The Dime Museum Murders

VI: The King of Kards

"That woman killed Branford Wintour," my brother said. "There can be no doubt."

"How do you figure that, Harry?" I asked.

"Because she's trying to get a gullible, love-struck young swain to cover her tracks," he answered. "That would be you, Dash. She's playing you for a fool."

"That thought had occurred to me, Harry," I said. "But it doesn't necessarily follow that she killed Mr. Wintour."

We were crowded behind the scenery flats at Huber's Museum, where Harry and Bess still had two more rotations of the ten-in-one ahead of them. In between shows I filled Harry in on the Wintour funeral and my visit to the Hendricks mansion. My brother listened with keen attention, though the details of my encounter with Miss Katherine left him indignant.

"Certainly she killed him," Harry insisted. "What other explanation can there be?''

"I can think of several," I said, "including the one she gave."

"You believe that?" Harry scoffed. "She wrote this

man an indiscreet letter in a moment of weakness and she needs us to recover it? Absurd! She wrote to arrange a secret meeting. Wintour gladly assented, hoping to renew their illicit acquaintance. Once inside the study, unobserved by anyone in the house, she killed him. Simple as that."

"How did she get out again? The room was locked from the inside, as you'll recall."

Harry leaned in toward the mirror of his makeshift dressing table, dabbing at his eyebrows with a heavy pencil. "I haven't worked that out yet," he admitted. "But I will. Women are not to be trusted, not even the best of them."

"What a perfectly horrible thing to say!" cried Bess, who had been listening intently while she repaired a hole in one of her ballet slippers.

Harry turned to her and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm sorry, my dear. It was a remark of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes never married, I take it?"

"Regrettably, no." He turned away from the mirror as Miss Missy, the Armless Wonder, appeared nudging her little tea trolley before her. Of necessity, Missy supplemented her meager salary from Huber's by selling tea and cakes outside the theater after each show. She never failed to attract a long line of customers, most of them drawn by the sheer novelty of a tea lady who gripped the dainty china handles of the pot and cups with her feet. When her customers had gone, Missy made the rounds of the other performers. With her cheery disposition and pleasing smile, Missy was one of the most winning women I've ever known. She also happened to brew the worst tea in New York, but she needed the extra pennies so badly that no one ever had the heart to refuse a cup.

"I have a little trouble picturing Miss Hendricks as the murderer," I said, watching as Missy poured out three cups of tea. "In the first place-yes, Missy, I'll take milk. Lots of it. In the first place, I'm hard pressed to see a motive for such a thing." I reached over for my cup. "Furthermore, if she did kill him, she would have been perfectly able to remove the incriminating letters herself. Yes, Missy. Delicious, as always."

"Perhaps she was interrupted before she had a chance to recover the letters," Harry said.

"It's possible," I admitted, "but it hardly seems likely."

"I think that we should speak with this Lord Randall Wycliffe," Harry said. "Perhaps Miss Hendricks is trying to shield him. Perhaps he's a jealous type, and Miss Hendricks had written to warn Mr. Wintour. That would incriminate him if the letters were discovered. Lord Wycliffe could well be the true murderer."

"Harry, according to you, half of New York is under suspicion."

"I still think we should speak with him."

"What's the point? After tonight, you and I are no longer in the detective business. Remember our agreement? We'll go to the Toy Emporium this evening to see if Mr. Harrington appears. After that, we're done."

"But until then, you have agreed to help me gather information, have you not?"

"I agreed to see Biggs," I said. "I even checked out the lay of the land with Hendricks and his daughter. But I'm not about to-"

"Only until this evening," he said, cutting me off. "After the last show, we shall call on the young aristocrat." He stood up and started off toward the performance platform. "But first, my public awaits."

"Tell me again how we're going to get into the Cairo Club, Harry?"

"It is a gambling club, and I am the King of Kards. What could be simpler?"

"I see. Wouldn't it be easier to call on Lord Wycliffe at his hotel? I believe he's taken a suite at the Belgrave."

"No, we must not put him on his guard. That is why I asked young Jack Hawkins to shadow his movements. A messenger boy attracts very little attention, but he sees a great deal. Jack tells me that Lord Wycliffe departed for the Cairo less than an hour ago. We have the opportunity to observe him going about his business, unaware that he has come under the watchful eye of the Great Houdini."

