The Dime Museum Murders

IV: Turning the Tip

Harry made three more attempts to escape from the lockup that night, and failed each time. He kept his arms folded and his mouth shut when Sergeant O'Donnell finally came to release us, and would not even return my "good night" when I dropped him at home. I hoped a night's sleep would restore him to his usual bull-headed arrogance.

In those days, Harry and Bess were living in my mother's flat on East Sixty-ninth Street, an arrangement that appealed to him for two reasons-it was cheap and it kept him close to Mama. There would have been room for me, too, but I fancied myself as a bit of a man about town, and imagined living at home might cramp my style. I kept a room in Mrs. Arthur's boarding house, only seven blocks away, where I very occasionally enjoyed an evening of whist and cigars with my fellow lodgers. Apart from this, I might just as well have been living in a monastery.

Harry and Bess were seated at the breakfast table when I arrived, while Mother busied herself at the stove. Harry still looked a bit crestfallen.

"My darling Theo!" Mother called as I came through the kitchen door. "Sit down! I will bring you a little something!"

"No, thank you, Mama," I said, removing my trilby. "I have already breakfasted with Mrs. Arthur. Good morning, Bess."

"Hello, Dash," my sister-in-law said. "You boys were out a bit late last night, weren't you?"

"Speak to your husband about that," I answered. "I would rather have been home sleeping."

"You say you've had breakfast?" Mother asked. "It cannot have been enough. You look thin! Sit!"

"I'm fine, Mother. I'll take a cup of tea, if there is any left."

I sat down at the breakfast table while she began clattering around in the cupboards. I couldn't tell you how many days began that way in those years, with Harry and Bess sitting at their places and my mother darting from table to stove. I once had occasion to visit Professor Einstein at his laboratory in Princeton, and I must report that it seemed quite a modest affair compared with my mother's kitchen. She never used one pot where three would do; she never finished serving one meal before starting preparations on the next. One navigated the room as though crossing a busy thoroughfare, bobbing and weaving amongst the simmering goulashes, cooling breads, whistling kettles, and clattering cake pans. Many times I would call at the house on a summer afternoon to take my mother for a drive, only to find that she could not leave her stewpot and basting spoon. "You go along, Theo," she would invariably say. "The pot needs minding."

As for my brother, he was never happier than when our mother was clucking over him. He sighed with sat-

isfaction whenever she placed a dish of his beloved Hungarian pepper roast in front of him. His face glowed as she poured out his tea, giving him a peck on the forehead as she did so. From my vantage across the table, however, I would often see a flicker of despair pass over my sister-in-law's face whenever Mama tucked Harry's napkin under his chin, or cut up his kippered herring into bite-sized pieces. I resolved that it would be different for me, if I were ever fortunate enough to marry.

I had arrived just as Harry was buttering his first slice of brown toast, an operation of enormous delicacy. Harry required three coatings of paper-thin butter slices to achieve the required perfection, and each of these had to be spread to the very edge of the bread-but not beyond-in precise, surgical strokes. "Have you seen The Herald?" Harry asked, pausing in his exertions long enough to pass the newspaper to me. He had folded the front page to an item in the third column.

MAGNATE FOUND DEAD

Millionaire Wintour Poisoned

at Fifth Avenue Home

"Horrible! Horrible!" cries Distraught Wife

Wealthy manufacturer Branford Howard Wintour, the reclusive patron of the arts, was found dead at his home late yesterday, the apparent victim of a bizarre poisoning. Police would not confirm whether a strange mischance or a sinister murder plot had claimed the life of the famed businessman.

Mr. Wintour, a collector of rare toys, evidently succumbed to the deadly toxin while examining a recent acquisition. As of last night, the nature and source of the poison were unknown. Although police would not confirm foul play in the matter, a suspect has been taken into custody.

The item continued for several paragraphs, detailing the dead man's long record of philanthropy and public service, but adding little to what Harry and I had learned the previous evening.

"It is an obscenity, is it not?" Harry declared as I lowered the newspaper.

"Tragic, certainly," I answered.

"It is an offense against decency." He took an angry bite of his now-perfected toast.

Ah, I said to myself, Harry's not referring to Win-tour's death. He's referring to the fact that the newspaper failed to mention his name.

"Strange mischance," I said, quoting from the account. "They seem to be allowing for the possibility that Wintour's death was accidental."

