The Dime Museum Murders

III: The Inside Talker

"Harry," I said, after we had walked a few blocks from the Wintour mansion, "you really can't treat the police like that."

"Why can I not?" he asked.

"It's disrespectful. Lieutenant Murray is just doing his work. It's one thing to make a suggestion. It's another to humiliate him."

"I needed to demonstrate that Le Fantфme could not have been the instrument of murder."

"It would have been enough to explain it to him. You didn't need to put on the whole song and dance routine."

He seemed to consider it. "It is my nature," he said. "I see these men in uniform and something in me grows angry. Men in uniform have not always been kind to me-to our family." We walked on for a few moments in silence before he continued. "Besides, it is what I do," he said, as if considering the matter for the first time. "I escape from restraints. Chains. Ropes. Handcuffs. One day, this will mean something to people-to the immigrants who escaped to America just as our mother and father did. They will see a man escaping from fetters and they will recall their struggles. They will think of freedom."

I studied his face as we passed under a street lamp. My brother was not a man given to introspection. When it came, however, it was generally worth the wait. "But you are probably right," he allowed. "If I took an improper tone with Lieutenant Murray, I will apologize in the morning."

"Are you certain that you're right about this?" I asked. "Isn't it possible that the automaton could have fired the dart?"

"Yes," he admitted, "but not without a splotch of red pigment. There is no firing mechanism apart from a bladder filled with liquid. This is squeezed between two cogwheels so that a small amount of dye squirts forth. If the poison dart had been loaded into the figure's blow pipe it might possibly have been propelled into the victim's neck, but not without an accompanying splash mark."

We stopped at a corner and waited for a horse and trap to pass by. "I find that possibility very unlikely, though," Harry said. "If I were attempting to stage manage the murder of Mr. Wintour, I would never place my confidence in so unreliable a device. What is the likelihood that a poison dart fired in such a way would find its target? It seems incredible to me that it should have struck Mr. Wintour at all, much less that it hit him in a vulnerable spot. How could the murderer even be certain that the blow pipe would be facing in Mr. Win-tour's direction when it fired?" He shook his head. "If I were a murderer, I would not be content to leave so much to chance."

"But if Le Fantфme didn't kill him, how did the murderer get out of the study? It was locked from the inside."

"A pretty problem, is it not?"

"Yes, Harry. A pretty problem. Do you have the answer?"

"I confess I do not," he said. "Although no doubt the Great Houdini could think of at least seven ways to enter the study undetected. But I must gather more data. After all, I never guess. It is a shocking habit-destructive to the logical faculty."

" 'Destructive to the logical'-is that another bit of wisdom from the pages of Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?"

He pretended not to hear me.

"Where are we going, by the way?" I asked. "The house is in the other direction."

"We're going to see Josef Graff."

"The magic dealer? He's being held at police headquarters!"

"I'm aware of that, Dash. That's why we're going to see him. I want to assure him that the Great Houdini will secure his release at the earliest opportunity."

"Harry-"

"Did I not prove beyond all doubt that Le Fantфme could not have been the cause of Branford Wintour's death? And yet, when I insisted that Mr. Graff be released, Lieutenant Murray refused!"

"He didn't refuse, Harry. He merely said-"

"-that it would be necessary to confirm my 'interesting speculations' before the suspect could be released. Yes, Dash. I heard him. What twaddle! Such is the man whom you would have me treat with greater respect."

I hauled out my Elgin pocket watch and popped open

the cover. "It's late, Harry. They won't let us in at this hour. We'll have to wait until morning."

"Well, perhaps not quite that long," Harry said. "First we will call on Mrs. Graff. The poor woman is undoubtedly distraught."

"That's a good idea," I said. "Perhaps you could run the shop for her until Mr. Graff is released."

"Run the shop? Don't be foolish! I intend to see her husband vindicated! The Great Houdini will not rest until Josef Graff is released from his bonds!"

"I think we'd better leave the crime-solving to the police," I said. "We might be more useful keeping his business open."

Harry sighed. "You have no imagination, Dash."