"But we're not members of the Cairo. It's rather exclusive."

"Something will present itself. We must be prepared to seize our opportunity when it comes."

"Harry-"

"Trust me, Dash. As you say, it will all be over after this evening."

We were standing in the kitchen of the apartment on Sixty-ninth Street, and we were wearing nothing but our undergarments. After the last show, Harry and I had taken Bess back home and wolfed down a couple of bowls of borscht with brown bread. Then Harry led me into the back room where our old costume trunk was stored. After a fair bit of rummaging, he located the old tailcoats we used to wear as the Brothers Houdini. We would need our evening clothes, he explained, in order to present ourselves as a pair of young gadabouts seeking diversion in one of the swankier gambling establishments. I looked at our wrinkled old costumes, with their worn knees and shiny elbows, and doubted that anyone would mistake us for young gadabouts. My impressions were confirmed by our mother, who refused to let us out of the house in such shabby-looking garments. She insisted on touching up the old costumes with a hot iron, which left us standing in front of the kitchen fire in our linen, waiting for her to finish her ministrations.

"Uh, Harry," I said, "have you ever been to the Cairo?"

"Of course not. It is a club where men go to smoke and gamble. I do neither. Why should I go there?"

"Actually, Harry, it's a place where men do many other things in addition to smoking and gambling, and I just sort of thought it might not be the ideal setting for an encounter with young Lord Wycliffe."

"Ah! I see what you mean!" He tapped his forehead with an index finger. "There is drinking, as well! That might possibly work to our advantage!"

"That's not precisely what I meant, Harry. Some of the men who go to the Cairo are looking for-" I broke off as Bess wandered into the kitchen. "Er, Bess, I wonder if you wouldn't mind-?"

"Come, now, Dash," she laughed. "I've seen a man in his underthings before."

"Well, yes, but-"

"For goodness sakes, Dash. Harry thinks nothing of stripping down to a loin cloth when he does a bridge leap-"

"It is a swimming costume," Harry interjected, quietly.

"-but you're embarrassed to be seen in your long-drawers. Sometimes I wonder how the two of you came to be in the same family."

"But I was only-"

She put her finger to my lips to silence me. "Harry," she said, "I think what Dash is trying to tell you is that the Cairo caters to a certain class of young men who are not quite as virtuous as you are."

"So I hear!" he said excitedly. "They drink and smoke and gamble!" He gave a knowing wink.

"Well, Harry," Bess said carefully, "it is possible that there may also-," she caught herself as Mother appeared with our trousers.

"Mama," said Harry, "we are going to an illicit nightclub! Can you imagine?"

"That's nice, Ehrich," Mother said.

Bess leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Keep an eye on him, will you, Dash?"

"I always do," I answered.

"Besides," Harry continued, "we are not due at Mr. Graff's shop for another three hours. If I don't keep you on your feet, you'll fall asleep in front of the fire."

"Which sounds like a very attractive notion to me," I answered. "What possible reason could this Mr. Harrington have had for insisting on such a late meeting?"

"Mr. Graff assured us that this was not so unusual. Possibly Mr. Harrington is on the ran from the law. The automaton may have been stolen from its rightful owner."

"Perhaps," said Bess, "but if Le Fantфme was stolen, Lieutenant Murray would have known of it."

"Not necessarily. It would almost certainly have come from a collection in Europe. That would surely fall outside of Lieutenant Murray's jurisdiction."

"At least Lieutenant Murray has a jurisdiction,

Harry," I said. "We're just busy-bodies."

"No imagination, Dash. It is your greatest failing." He turned away and pulled on his trousers.

Moments later, the Brothers Houdini descended to street level. Resplendent in our rabbit-scented tailcoats and top hats, we headed toward the night club district on foot to conserve what little cash we had between us. As Harry had promised, an opportunity to get inside the Cairo presented itself almost immediately. We arrived just as two carriages drew up at the entrance, disgorging a large group of high-spirited young men. Seizing our chance, we darted between the two carriages and mixed in with the herd, so that we were swept along into the main parlor of the club without anyone taking note of our shabby clothes or empty wallets.