"Ridiculous! The police merely wish to give themselves an excuse if they fail to unmask the murderer."

"I don't know about that," I said. "If Le Fantфme had actually killed Mr. Wintour, I suppose it's possible that his death might have been an accident."

"The device might accidentally have fired a poison dart?"

"Suppose some earlier owner had altered the mechanism to shoot a dart instead of a red blotch. Maybe this person wanted it to be a different sort of trick. Instead of marking a card, maybe he wanted to have it puncture a balloon. And maybe the dart wasn't poisoned at all- or not intentionally, anyway. Maybe it was simply coated with some resin or adhesive that happened to be poisonous. It could have happened that way, couldn't it?"

"Seems a bit far-fetched," Harry said. "Far-fetched? A famous millionaire has been found in his locked study with a dart in his neck. All bets are off."

"Yes," Harry said. "It is quite a puzzle. That is why it appeals to the Great Houdini. He is a master of puzzles."

"When were you planning to unravel this puzzle?" Bess asked. "Aren't we still working the ten-in-one?"

"Dash will do some scouting around during the day," Harry told her. "He will be my eyes and ears. Then we will report our conclusions to the police."

"Harry, I don't think the police are interested in receiving any further assistance from the Brothers Houdini. Thank you, Mama," I said, as she set a cup of tea before me.

"You? are content to leave Josef Graff in jail?"

"Of course not. But I'm confident that the police will get to the bottom of the crime eventually, and that Mr. Graff will be released."

"Possibly," said Harry. He picked up a second slice of toast and resumed the intricate buttering maneuver. My mother, meanwhile, had placed a soft-boiled egg before me.

"There you are, Theo," she said happily. "Just as you like it."

"Mama, I told you-"

"That looks delicious, Dash," Harry said.

"But-"

"So kind of Mama to prepare it for you."

With a sigh, I picked up the egg spoon she had laid for me. Many times in my career I have allowed myself to be chained and roped and tossed into the frigid waters of the Hudson River. It is an experience I much prefer to soft-boiled eggs.

"Besides," said Harry, noting my squeamishness with quiet amusement, "you saw for yourself that the police were completely misled by Le Fantфme. It is a wonder they did not handcuff the little doll and cart it off to jail along with poor Mr. Graff."

"Lieutenant Murray may not have understood how the automaton works, but he had the good sense to call someone who did. He seems very reasonable to me. What's more, he's an official detective and you're not." Harry regarded me with genuine curiosity. "Dash," he said, "you really do think this matter would be better left to the police." He said it as though the possibility had never occurred to him.

I spooned a cool, gluey blob of soft-boiled egg into my mouth. "Why, that's amazing, Harry! However did you deduce that?"

"I will ask your indulgence only for one day. This evening, we shall keep Mr. Graff's appointment with the mysterious Mr. Harrington."

"No, we won't," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

I swallowed hard as a second greasy mouthful trickled down my throat. "We should leave that to the police. Mr. Graff told them everything he told us. We shouldn't get in their way."

"Dash is right," Bess said. "Besides, Mr. Harrington would hardly carry on with business as usual once he's seen this morning's paper."

"Why not? As I demonstrated last night, Le Fantфme did not kill Mr. Wintour."

"No," Bess continued, "but something did, and Mr. Harrington's deal is off in either case."

"Which would make him all the more anxious to come to an agreement with Mr. Hendricks," Harry agreed, "so he will keep his appointment as scheduled. He does not necessarily know that Mr. Graff is in jail. The newspaper did not mention him by name."

"Harry-"

"Bess," Harry said, reaching for her hand, "I must try to find this Harrington person. It is the only way of verifying Mr. Graff's story."

"I still agree with Dash," Bess said. "It would be better to leave it to the police."

Harry released Bess's hand and folded his arms. "Mama, do you see? My brother and my wife are conspiring against me."

"That's nice, dear," said mother, who never listened very closely when she was cooking.

"I will make a bargain with you," he said to both of us. "Dash and I will go to the Toy Emporium this evening at the appointed hour. If we catch sight of Lieutenant Murray or any of his men, we will let the matter rest in their capable hands. If not, we will wait to see if Mr. Harrington presents himself. Is that agreeable, or would you prefer to let Mr. Graff rot in jail?"