It was a familiar refrain, as my brother had long despaired over my lack of imagination. Not three days earlier, my lack of imagination had been very much on his mind when I tried to talk him out of an especially harebrained bridge leap. I should explain that Harry had been leaping from bridges since the age of thirteen-usually wearing a pair of handcuffs, or tied in sturdy ropes, or wrapped in a long length of heavy chain. As a magician, his stage manner was indifferent at best. As an escape artist, he was unparalleled. He would stand atop the guardrail of a high bridge, trammelled up in some impressive restraint, and whip his audience into a state of frenzied anticipation as he described his "death leap" into the frigid waters below. When the leap finally came-usually after a tender word of farewell to Bess- the crowd would literally gasp with horror. I don't know how many times I stood by watching as tearful young ladies gripped the railing and scanned the smooth surface of the water below, where seconds earlier Harry had splashed to his "watery destiny." What they did not

know, these impressionable young admirers, was that Harry had usually sprung the cuffs or slipped the ropes before he ever hit the water. His showman's instincts told him not to make it look too easy, so he would remain under water while the minutes ticked away, silently, treading water below the surface. His lung capacity and endurance were phenomenal, having been honed by long practice sessions in the family bath tub. At his peak, he could remain underwater for five minutes, so that when at last he broke the surface, waving the handcuffs or ropes above his head, the roar from the crowd would be deafening. It seemed to them that they had seen a man cheat death. Actually, they had seen a man who could hold his breath for an uncommonly long time.

Harry was never content to let this stunt alone. He was forever adding more chains and leaping from higher vantages in an attempt to add drama to the escape. Then one day he announced his intention to jump off the new Brooklyn Bridge-wrapped in fifty pounds of iron shackles. It seemed to me, I told him, that he could accomplish much the same effect with a leap from the top of our apartment house. At a certain point, I tried to explain, it really didn't matter whether he was leaping into water or onto solid ground. Harry wouldn't listen to my arguments about the unprecedented height of the bridge, or the added danger of the extra restraints. When it became apparent that I couldn't talk him out of it, I appealed to a higher authority-I mentioned Harry's plan to our mother. She took him aside for a quiet word, and the subject of the Brooklyn Bridge leap was never mentioned again.

Harry continued to list my failings as we rode the Sixth Avenue elevated down to Broadway. He kept talking as we got off and walked five blocks south. He finally ran out of steam when we reached Graff's Toy Emporium.

Graff's was a narrow shop front in a row of dull-red brick buildings, with a wood-framed display window crammed with rag dolls, hobbyhorses, pinwheels, and every other sort of gimcrack and gewgaw. As boys, Harry and I would sweep the floors and wash the windows just for the pleasure of spending time there. Even then, my brother had little patience for tin soldiers, cloth bears, or any of the other more conventional playthings. At the end of an afternoon's work-when the floors and door handles were gleaming-Harry always made straight for the wobbly green case where Mr. Graff kept the Delmarvelo Magic Sets.

The Delmarvelo "Young Conjurer Deluxe" set came in a sturdy pine box with a hinged top. On the lid, a brightly painted label showed a boy-magician enthralling his friends and family. The boy wore a black cape and top hat over his Little Lord Fauntleroy playsuit, and the table in front of him featured a bowl of fire, a houlette of cards, and a winsome bunny who seemed to be winking broadly. The boy's audience was divided equally among well-scrubbed children, whose faces glowed with admiration, and dignified adults in evening dress, who looked on with gentle approval. My eye always came to rest on a particular girl in the front row, whose blond curls were gathered up in a red bow. She had her hands clasped together and pressed against, her cheek, with her head tilted just so, gazing at the boy-magician with frank adoration.

Sometimes, if we had done our work especially well, Mr. Graff would let us take the display set into the back room for an hour or so. Harry would click the metal latch and lift the lid with a quiet note of awe, as if uncovering a holy relic. Inside, the tricks were carefully arranged on a bed of straw. I need hardly say that there were no fire bowls or winking bunnies in the Delmarvelo set, but there were several good-quality tricks made of lacquered wood, richly colored in burgundy and black with Chinese detailing. There was a set of rice bowls that neither one of us ever quite mastered, an excellent set of cups and balls, a vanishing wand with break-away tips, a rising card effect, and a double-double coin tray. My favorite was the tiny wooden ball vase, with its delicate fluted stem and bright red polished ball. The effect was simple: the ball was placed into the cup of a small wooden holder and a close-fitting cap was lowered over it. When the cover was lifted-behold!-the ball had vanished. I've done a great many wonderful tricks since then, and Harry and I once caused an elephant to vanish from the stage of the New York Hippodrome, but I can't recall any effect that gave me quite the same feeling of accomplishment.