Inside, Harry and I took up a position beside an enormous potted palm. Before us stretched a vast billiards room with a row of four green baize gaming tables beyond. Young women circulated with trays of clear effervescent liquid which I knew to be champagne, although I had never seen this exotic wine before. The ladies who carried these trays, I could not help but notice, were dressed in an arresting form of dishabille. After a moment, one of these fascinating creatures made her way towards us.

"May I offer you gentlemen a beverage?" she asked.

"Thank you, no," said Harry, frantically averting his eyes. "Alcohol is detrimental to the careful balance of the bodily humors."

"He means he doesn't drink," I said, trying to be helpful.

"What about a cigar, then?" she asked.

"Tobacco is also forbidden if one wishes to preserve the vital forces," Harry told the potted palm.

"You?" she said to me. "Worried about your vital forces?"

I tugged at the lining of my pockets to signal that I had no money.

"Call me if you change your minds," she said, turning away.

"My God, Dash!" Harry cried. "These women are barely dressed!"

"1 hadn't noticed," I said.

"What sort of place is this?" he asked, genuinely confused.

"It's the sort of place where men go when they desire the society of ladies. I tried to tell you this earlier."

"The society of ladies? Would it not be better to remain at home? When I desire the society of-oh." His mouth contracted into a tight, open circle as the realization hit. "Oh," he said again.

"Harry, take a breath. Your face is bright red."

"We should leave this place."

"Fine by me."

"After all, it is hardly the sort of place where one is likely to find an English lord!"

"He's right over there."

"What?"

I pointed to the nearest of the green baize gaming tables, where Lord Randall Wycliffe, seventh earl of Pently-on-Horlake, was enjoying a hand of cards. He had a cigar clipped between the fingers of his left hand, and a glass of whiskey within easy reach. He did not seem at all troubled by any absence of aristocratic decorum.

"His lordship is younger than I imagined," Harry said.

"I know what you mean," I agreed. "He should have white hair and mutton chop whiskers. Maybe a cavalry sword."

We edged closer. The game was poker-five-card Betty-and his lordship appeared to be winning, judging by the tall stacks of blue and red wooden chips in front of him. Two older players sat scowling across the table at him, and a large knot of onlookers had gathered to see the handsome young foreigner relieve them of their money.

Harry and I stood and watched for a time. I'm no stranger to the game of poker, and it was clear that all three men were experienced players. The older men played a solid but conservative game-nursing a pair or three-of-a-kind, drawing two or three cards and hoping for the best. Lord Wycliffe, who played a riskier and more aggressive game, appeared to be toying with them. At the finish of each hand, when the bets were made, he would gaze across the table and sigh heavily, as if filled with regret over the failings of two particularly dim-witted pupils. Then he would lay down his hand to show a straight or a full house. "One has to take chances in this game," he said more than once. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Dash," Harry whispered, "he's cheating."

"You spotted that, did you?"

"Is it not obvious? Does no one else see what's going on?"

"Harry, nobody here knows what to look for."

"It seems perfectly obvious to me. I can hardly be-lieve that anyone with a pair of eyes and a brain could allow himself to be taken by so craven a manipulation. One day I really must write up a book on this subject. Or a trifling monograph, at the very least."

'"How to Cheat at Cards'?"

"Something of that nature. If I may warn the unwary and deter the youth of this land from the fascinations of the green cloth, I shall feel that my efforts have not been in vain," He turned his attention back to Lord Wycliffe. "He's not even very good at it!" he said indignantly. "With a few simple lessons I could have improved his technique many times over."

"It seems good enough. He's making a pile."

"The Right Way to Do Wrong"

"What?"

"The title of my book. The Right Way to Do Wrong."

"Catchy."

We looked on as Lord Wycliffe won another hand and swept in his chips. A murmur of appreciation rose from the onlookers. A sallow blonde in a green satin concoction had now attached herself to his lordship, squeezing his arm and sending up a delighted laugh with each win.

"What shall we do?" Harry whispered. "We can't very well make an open accusation! He might take offense!"

"So?"

"Well, he might demand satisfaction!"

"A duel, you mean?" I turned and looked at the young Englishman, who was appraising the girl in green as though she might be a race horse. "He doesn't strike me as the type to go in for pistols at dawn. Harry, I have an idea."