"Of course not, but-"

"In the meantime, Dash, you must do a favor for me. You are still friendly with that newspaper gentleman?"

"Biggs? You know perfectly well that I'm still friendly with Biggs." He was referring to a childhood friend of ours who now worked the city desk at the New York World. We had renewed our acquaintance during my brief flirtation with a career in journalism, and he occasionally planted a friendly notice about Harry or me in the theatrical columns. Even so, he and Harry had never gotten along.

"I want you to go down to his office and see if you can come up with anything more about the Wintour case. The police may not wish to pool information, but the men of the press are every bit as diligent at gathering facts, and far less difficult about sharing it." He took a slurp of tea. "The press is a most valuable institution, if one knows how to use it."

I couldn't really see any objection, especially since Biggs was usually good for a racing tip or two. "That seems fair enough," I said, reaching for my hat. "I'll meet you at Huber's after work."

"Just a moment, Theo," said my mother. "Have you finished your egg?"

"Yes. Delicious. But I must run now."

"A moment, my son. I have a surprise-a magic trick of my own!" She reached out a frail hand for the china egg cup. "Voila!" she said, whisking it away with a flourish. A second egg had been concealed in the hollow stem of the cup. It wobbled onto its side and rolled lazily towards me.

"God!" I cried.

"Marvelous, yes?" said my mother. "Harry brought me a whole set. Now you can enjoy your first egg without worrying that the second one should get cold!"

"Wonderful, Mama," I said, weakly.

Harry just sat back and grinned.

I caught a streetcar down to the offices of the World and found Biggs toiling over an angled compositor's desk. He looked, as always, as though he had just been roused from a deep sleep. His wavy red hair rose and fell at odd angles from his head, and shadows ringed his pale blue eyes. The drowsy appearance also extended to his clothing. He wore a baggy gray tweed suit with an open waistcoat and loosely knotted wool tie. Such attire was considered rather too casual by the older, more conservative rank of newspapermen, but Biggs considered himself part of a new, more progressive breed of journalist. He often told me that a good newsman was required to blend in with "just folks."

"Dash, you old cod worm!" he shouted when he saw me lingering in the doorway. "Just the man I've been longing to see! I'd planned to go looking for you at your mother's place this afternoon."

"You wouldn't have found me," I said, tossing my trilby onto a battered stand in the corner. "I'm at Mrs. Arthur's boarding house now."

"I know," he admitted, "but the last time I called on your mother she served me the most extraordinary piece of lemon cake. Sent me into raptures. I was rather hoping-"

"It's blackberry torte today," I said. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Why? You know perfectly well! All of New York is buzzing about the Wintour murder! You and that crazy brother of yours were right there on the spot! The police have the place locked up tight now. We sent our best man with a fat wad of bribe money, but he couldn't get past the roundsman on the door. So come on, Dash. Tell me all."

I pulled up a chair and gave Biggs a brief sketch of the crime scene while he made notes on a block of paper. He interrupted me every so often to ask for a clarification or an extra bit of detail, and I did my best to supply the answers. "All that money," he said when I'd finished, "and he gets done to death by a toy!"

"Perhaps not-"

"Well, whatever. The police will sort it out soon enough. In the meantime, the World will keep its readers informed of the 'diligent perspicacity' of our Lieutenant Murray." He scribbled a few more notes and then set down his pen. "So why have you come, Dash?" he asked, lacing his fingers behind his head. "You've made my job quite a bit easier, but I suspect your motives lay elsewhere."

"I was hoping for some background on Mr. Wintour," I said. "I know he made his money in toys, but-"

"Juvenile goods," Biggs said. "He was very touchy about being called 'The Toy King.'"

"Juvenile goods, then. I'd just like to know a bit more about the man."

Biggs regarded me with interest. "Why, Dash? Is there something you haven't told me? I know you're concerned about this fellow Graff, but you really can't expect-"

"It isn't every day that I find myself at a murder scene," I said. "I'm curious about the man's history. Perhaps it's ghoulish of me, but as things stand now I feel as if I've walked in on the third act of a play."