"Dash," Harry said as we paused outside the shop. "Have you been listening to anything I've said?"

"Sorry," I answered, returning to the present. "Was it important?"

"Never mind. I don't know why I trouble myself." I peered through the window into the darkened shop. "Harry, are we really doing any good here? I don't want to raise Mrs. Graff's hopes for nothing."

"It will not be for nothing," he said sharply. "You may be assured of that."

Harry rang a bell that sounded in the apartment upstairs. We saw a fluttering of the curtains at the second floor window. A moment later the glow of an oil lamp was visible in the shop. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Graff as she made her way to the door. She was a broad, sturdy woman with a lot of spare flesh that always seemed to vibrate in accordance with her moods. Her face, normally red and smiling, now appeared pinched and drawn, and her shoulders appeared to sag under the strain of her misfortunes. Nevertheless, she brightened at the sight of the pair of us waiting in the entryway. "Ehrich! Theodore! It is so good of you to come and see me!" She gathered us both in a rib-snapping embrace.

"It is good to see you, Mrs. Graff," Harry gasped as the last particles of air were squeezed from his lungs.

"We're sorry to call so late in the evening," I managed to add.

"My boys! My boys!" She released us and stepped back, beaming over us both. "Let me look at you! See how big you're getting! Theodore, so tall! Ehrich, so broad!"

"I have embarked on a rigorous course of personal conditioning," Harry said proudly. "I am developing my musculature in a systematic and scientific manner."

"How nice," Mrs. Graff said, as if admiring a child's finger painting. "And you, Theodore? Are you still in newspaper school?"

"Journalism," I said. "No, I've been travelling with Harry and Bess for the past few months, getting involved with the act. I may-"

"You should continue your studies, Theodore. Josef always says-Josef-" her face clouded as she recalled her husband's predicament.

Harry took her hand and gently led her to a chair. "Mrs. Graff," I said, "we don't wish to upset you, but can you tell us a little bit about what happened? When the police came?''

Her eyes welled with tears. "I do not know what I can tell you, Theodore. We were eating our supper when the police came to the door. Such a racket! They dragged Josef away in a wagon. I was down at the police station for two hours, but I could learn nothing. Nothing that made sense, at any rate. They say he killed a man! My Josef, a murderer! He won't even lay traps for the rats, this is how big a murderer he is!"

"Did you know Branford Wintour?" Harry asked.

"Our best customer," Mrs. Graff said. "Although he doesn't come to the shop anymore. Josef goes to see him whenever something special comes along. Mr, Wintour has always been a perfect-no! Is that who Josef is supposed to have killed? Ridiculous!"

"Have you seen Mr. Wintour lately?" I asked. "No. But his man-what is his name?-Phillips, I believe. Phillips has been here three times in the past week." She gripped a corner of her shawl and twisted it around her fingers. "Mr. Wintour, dead? This is terrible news. How did he die?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Harry said. "Did your husband have a special deal brewing with Mr. Wintour? Was he handling something very unusual?"

She nodded. "He was quite secretive about it, Ehrich, but I know there was a very special item involved and that he expected to earn a large commission. He said he was going to buy me a winter coat."

"Do you have any idea what the item might have been?" "No."

"Did you ever see the man who was selling it?" "A queer bird. He would only come to the shop at night. I never saw him." "Never?"

"No. Josef always asked me to wait upstairs when he came."

"I see. Tell me, Mrs. Graff, have you ever heard of Le FantфmeT?

"No." She looked at Harry's face and then at mine. "Ehrich, why are you asking me these questions? What is Le Fantфme?"

Harry glanced at me, uncertain.

"We don't wish to alarm you unnecessarily, Mrs. Graff," I said.

"You don't wish to alarm me? My husband is in jail! How could I be more alarmed?''