"Yes?"

"You wanted to stay alert for whatever opportunity presented itself. We've been handed one on a platter. When I give you the signal, I want you to strip off your tailcoat and start doing those ridiculous 'muscular expansionism' exercises of yours. All right?''

"My exercises? But-"

"Just this once, Harry, follow my lead and do exactly as I say. When I give you the nod, go into the routine."

He continued to grumble through five more rounds of play, but I managed to ignore him. Lord Wycliffe, I noticed, was beginning to get cocky. Up to this point he had allowed himself to lose a hand occasionally, just to keep his marks hooked, but with his new blond friend at his side, he began to take every hand. At the finish of each game he would smirk and say, "Sorry, chaps," which was a phrase I had never before encountered outside of a penny dreadful.

After about half an hour, Lord Wycliffe's opponents threw down their cards and declared themselves finished for the evening. "Anyone else?" asked the young Englishman, glancing at the crowd of onlookers. "The evening is young yet, surely." Seeing that there would be no takers, he stood up and began to gather his chips.

I seized the moment. Pushing forward as the rest of the crowd dispersed, I appeared suddenly at his elbow. "Well played, your lordship," I said, as though he and I had met before. "May we assist you in cashing in your winnings?"

"Kind of you," he said.

"Not at all." I swept the chips into my top hat. "If you'll just follow me?"

"You see, I'm rather busy just now," he said, slipping an arm around the waist of the girl in green. "May I collect them at a more convenient time?"

"I see no difficulty," I answered. "If you'll just step over to the cashier's window, I'll give you a receipt."

"But--"

"It won't take but a moment."

He whispered into the ear of his young companion and slipped something into her hand. "Very well," he said to me. "Let's be quick about it."

With Harry trailing behind, I led Lord Wycliffe out of the main parlor and through a smaller room where a team of bartenders was busily mixing cocktails. "Where are we going?" Lord Wycliffe asked. "I've never been back this way before."

Neither had 1, but there was no reason for him to know this. "We'll need to open the safe," I said. "We don't ordinarily keep such large reserves of cash out on the main floor."

"But I told you I only wanted a receipt."

"I'll need to verify that we have the cash on hand. Bear with us, sir." I found a heavy Dutch door and pulled it open. Behind it lay a flight of bare wooden steps leading down into a cellar. "Follow me, sir," I said, heading down the stairs. Harry brought up the rear.

At the bottom of the stairs we found ourselves standing on the dirt floor of a large wine cellar. "This can't be right," Lord Wycliffe said. "What are we doing here?"

I nodded at Harry. He shrugged, peeled off his tailcoat, and laid it neatly across a wooden wine bin.

"Just a few questions, if you'd be so kind, your lordship. We must take precautions when a player enjoys such a remarkable run of luck."

"But what are we doing in the wine cellar?"

"A simple precaution. To avoid any possible embarrassment."

Harry took two quick intakes of breath, rather in the manner of a snorting bull. Then he pressed his fists together at his chest and flexed his muscles, so that his arms and torso bulged alarmingly.

"I don't know just what you mean," said Lord Wy-

cliffe, glancing anxiously at my brother's peculiar display. "Say, what's he on about?"

Harry gave two more bull-snorts and cocked his fists at shoulder level. His arm muscles pulsed and throbbed beneath the fabric of his shirt.

"We don't often see a player of your caliber here in New York," I said, ignoring my brother's posturing. "It's fortunate that you don't pass this way often."

"Yes, well." Lord Wycliffe's eyes shifted nervously from Harry to me. "I had a bit of luck, is all."

"Luck? You do yourself an injustice, sir."

"Look, I really don't know what you're suggesting. Are you going to give me a receipt, or-?"

"Hot down here, don't you think?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Hot. Stuffy. Unseasonable."

"Yes, but I'm not sure I-"

"Better take off your coat, sir."

His eyes locked on mine. Harry, meanwhile, had dropped into an awkward squat and had his arms flexed over his head. "I think perhaps I'd best get back upstairs," said his lordship.

"If we could just ask you to take off your coat, sir," I repeated.

"I don't-I don't-," he glanced at Harry, who had begun to make a strange bovine sound, as if he might throw a calf. Lord Wycliffe looked back at me. "This is intolerable."

