that Bran was gone."

"Then you sent Mr. Gittles for him. For both of them."

"Yes. He handled it very cleverly, I thought."

"Was Mr. Gittles also responsible for the dart in Branford Wintour's neck?"

"No, Mr. Hardeen. I had to handle that myself. It wasn't difficult. Bran and I often used the tunnel to hide my comings and goings. It wouldn't have done for me to use the front door, not after what happened between him and my daughter. But he was a practical man, and so am I. The business relationship continued as before. I knew that Josef would leave Le Fantфme in Bran's study that afternoon. I scheduled a meeting with him shortly afterward. Bran couldn't wait to show off his prize. He started chattering away as soon as I came up through the tunnel. He had no way of knowing, of course, that I was the one who had engineered the sale in the first place, once I'd learned of Le Fantфme's existence. Bran was positively thrilled. He jabbered on and on, showing me all the gears and weights, waxing rhapsodic about his hopes of acquiring the entire Blois collection. It was a simple matter to press the dart into his neck. He made a horrible noise as the poison did its work, but it was over quickly-thank God. It's a difficult thing to watch a friend die, Mr. Hardeen, no matter what the reason. That's why I'm sorry you had to get involved in all of this. You seem to be a bright young man. I could have used your help on the Minotaur. Can't be helped, I'm afraid." He stepped forward and said something to Gittles, who gave a tight little nod.

"Well, goodbye, Mr. Hardeen," Hendricks said. "I'll take my leave now. I very much enjoyed your company the other day, and I'd prefer not to be here for this unpleasantness. As I said, it's a difficult thing to watch a friend die."

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 crashing 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 ran 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 rash 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 straggled 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. Win-tour'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 straggling!" He jumped up and grabbed a metal spade, desperately scooping up loose dirt and shovelling 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 Bran-ford 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 stood 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.