"Very well," Harry said. "Your husband sold Mr. Wintour a very rare automaton called Le Fantфme. The police believe that this automaton shot Mr. Wintour with a poisoned dart."

Mrs. Graff narrowed her eyes at us. "Ehrich, you are joking with me. Theodore, this is not a time for your jokes."

Harry said nothing. I looked at my shoes.

Mrs. Graff's hands went to her cheeks. "Can they be serious? This is why the police have arrested Josef? A poison dart?"

"So it would seem," Harry said. "Your husband is a suspect because he sold the device to Mr. Wintour."

"A poison dart?" she repeated. "A gun, I could understand. A knife, maybe. A poison dart? It does not seem possible!"

Harry began pacing in front of a case of wooden whirly-gigs. "I have demonstrated to the police that the automaton could not have fired the dart, but they have not seen fit to release your husband. Apparently I failed to convince them."

"Harry," I said, "they only wanted to confirm it for themselves. I told you this before."

"No, no," he said. "The police will only find some other means of laying this crime on Mr. Graff's doorstep. We must find the true killer and bring him to justice!"

"Find the true killer? Harry, you're a dime museum magician! What do you know about tracking down killers?" I had been hoping to inject a note of moderation into the proceedings, but Harry had already moved on to his next rhetorical high note.

"The police have not reckoned with the talents of the Great Houdini!" he cried, thrusting his index finger under my nose. "'I will comb this city and roust the evildoers wherever they may lurk! I shall be the scourge of the underworld! Those who-"

"Harry," I said quietly. "Why don't we let someone else become the scourge of the underworld? It'll be enough if we can convince the police of Mr. Graff's innocence."

Mrs. Graff gave a nod of assent. "I just want Josef home again."

"As you wish," Harry said. He took Mrs. Graff's hand and pressed it to his lips. "I shail not fail you, dear lady." He flung his astrakhan cloak around his shoulders. "Come along, Dash! We have a rendezvous with justice!"

Mrs. Graff looked at me and gave a bewildered shrug. "You'd better hurry along, then," she said.

We left the shop and Harry said nothing more until we had worked our way along Delancy Street to the thirteenth precinct station house. As we climbed the marble steps I noticed Harry fumbling in his back pocket. "Just a moment, Dash," he said. "Oh, that's all right, then." He pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

A gray-haired sergeant sat behind the dispatcher's desk. "Can I help you gentle-why, Mr. Houdini! Is that you?"

"Good evening, Sergeant O'Donnell," said Harry. "May I introduce the brother of the Great Houdini?"

"Call me Dash," I said. '"The brother of the Great Houdini' sounds so formal."

"Nice to meet you," O'Donnell said. "So, Houdini, are you here to go another round in the lockup?''

"If you wouldn't mind, Sergeant. Practice makes perfect."

O'Donnell saw the expression on my face and laughed. "You mean he didn't tell you? Your brother has been coming down here for the past three weeks to get himself locked up in our hoosegow."

"Late at night," Harry explained, "so as not to attract attention."

"I thought you wanted attention," I said. "Why have I been breaking my back to get you locked up at Sing-Sing if you didn't want attention?"

"Practice, Dash. The holding cells here were built on the same pattern as those at Sing-Sing."

A uniformed officer wandered past and gave Harry a companionable nod. "So you're a regular down here, is that it?" I asked. "Is that why those officers at the Win-tour mansion seemed to recognize you?"

"I suppose so," Harry said, "although I dare say some of them recognized me from the stage at Huber's." "Oh, undoubtedly," I said. "It's a wonder they didn't ask for autographs."

O'Donnell had pulled out a heavy binder and was flipping through the pages. "You're in luck," he said. "We've only got two guests in there at the moment, and I don't suppose either one will give us any trouble. One's a drunk, and the other's supposed to be a murderer, but he don't look like any murderer I ever saw."

"A murderer?" Harry asked with feigned alarm. "Are you sure it's safe?"

"That old bird won't bother you any. Hasn't said a word since they brought him down from interrogation. Just sits real quiet like. Caught him crying when I made my rounds."

"Well, I suppose it will be all right then," Harry said. "You don't mind if my brother comes along? He's going to time me with his fancy watch."