"The coat."

His shoulders sagged. "Oh, all right." He began to peel off his jacket. "I don't know how you spotted it."

The hold-out was a masterly construction of wood and leather webbing, with straps and buckles at the elbow and wrist. A flexible trident-style clip ran along the inner forearm and a circle of leather was cinched tightly around the chest. When the cards were held normally, with the elbow bent, the trident clip remained flush with the cuff of the jacket. Whenever the player gave a long deep breath-sighing over an opponent's misfortune, for instance-the clip extended six inches forward, delivering one or two fresh playing cards into the player's cupped palm. At the same time, any inconveniently low cards could be whisked away. A card worker like my brother, who could cause an entire pack to appear and disappear at his fingertips, could perform simple switches of that sort with his bare hands. For anyone who didn't happen to be a "King of Kards," however, a wooden hold-out was the next best thing.

"That's a beauty," I told Lord Wycliffe. "Who did it? Anderson's?"

"A firm in London," he answered, dejectedly.

"How much do you owe, your lordship?"

"You mean here? Or in toto?"

"Just here."

"Quite a lot. Upwards of three hundred dollars."

Harry's eyes widened, but he continued with his regimen, which had now broadened to include some very energetic leg-stretching.

"Your winnings tonight would have just about cancelled that out."

"Nearly. What will happen to me now?"

"That depends on you. The management doesn't have to know about this unfortunate development."

His eyes brightened. "You're not with the Cairo? But I thought-"

I shook my head.

"I-I can pay you," he said quickly. "Let me cash in the winnings and I'll do right by you. You have my word."

I shook my head again. "We're going to ask you some questions. You will answer them truthfully."

He drew back, and his eyes seemed to grow hooded. "Questions? What do you mean?"

"I understand that you are engaged to Miss Katherine Hendricks," I said.

"What's that to do with anything?" he snapped.

"Her father is very wealthy."

"I am aware of that," he said stiffly.

"How do you suppose he would react if he knew that his future son-in-law was gambling away Miss Hen-dricks's dowry in a flop house?"

"Are you threatening me? Is this to be blackmail?"

"We'll discuss that in a moment. As I said, we wish to ask you a few questions."

"And if I refuse?"

"We'll pay a call on Mr. Hendricks."

"Damn it!" he cried. "Damn it all to hell!"

"Your lordship," said Harry, without pausing in his exertions, "I will thank you to watch your language."

Lord Wycliffe's eyes moved from Harry to me and back again. "Common thugs, that's what you are," he said. "Look at you. With your hair tonic and your bad shoes. I don't know what sort of dodge you're trying to put over on me, but I'm putting a stop to it right now. Pay a call on Michael Hendricks? The pair of you? You'd never get past the door."

I stepped up close and held his gaze for a moment. "Mr. Hendricks was right," I said. "You are a pompous ass."

He backed up half a step. "You've never met Michael Hendricks in your life," he said.

"When was it that your name was raised?" I asked myself. "When he showed me his new locomotive, the Minotaur? Or was it when Becking appeared with the humidor? Funny, I really can't recall. Of course, we'd both had quite a bit of Walker's by that stage."

Lord Wycliffe pressed his lips together. "You're a detective of some sort, is that it? The old man hired you to check up on me."

I would have preferred to let the assertion go unanswered, but Harry couldn't help himself. "Yes, Lord Wycliffe," he said proudly. "We are amateur sleuths."

"Be that as it may," I said quickly, "would you be so good as to tell us when you last saw Branford Wintour?"

"Wintour! Is that what this is about?"

"When did you last see him?''

"Why, I've never met the man! Wintour was something of a hermit, I understand. Rarely came out of that whacking great pile of his."

"You're aware of the past relationship between Mr. Wintour and Miss Hendricks?''

His eyes flared for an instant. "Water over the dam," he said coldly.

"Has your fiancee had any contact with Mr. Wintour since their engagement was broken?"

"None whatever."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a warning finger.

"Can you account for your whereabouts last night?" I continued.

"My whereabouts? See here, I'm not obliged to answer any more of these questions." He took out a heavy gold watch and made an elaborate show of consulting the time. "I have half a mind to-"

"Harry."