"That's the journalist in you," Biggs said, hopping down off his stool. "It was a mistake for you to follow your brother onto the stage. Follow me. I'll turn you loose in the crypt." He led me through a warren of offices to a dim basement chamber arrayed with row after row of dusty wooden filing cabinets. "Malone would have pulled the active file for the obituary," Biggs said, working his way toward the back of the room, "and of course all the notes from last night will still be upstairs, but there should be plenty of background material left." He pulled open a creaky file drawer and withdrew a fat sheaf of yellowed documents. "Enjoy yourself, Dash," he said, handing me the file. "I'll be back for you in an hour or so."

I found a seat atop a wooden crate and sat down to read. I confess that I found little of interest. There were a handful of admiring profiles describing Mr. Wintour's progress from office boy to magnate, and still more articles that gave details of his various civic interests and contributions. The phrase "pillar of the community" got repeated airings, as did the descriptive "reclusive millionaire." I noted a handful of names that seemed to recur several times-Mr. Hendricks, Dr. Blanton, and various other business associates and fellow benefactors-but apart from that I discovered little worth mentioning to Harry.

I had closed up the sheaf of papers and was preparing to leave when a clipping from Aubrey McMillan's society column caught my eye. It was dated three years previous, in April of 1894, and announced the engagement of Branford Wintour to Miss {Catherine Hendricks, the only daughter of his longtime business associate Mr. Michael Hendricks. The wedding was to take place the following June.

I reached into my pocket for the clipping I had torn from that morning's paper. In the fashion of the day, it told me only that the deceased was survived by Mrs. Branford Wintour. It seemed to me, however, that I had heard Mrs. Wintour's given name mentioned the previous evening, and that it was not Katherine. Margaret, was it? Mary?

Biggs returned to find me still puzzling over the clipping. "What do you have there, Dash?" he asked.

I showed him the engagement notice. '"Do you know anything about this?"

"Come on, Dash," he answered, "surely you remember-oh! Of course! You'd have been out of the city. Making bunnies vanish in Toledo or some such. Quite the scandal, that was. The society drama of the fall season."

"What happened?"

"It seems our Mr. Wintour had a bit of an eye for the ladies. While he was courting Miss Hendricks-a surpassingly lovely woman, by the by-he was also carrying on a bit of a pash with the Screech."

"The Screech?"

"I take you've not met Mrs. Wintour?"

"I have not had that pleasure."

"Her voice is said to excite amorous feelings in barn owls. Quite the domestic martinet, as well. Can't keep staff, they say. Her father shovelled coal for a living, so she's thought to be a bit short on the social graces. Quite a looker in her own way, but I wouldn't have taken her over Miss Hendricks. See here-," he stepped over to a distant file drawer and riffled the pages for several minutes, eventually producing an announcement of Miss Hendricks's presentation ball. A pen-sketch of the young woman accompanied the article, showing a lovely, heart-shaped face with lustrous lashes and a fragile mouth.

"Apparently she wanted to go on the stage," Biggs said, "but her mother wouldn't hear of it. She'd have done well with that face."

"Not any stage I've ever played," I said. "She'd stop the show." I looked up from the image. "So how did Wintour come to throw her over for someone called the Screech?"

"Destiny forced his hand. Seems he and the Screech were discovered taking the country air together on the eve of his own engagement reception. He tried to hush it up, but Michael Hendricks got wind of it and called the wedding off. Hendricks also severed his business partnership with Wintour, though it seems that Hendricks got the worst of the arrangement. Meanwhile, Wintour tried to salvage his social standing by marrying the lady whose honor he had stained."

"Sounds like a fairly miserable outcome for everyone."

"Yes, well, perhaps Mr. Wintour found some consolation in his three-million-dollar fortune, his mansion on Fifth Avenue, his private railway car, his-"

"All right. I get the point." My eyes rested again on the sketch of Miss Hendricks. "Tell me, whatever happened to her?"

"Oh, she won't be long on the market. There's some British lord squiring her about town now. After her fortune, they say." He read my eyes. "I think she may be just a hair out of your league, Dash."

My face must have gone crimson. "You may be right," I said, with a cough. "In any case, much obliged." I stood up and reached for my hat.

"Don't be in such a hurry, Dash," Biggs said. "I'm on my way to cover the Wintour service at Holy Trinity. You're welcome to come along if you wish. You can carry my pencil."

"A funeral service? Already?"

"Apparently the Widow Wintour is in something of a hurry."

"But the police can hardly have completed their investigation so quickly. There was talk last night of giving the body a thorough medical examination."