"Why should I mind?" asked O'Donnell, pulling a heavy ring of keys from a desk drawer. "Follow me, gentlemen."

He led us down a set of dank steel-beam steps to a metal-studded door with a heavy iron crossbar. He lifted the bar and fitted a large key into a reinforced panel-lock, turning it three times clockwise. The door rolled open on rusty casters, and O'Donnell held it as we passed through, sliding it shut behind us once we were inside.

The lockup was comprised of only four cells, two on each side, with a wide corridor running down the center. Four bare lightbulbs dangling from ceiling cords provided the only illumination. It took only a glance to see why the warden at Sing-Sing felt so confident about his escape-proof cells. I'd seen my brother pick his way through some of the toughest, most heavily warded padlocks ever designed, but the locks on these cells were beyond his reach-literally. The prison architects had rigged up a sort of extended hasp, so that the lock wasn't actually seated into the cell door at all. Instead, it was bolted onto the wall a good six feet away, securing a metal cross-beam tight against the cell door. From inside the cell, the prisoner would have no way of reaching the lock. Harry's skill and practice were useless here-he simply would not be able to get his hands on the lock.

"Harry-" I began.

He winked. "A pretty problem, is it not?"

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the dim outline of a man in each of the two cages to our right. Both men appeared to be sleeping. I recognized the one closest to us as Josef Graff, whose plump woodcock shape made him easy to spot even in the dark.

Sergeant O'Donnell ignored both prisoners. "You have your choice of two empty cells this evening, Hou-dini," he said as our footfalls echoed loudly against the rock floor. "Which will it be? Your favorite there at the end?"

"No, this one, I think," Harry replied, indicating the closer of the two on our left. "I think the bolt and hasp are rusty on the other." Harry had fallen a step behind the sergeant as they moved toward the cell. As Mr. Graff began to stir from his bunk, roused by the noise of our arrival, Harry turned and raised a finger to his lips, warning the old man to stay silent. Mr. Graff registered surprise at the sight of us, but lowered his head and pretended to be asleep.

"You know," said O'Donnell, working on the lock across the corridor, "this bolt feels a little stiff, too."

"Does it?" Harry asked. "Oh well, I imagine that the hardware at Sing-Sing is rusty as well. I will prevail, in any case."

The lock finally gave and O'Donnell pulled the door open with a creak. Harry stepped past him into the open cell. "You know, Houdini," the sergeant said, "if you ever do try this at Sing-Sing, they'll insist on a full body search-just like we give the real prisoners."

From across the corridor, Mr. Graff let out a soft groan at the memory.

"I am aware of this, Sergeant, and I am fully prepared to comply. Would you care to-?" He spread his arms wide.

"I think we'll let it pass," O'Donnell said quickly. He swung the door shut and slid the long cross-beam into place. "I'd better get back to the desk," he said, turning to me. "Just bang on the bars when he wants me to let him out." "When he-what?"

"When he wants me to let him out. He usually gives up after three hours."

I turned to my brother, who was busy rolling up his sleeves. "Harry? You mean to say you haven't figured out a way to escape from this cell yet?"

"It is proving to be more difficult than I thought," he allowed.

"More difficult than you thought. Suppose I had set up the Sing-Sing stunt three weeks ago, like you wanted?''

"The Great Houdini would have risen to the challenge, as he has done so often in the past."

"My, but he's sure of himself, isn't he?" said O'Donnell. " 'Course, he usually doesn't sound quite so cocksure by two or three in the morning. Enjoy yourself, Houdini." He turned and let himself out through the main door.

We stood quietly and listened to the sergeant's footsteps fade. "Ehrich?" came a whisper from the other side of the corridor. "Is that really you? Theodore?"

"Of course, Mr. Graff." Harry came to the front of his cell and dangled his arms through the bars.

"You have come to release me?"

"Release you?" I snorted. "Apparently he can't even-"

"It would be imprudent to release you just now, Mr. Graff," Harry said. "That would seem to confirm the accusation that you murdered Branford Wintour. I trust that you did not murder Branford Wintour?"