My brother straightened up and took a step towards his lordship. That was all it took. The young man skittered backward three steps and raised his arms as if fending off a blow. "All right!" he cried.

"Where were you last night?" I repeated.

He gave a resigned shrug. "I was here, actually. And I lost rather a lot, in case you might like to know."

"Can you produce witnesses to that effect?"

"I should prefer not to," he said. "I was-you see, I wasn't gambling the entire time, if you take my meaning."

"But I take it you weren't alone, either?"

"No."

"For the entire evening?"

"That is correct."

"And where were you before you arrived here?" "I was having tea with Miss Hendricks and her mother."

"I see." I took a moment to study his face and found myself wanting to mash it like a turnip.

Lord Wycliffe brushed his lapels and tugged at his cuffs. "If there's nothing else, gentlemen?"

I decided to play my ace. "So tell me, Lord Wycliffe, however did you acquire Le Fantфme?'

I have to give the man credit. He barely flinched. He blinked twice, but that was about it. His upper lip remained as stiff as one could wish.

"I think perhaps we should repair to a quieter room," he said as a wine steward appeared on the wooden steps. "If you'll follow me?"

"Dash," Harry whispered, as we followed him up the steps. "How did you know? This is extraordinary!"

"His watch, Harry. It's from Blois." "Robert-Houdin's home town. I see. But that did not necessarily mean that Lord Wycliffe was the owner of Le Fantфme."'

"No, but I figured it was worth a shot."

"Is he the killer? Should we apprehend him?"

"His story seems pretty solid, Harry. But let's see what we can get out of him."

"Extraordinary." Harry shook his head as we weaved through the crowded gaming parlor. "I saw, but I did not observe."

"What?"

"Nothing. It is nothing."

Lord Wycliffe led us up the main staircase to the second floor of the house. We passed down a central corridor and hooked left into a narrow sitting area. He seemed to know his way around, I noticed. He knocked on a closed door and, receiving no answer, turned the handle. "This way, gentlemen," he said. "We'll have a bit of privacy."

It was a small room, papered in wide stripes of a violet hue. A bed with a tall wooden headboard was the central feature of the room, with two chairs and a small dressing table arranged alongside. A beaded floor lamp provided the only illumination.

Harry and I each took a chair, leaving Lord Wycliffe to perch awkwardly on the edge of the bed. He folded his hands across one knee and spent a moment with his eyes closed, chin sunk onto his chest, before speaking again.

"I did not kill Branford Wintour," he said at last.

"And yet," I said, "you've been at great pains to conceal the fact that you are the man trying to sell Le

Fantфme, the device that the police believe to be the murder weapon."

"The automaton didn't kill Wintour! The very idea is absurd!"

"Patently absurd!" Harry blurted out. "Why, the very notion is-"

"What we believe is not at issue," I said.

"I wasn't even there last night!" Lord Wycliffe insisted.

"No, but when you saw the newspapers this morning, you should have come forward."

His shoulders sagged. He pulled a gold case from his breast pocket and offered us a Turkish cigarette. They looked very inviting, but up to that point I had managed to conceal my smoking habits from my brother, so I waved them away.

"Can you blame me for keeping silent?" he asked, lighting a cigarette for himself. "I'm in an impossible situation. It was necessary to keep the transaction silent from the beginning. I couldn't let Michael Hendricks know about my-my financial difficulties. And I promised Katherine I wouldn't gamble anymore. I simply- well, I thought it best if I could just sell off a few trinkets, settle my debts, and start fresh. Now, with Win-tour's death, I'm in a hell of a position. Before I was merely a scoundrel. Now I'm thrown into a murder. It's impossible." He gave a heavy sigh, sending a rich and inviting cloud of cigarette smoke in my direction.

"I'm afraid we don't understand your impossible situation," I said. "How did you come to be in possession of Le Fantфme?"

"My family, of course," he said airily. "You know the sort of thing. My mother was French, and we had a good deal in the way of French watches, mantel clocks-that sort of thing. Terribly good workmanship. I rather took it all for granted when I was growing up."

"All from Blois?"

"I think so, yes."

I could see Harry struggling to hide his excitement. "And automatons? Were there a great many automatons in the house when you were growing up?"