"My thought exactly," Biggs said, cinching up his necktie. "All the more reason to go and have a look at the mourners. In any case, it'll be a chance to see all the wealthy and powerful friends lined up in a row. New

York society wouldn't dare to miss this send off. Come along, I might just take you to lunch afterwards."

Biggs chatted amiably about his recent turf losses as we made our way uptown in a horse and trap. Soon we found ourselves at the newly built Church of the Holy Trinity, high on Second Avenue. "New York wasn't meant to hold so many people and buildings," Biggs said, gazing up at the church's soaring Gothic tower. "Soon they'll have to start putting them all underground."

We climbed the wide steps and Biggs made himself known to a church official stationed by the door. We were shown into one of the transepts where other members of the press had assembled. I always tend to feel subdued and reverential in any church or cathedral, even if the religious beliefs of the celebrants don't happen to correspond with my own. Biggs suffered no such inhibitions. He spent several moments glad-handing his colleagues in hushed but exuberant tones, and introduced me to various reporters from the Times and the Herald. I slipped behind a column to jot down their names, hoping that I might call on them to publicize Harry's next engagement-should he happen to secure one.

Biggs motioned me forward and we leaned against a wooden railing that commanded a view of the front rows of the nave. He kept up a running side-of-mouth commentary as each mourner was led up the center aisle. "The tall, grim-looking fellow is Michael Hendricks, but of course you met him last night. There have been rumors that the two of them were trying to patch up their differences. Hendricks is said to be desperate for capital. And there's his good wife Nora-look at her! Waving and nodding like some sort of duchess! She's much admired for her charity work amongst the lower orders, although said to have a weakness for French wines. Who's that behind her? The little fat fellow with the battered top hat?"

"That's Dr. Blanton," I whispered. "He was also there last night."

"Ah! So that's the good doctor. The Screech's lap-dog. I've heard all about him. Nearly half of his practice is absorbed in drawing up powders and potions to soothe Mrs. Wintour's delicate nerves. No doubt he's been kept on the go since the unhappy event."

Biggs and I both scribbled a few notes on our pads. "See the young swain coming up behind?" he continued, indicating a bluff and hearty-looking fellow carrying a swagger stick. "That's Mrs. Wintour's younger brother Henry, the family wastrel."

"I don't recall seeing him last night," I said.

"I wouldn't have thought so. Wintour couldn't stand the sight of him, but his wife was grooming him to step into the family business. He's just back from a grand tour of Europe, which was supposed to give him some seasoning. Look at that smirk! Can't wait to get his hands on his brother-in-law's fortune. His sort always makes me want to-well, well! You would seem to be in luck, Dash! Unless I miss my guess, the young lady moving up the aisle is none other than Miss Katherine Hendricks, the late Mr. Wintour's old flame." He indicated a slender figure in a black, close-fitting frock, wearing a low hat trimmed with netting.

"Steady, Dash," Biggs said, elbowing me in the ribs.

"She's extraordinary," I said. "I've never seen anything to compare."

"There are many who would agree with you, including that tall fellow just to her left-who, if I'm not mistaken, is her current beau."

I fixed my attention on the gangly figure Biggs had indicated. "Who is he?" I whispered.

"I can't be certain, but I believe it's Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, if I recall correctly, come to find a wealthy American bride to shore up his family's dwindling fortunes."

"That fellow is a British aristocrat?"

"They don't all have brush moustaches and monocles, Dash. Wycliffe is considered quite a catch, though it's said he's not terribly well-endowed between the ears. Still, he's good-looking enough."

I studied the sandy blond hair, strong chin, and cool blue eyes of the young Englishman. "She could do better," I said.

"Could she now?" Biggs chuckled. "Ah-here comes the main attraction. The Widow Wintour, in all her glory." A tall, thick-set woman was making a slow progress up the center aisle, stopping every few steps to clutch an armrest or guide rail, as though the sheer weight of her grief made walking difficult. Her constitution would surely have been the only thing delicate about her, as I've known professional boxers who appeared frail in comparison.

"At the time of her wedding she was considered a real peach," Biggs told me. "That was scarcely three years ago. Apparently the marriage didn't agree with her." We watched as Mrs. Wintour paused to clasp the hands of well-wishers.