"Of course not!" The old man swung his feet off the bunk and walked to the door of his cell. He was wearing a wrinkled windowpane check suit with a gold watch fob dangling from his waistcoat. In happier circumstances he might have passed for a diminutive Kris Krin-gle with his round head, florid cheeks, and snowy hair and beard. Now, even in the shadowy light of the cell block, the stresses of the day were plain to see. His collar had popped open, his tie was askew, and his face was streaked with tears. "Of course I didn't kill Mr. Win-tour! He was my best customer, and a fine man besides!"

"I thought not," said Harry. "Might I ask you to tell me everything you know of this unhappy business?"

"What's to tell? There was a knock on the door, next thing I'm in jail. Dragged off in chains, in front of Frieda. In front of the neighbors. Everyone."

"I'm sure that was most unpleasant," Harry said. "Perhaps we should examine the events leading up to your arrest? What can you tell us of Le Fantфme?"

"Wretched little creature! I wish I had never laid eyes on it!"

"How did it come to be in your possession?" An expression of wounded pride crossed Mr. Graff's face. "I am the leading purveyor of magical apparatus and curiosities in all of New York," he said with a certain prim dignity. "It is impossible that such an item should appear on the market without coming to my attention."

"Yes, yes, of course," said my brother quickly. "But exactly how did it come to your attention?"

"A most curious thing,'' he began.'"I was sitting in-'' A drink-sodden voice from the opposite cell broke in. "My dear sirs," the speaker began, as if dictating a letter, "I have the honor of requesting a reduction in the level of conversation in and about the vicinity of my present location. Thanking you, I remain, yours et cetera…" the voice resolved into contented snoring.

"That is my fellow inmate," Mr. Graff explained. "An amusing fellow. As I was,, saying, I was going over the books in my shop late last night when a gentleman began banging at the door. I told him to return in the morning, but he was very insistent. He claimed to be an importer of antiques, and wished to know if I would be interested in seeing a few items from the collection of Robert-Houdin. Naturally, I-"

"Did he give you his name?" Harry asked. "Harrington."

"What did he look like, this Mr. Harrington?" "He looked quite a bit like you, Ehrich. Very powerful build, dark curly hair. He could easily have done double work for you."

"Make a note, Dash," Harry said. "Muscular, dark hair, medium height-"

Mr. Graff broke in. "A little less than medium height, I would have said."

"Shorter than I, then?"

"Well…"

"And would you say his features were handsome?" Mr. Graff hesitated and glanced at me. "Ehm…"

I made a note on my pocket pad. "Perhaps not quite as handsome as Harry, Mr. Graff?"

"No, indeed."

"My dear sirs," came the voice from the opposite cell. "It has come to our attention that the volume of conversation remains at a level which prohibits a normal and healthful sleep. If such confabulation persists, we shall have no recourse but to consult management. Yours sincerely…" The voice trailed off again.

"And what else did your striking visitor have to say, Mr. Graff?" I continued.

"He told me that he represented a gentleman who possessed items from the Robert-Houdin collection. Naturally I questioned him closely in the matter. From time to time one comes across a handbill from the Palais Royal, and I've handled quite a few leaflets from his London appearances, but this gentleman was quite precise."

"The Blois collection?" I asked. "The one that's supposed to have been destroyed by fire?"

"Exactly. But he offered no documentation and naturally I regarded the claim with some suspicion. My doubts vanished when he removed Le Fantфme from its wooden case. I have seen a great many treasures in my day. It was I, you will recall, who brokered the sale of Signor Blitz's diaries. It was I who verified the provenance of Anderson's 'Inexhaustible Bottle.' But this was something else again. I don't know how long I marvelled over the figure. I was aware that my visitor was growing impatient, but I could not help myself. A Shakespeare folio could not have interested me more. When I had satisfied myself that the figure was genuine, Mr. Harrington asked if I might be able to find a buyer."

"I can think of dozens of magicians who would be interested," Harry said.

"So can I," Mr. Graff agreed, "but only one or two who could afford it. I offered Mr. Harrington a few names, but he suggested that we might do better to deal with wealthy collectors, rather than magicians, as he might have one or two other items for disposal." "How many other items?"

"Forty-three."

"All from the Blois collection?"

"Every one."

Harry and I looked at each other. "Then it's true," he said.

"Yes," Mr. Graff said quietly. "The collection exists, and Mr. Harrington wanted me to arrange the sale."

"What did you do?"

"Naturally I sent a message to Harry Kellar. After all, the man is the greatest magician in the entire world-''

"With one notable exception," Harry said. "Well, Ehrich, you must admit that Kellar is certainly the most successful magician working today. Your own talents have yet to find their proper audience."

"This is so."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Kellar found himself unable to entertain the possibility of purchasing the Blois collection. He has not always had the best of luck with his investments, and it seems his resources are not what they might be just now." Mr. Graff walked to his bunk and sat down. "So naturally I decided to approach my two wealthiest customers-''

"Branford Wintour and Michael Hendricks," Harry offered.

"You know Mr. Hendricks as well?" "We met him this evening."

"A fascinating man. As I said, only he and Mr. Win-tour possess the funds required for such a transaction." I looked up from my notepad. "Surely this would also have occurred to Harrington?''

"Obviously," Mr. Graff said. "But Mr. Wintour and Mr. Hendricks do not open their doors to every passing dealer with a knick-knack to sell. I have dealt with both men many times. They trust my judgement, and prefer to make their acquisitions through me. Mr. Wintour, you may have heard, is especially careful in this regard. He is-was, I should say-considered something of a recluse."

Harry gripped the bars of his cell. "When we spoke to Mr. Hendricks, he made no mention of having been approached by you."

"I did not approach him. Mr. Harrington suggested that I meet with Mr. Wintour first to hear what he was prepared to pay for the lot. Then I was to call on Mr. Hendricks and see if he would be willing to raise the offer."

"A bidding war," Harry said. "Who knows how high the price might have gone?"

"Indeed. And having set my commission at three per cent, I was naturally eager to find out. I arranged a meeting with Mr. Wintour at four o'clock this afternoon."

"The last to see him alive," Harry murmured.

"Certainly not," Mr. Graff said with some heat. "The man who killed him would have been the last to see him alive."

"Of course," Harry said quickly. "It is merely an expression. How did Mr. Wintour respond when you showed him Le Fantфme?"

"He received me with the greatest possible courtesy, as always. He arranged for tea and a platter of herring canapes which he knows I especially enjoy. A true gentleman."

"No doubt, but-"

"1 believe the herring is cured in aspic, which is what makes it so delicious."

"But the automaton? How did he react to Le Fantфme?"'

"He was besotted. He thanked me extravagantly for having brought it to him, and expressed the greatest possible eagerness to acquire the rest of the collection." "Did he make an offer?"

"A most generous one, in my view. I would be very surprised if even Mr. Hendricks could have matched it. Of course, I did not even have the chance to contact him before"-he gestured at the dank walls of the cell block-"before I found myself here."

"Was it your impression that Mr. Harrington would accept Mr. Wintour's offer?" Harry asked.

"I did not have any means of communicating with him. It seems he had travelled up from Philadelphia, and came directly to my shop from the train station. He had not yet even taken a hotel room. He told me he would return to hear Mr. Wintour's offer on Wednesday evening at the same time." "Tomorrow," Harry said.

"Indeed." Mr. Graff cast a forlorn eye at his surroundings. "I do not expect to be able to keep our appointment."

"You have told all this to the police?" "Of course, but I'm not certain they believed me. I was not able to supply much in the way of useful information concerning Mr. Harrington. The police said they would send a man 'round to check the hotel registers, but I doubt if they will locate him."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"In my business, one's clients are sometimes less than candid about their circumstances. Mr. Harrington is not the first client I have ever dealt with who appeared late at night, so as to avoid unwanted attention. Often they are financially embarrassed, and do not wish to attract the attention of their wives and their creditors. I do not think the police will find Mr. Evan Harrington's name on any hotel register."

"Evan Harrington?" I closed my notebook.

"Yes. Do you know him, Theodore?"

"It's the title of a novel by George Meredith."

Mr. Graff sighed heavily. "It was probably the first thing that came into his mind. Too bad he was not a fan of Mr. Twain. Those names I would have recognized." He took out a pocket square and dabbed at his eyes. "And I am likely to remain here until the police locate this man, whomever he might be."