"She'll play this scene for all it's worth," Biggs muttered, "although everyone knows she and her husband seldom spoke to one another. She'll be well provided for, though, and she'll never want for company so long as she holds onto the Wintour fortune."

"Really, Biggs," I said, raising an eyebrow at my friend. "The woman is attending her husband's funeral! Have you always been such a cynic?"

He gave me a wide grin. "I used to be plucky and high-spirited, Dash, but I found it grated on people's nerves." He jerked his head toward the seats. "So there you have it, my friend. The ex-partner turned rival; his plump, socially ambitious wife; their stunning daughter; her boorish, titled suitor; the ne'er-do-well younger brother; the grieving widow; and the sycophantic family doctor. Which of them killed the reclusive Branford Wintour, and how will the bold young Dash Hardeen prove it?"

"I don't know that any of them killed Wintour," I said, waving aside his facetious commentary. "Certainly the police don't think so."

"Ah, yes!" Biggs said. "The kindly old toy peddler. Let's not forget him, wasting away in jail, with only the Brothers Houdini to defend his honor. Will they succeed in rescuing him from the clutches of-"

"Biggs," I said, "you really are an ass."

"I've been hoping someone would notice," he said. "Seen enough? I have all I need. We really should make our escape now-before the tributes begin."

We slipped out just as the opening notes of an organ processional sounded, and Biggs led me toward the Second Avenue elevated. Soon enough we were seated opposite one another in a dark-panelled booth at Timborio's, a restaurant and saloon favored by journalists. Biggs studied the menu and made inquiries about the gamecock, and I suppose my expression must have betrayed the state of my finances. "Order whatever you like, Dash," Biggs said. "The World will see to it."

"Oh no," I said. "That's quite all right."

"You're a valuable resource, Dash. You and your brother are the only men outside of the immediate family and the police department who've been inside Fortress Wintour since the Dreadful Event. If you think I'm letting you roam free, only to be pounced upon by those leeches at the Times, you've another think coming."

"I've already told you everything I can," I said.

"Not everything, I think. Do you mind if I order for both of us?" He set down the menu and organized a rather lavish luncheon spread that featured a fish starter, followed by the gamecock and roasted carrots, with brandied pears to follow. He then summoned the wine steward and ordered up a bottle of Burgundy that he assured me was "quite drinkable," though my knowledge of such things was fairly limited.

"All right, young Theodore," Biggs said when the wine had been decanted, "what makes you and the swaggering Harry think you can solve the Wintour murder?"

"I told you. The police wanted Harry to tell them about the automaton. We're not trying to solve the murder."

"So you said. Forgive me, but everything your brother knows about automatons-or any other subject for that matter-could be printed very comfortably on this wine cork. Your brother could very easily have shared the sum total of his knowledge with the police without pausing to draw breath. He is not, shall we say, a deep thinker. And yet here you are, the faithful brother, racing about trying to scare up information on the Win-tour set. This is more than idle curiosity, I think."

"Mr. Graff-" I began.

"Yes, yes," he waved his hand impatiently. "I know all about Mr. Graff and his charming little toy emporium. That certainly explains why the Handcuff Czar should bother himself in the matter, but what about you, young Dash? Aren't you getting a bit old to be trailing along in Harry's wake?"

"He's my brother," I said simply.

"Dash, I'm aware of that. We grew up together, as you'll recall. And don't tell me again how he dragged you from the East River and saved you from drowning. He tells me himself every time I see him."

"He did pull me out of the East River."

"I know that. But he was also the one who pushed you in, remember?"

I lifted my wine glass and stared into the bowl. "I know that you and Harry have never gotten along," I began. "He can be a bully. He can be arrogant-"

"-if you happen to catch him in a good mood."

I set down my glass. "You don't know him as I do."

"Nor would I care to, based on my past experience of him."

A waiter arrived with our fish course. I waited until he had withdrawn into the kitchen. "Do you see those doors?" I asked, gesturing toward the back of the restaurant.

"The doors to the kitchen?" Biggs asked, spearing a piece of fish.

"Behind those doors, there will be two or three young boys in shirtsleeves washing dishes over a steaming basin of hot water. Harry and I did that job off and on for fourteen months, usually for five hours at a time, sometimes two shifts a day. At the end of a shift our hands would be so red and shrivelled that my mother would rub them with cooking fat. I was twelve years old at the time."