"Dash and I will find him, Mr. Graff," Harry said. "You may rest assured of that."

"Thank you, Ehrich. You are a good boy."

"What time were you supposed to meet with him?"

"Eleven o'clock, but if he's involved in this business, I don't expect he will keep the appointment."

"We'll find him in either case," Harry promised.

"One last thing," I said. "When you left Mr. Win-tour, Le Fantфme remained in his possession?"

"He insisted on it. He indicated that he was going to have it examined to confirm its authenticity. I arranged to collect it from him in the morning."

"Did Mr. Wintour give you any reason to feel that he might be afraid in any way? Looking back, do you have any reason to imagine he might have feared for his life?"

Mr. Graff stroked his beard before responding. "I do not know if it is significant, but there was a phone call while we were talking. I offered to excuse myself, but Mr. Wintour asked me to wait. I walked away from the desk to give him some privacy. He has a marvelous collection of books, which I took the occasion to admire. I did not hear all of what was being said, but his tone made it clear that it was not entirely pleasant."

"Perhaps someone was threatening him?"

"I did not get that impression. Mr. Wintour was a very powerful man. Such men make enemies. When he finished the telephone call, however, he said a curious thing."

"Oh?"

"He said, 'Graff, my friend, never do business with family."'

"Good advice," I said, with a sidelong glance at Harry.

"Possibly," Mr. Graff said. "But whom can one trust if not family?"

"Very true," Harry agreed. "And now, if you will excuse us, Mr. Graff, my brother and I should be getting along."

"Thank you for your time, sir," I said. "Harry, do you want me to bang on the bars for Sergeant O'Donnell?"

"I don't think that will be necessary, Dash."

"No? I don't see that the lock has moved any closer while we've been talking."

"Has it not? I think perhaps it has." He began to unfasten his trousers.

"Harry? I don't mean to be indelicate, but what-?"

"I have a length of coiled watch-spring strapped to my leg. It should extend my reach just enough to reach the lock, and give me enough flexibility to work the pick."

"Suppose O'Donnell had searched you?"

"He would have found it easily," Harry admitted. "That is a problem for tomorrow. First, I must conquer the lock, then I will worry about concealing the spring." Hugging the wall closest to the lock, Harry extended his right arm through the bars as far as he could reach, which left his fingertips a good yard or so from the lock. He pulled his arm back and coiled one end of the watch spring around the end of a stout, double-diamond lock-pick.

"This should do it," he said, pushing the flexible steel through the bars and guiding it toward the lock. "By straightening out this spring, I can use it as a reaching rod. You see? It seems to be working."

Mr. Graff and I watched as Harry eased the end of the heavy lock-pick toward the lock. For a few moments it bobbed up and down like a fishing pole as the metal spring strained beneath the weight. "I must get a feel for the balance," he said. "There was no way of practicing this beforehand."

Gradually, I could see that Harry was getting control of the reaching rod. Cautiously, he began guiding the pick toward the keyhole but it repeatedly bounced off the lock plate. "I'm getting closer each time," he said. "Now, if I can just-if I can just-"

I don't know how long my brother stood there flailing about in the dim light with that strange piece of metal. Occasionally I heard a dull scratch of metal as the pick bounced off the lock. Sometimes there would be a faint flash as light from the overhead bulbs glinted off the metal spring.

Perhaps an hour passed in this fashion. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the door, and had nearly fallen asleep when a cry from my brother brought me to my senses. "Dash!" Harry cried exuberantly. "At last! The pick is in the lock! Now it should be child's play to-"

And that's when the spring broke. Harry watched in mute horror as his lock-pick clattered to the floor.

"Bad luck," said Mr. Graff.

"My dear sirs," said our drunken friend in the opposite cell, "once again I feel compelled to-"

"Silence!" Harry snapped.

Mr. Graff and I looked at one another. Not another sound was heard for a good ten minutes or so.

"Well, Harry," I said at fast. "It's getting quite late. Shall I call for Sergeant O'Donnell?"

"Indeed not," my brother said. "If you would be so good as to hand me the lock-pick, I shall begin again."