"Dash-"

"I'm not trying to impress you with my tale of hard-

ship and woe. Plenty of people come from poor families, and lots of them had it tougher than we did. What I'm saying, though, is that Harry always managed to keep his eye on something better. We'd stand there side by side at the wash basin, and he'd fill my head with stories of the fantastic things we were going to do with our lives-travel the world, have adventures, perform for royalty. Even then, I could always spot a huckster, but my brother was no huckster. He honestly believed that these things were certain to happen. All he had to do, he always said, was to be ready when the time came. So he'd finish washing the dishes and then he'd go home and practice."

"That's the part I've never quite understood," Biggs said, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. "Why did he want to be a magician? Why not an athlete, say, or a captain of industry?"

"Some boys want to grow up to be president. Harry wanted to be Robert-Houdin. I used to take it for granted-having a brother who could produce cakes from an empty hat, or find coins in my nose and ears. It took me some time to realize that not every family had one."

"Dash, I've seen you perform. You're every bit as good a magician as Harry."

"Kind of you to say so, but actually I'm not. No one is. I truly believe he's going to be the most famous man in the world."

Biggs shook his head sadly. "Like Kellar you mean? Or Signor Blitz? Dash, these tricks and stunts will only take him so far. Even the best magicians in the world are still only magicians. Who will remember Kellar ten years from now?"

"I yield to no one in my admiration for Kellar, but Harry is something entirely new."

"The escape artist business, you mean? Dash, not everyone shares Harry's fascination with handcuffs and ropes. I think your brother is betting too heavily on this idea. Will the public pay money to see a man who can- what?-get out of things? It's a strange notion for an entertainment. People tie him up; he escapes. Frankly, I don't see the appeal. There's some novelty, perhaps- like a fire-eater or a circus strong man-but nothing more."

"You think so, do you?"

"I do."

I took another swallow of wine. "There was a locksmith when we were growing up in Appleton-before my father brought us to New York. The locksmith's name was R. P. Gatts, and Harry used to help him take locks apart and put them back together. One day Mr. Gatts let Harry have a big rusty padlock from somebody's old grain locker. Harry took it home and we found a length of chain somewhere, and that's the first time I can remember him ever trying an escape. I wrapped the chain around his wrists and cinched the padlock so tightly that the chain actually bit into his wrists. Harry insisted on that-the chain had to be as tight as possible."

"And he escaped in a jiffy," Biggs said dismissively. "Leaving you wonderstruck."

"No," I said. "He didn't escape that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. But every day for three weeks I wrapped the chain around his wrists and snapped that rusty old padlock into place, and then I'd sit back and watch. One day the neighborhood kids came to the yard to get us for Red Robin, but when they saw Harry strag-

gling with that lock they dropped their sticks and their balls and sat down on the grass beside me. And they came back the next day. Harry pulled and tugged at that chain until his wrists went raw. He kept at it every afternoon until it was time to go in for supper. Then I'd unfasten the padlock and he'd shrug his shoulders and say, 'Same time tomorrow.' Some days his arms would be covered with blood and braises. He never complained. He told our mother he'd fallen out of a tree."

Biggs reached for his cutlery as the gamecock arrived. "Still, he did escape eventually, and you were dazzled, and the neighborhood boys lifted him up and carried him through the neighborhood in triumph. Is that it?"

"No, Biggs, that's the whole point. I honestly don't remember if he ever did escape. All I remember is the struggle. That's where the drama of the thing was. Day after day I sat there on the grass surrounded by our friends and we just watched-mesmerized. These were kids who had no patience for card tricks or coin flourishes. But they spent hours watching Harry-just to see if he could do it." I smiled at the memory. "He was nine years old at the time."

"All right, Dash," Biggs said, "I see your point. But do you really think that a bunch of kids in Appleton is the same thing as a New York audience?''

"So far as Harry is concerned, there's no difference."

Biggs fell silent for several moments, fixing his attention on the food. "You still haven't answered my original question, Dash," he said after a time. "Suppose that everything you say is true. Suppose that Harry is about to conquer the world with his daring feats of escape. Where do you fit in?"

"That should be obvious," I said.

"Enlighten me."

"He couldn't do any of it without me," I said, draining my wine glass. "My brother needs an audience."