"One or two. Perhaps more. Terribly clever things. Father would sometimes wind them up and make them go for the guests. Marvelous things."

Harry's face fell. "Only one or two?"

"Perhaps a few more. A dozen or so? I never took much notice before."

"How many do you have with you in New York?" Harry asked.

"Just the one. I wanted to see what sort of price it would fetch before I had others sent over. The funny thing is, you see, that I never would have realized how valuable they were if not for Michael Hendricks. He has any number of the things scattered around that giant playroom of his, and I shudder to think what ridiculous prices he payed for them. But of course I couldn't very well stroll in and say, 'Would you like to buy my automaton so I can clear my debts?' The whole thing had to be very hush-hush."

I looked on longingly as he lit another cigarette. "So you engaged Mr. Harrington as your intermediary?"

Lord Wycliffe's head snapped up in surprise. "How do you know about him?''

"Just tell us who he is and how you found him."

He shook his head slowly. "That's the queer thing about it. He found me. About three weeks ago, here at the club. I'd never seen him before or since. I'd been losing quite heavily that night, and we got to talking at the bar. He mentioned that every so often he was able to help a sportsman such as myself out of his difficulties."

"Sportsman?"

"That was his term. He was quite delicate about the enterprise. He asked me if I had any bothersome old family jewelry or antiques that I might like to convert into working capital. Again, that was exactly how he phrased it. So I had Le Fantфme crated up and shipped over, and he agreed to see what he could do about selling it off."

"Did he mention that he would attempt to sell it to Branford Wintour?"

Lord Wycliffe shook his head. "He only said that he would make the necessary arrangements."

"For a fee?"

"For a twenty-five per cent commission of the sale."

"Twenty-five? That seems rather steep."

"I thought so, too. But one pays a premium to ensure discretion."

"I suppose so. Where can we find Mr. Harrington?"

"But, Dash," Harry said, "we're going to see-·" I shot a withering look in his direction.

Lord Wycliffe appeared not to notice. "You're not going to-you can't just-" He shifted awkwardly on the edge of the bed. "I really would prefer to keep my name out of this matter."

"We have no interest in your private affairs. For the moment, we only want to speak with Mr. Harrington."

"You're not in the employ of Michael Hendricks?"

"No."

"Then what is your interest in this matter?"

Harry straightened up in his chair. "To see that justice is-"

"That'll do, Harry," I cut in. "Like yourself, Lord Wycliffe, we would prefer to keep our interests private. Now, if you'll tell us where we might find Mr. Harrington?"

He sighed heavily. "There's a saloon on Mott Street. Wilson's. He would send me a note and we'd meet there. That's all I can tell you."

"You're certain?"

"I only met the man three times. Once here at the Cairo, and twice at Wilson's."

"And what does he look like?"

Lord Wycliffe took a moment before responding. Then a wry smile spread across his features. "To tell you the truth," he said, jerking his thumb in Harry's direction, "he looks a bit like your friend there-nasty, brutish, and short."

"That man killed Branford Wintour," Harry said, as we hurried toward Delancy Street.

"How do you figure?" I asked.

"It's perfectly obvious. Lord Wycliffe was jealous of Miss Hendricks's continued association with Mr. Win-tour. He saw the older man as an obstacle to his future happiness."

"I didn't get the impression that he was even aware of Miss Hendricks's continued association with Mr Wintour."

"That was the impression he wanted to give, so that we wouldn't suspect him. He's a very clever man."

"He doesn't strike me as all that clever, Harry. Besides, I suspect that Branford Wintour would have been more useful to Lord Wycliffe alive than dead. He needed the money from the sale of Le Fantфme."

"Perhaps," Harry allowed, "but I'm going to keep my eye on him."

"Harry, how many times do I have to say it? After tonight, you and I are no longer in the detective business. We'll tell Lieutenant Murray what we learned and he can check Lord Wycliffe's story for himself."

"If that's how you feel, why were you so insistent on getting a description of Mr. Harrington? Why did you want to know how to contact him? After all, we have an appointment with him in twenty minutes at Mr. Graff's shop!"

"I know that, Harry, but I'm not banking on Mr. Harrington to keep the appointment. Lieutenant Murray may find the information helpful."

"Can you really wash your hands of this affair so easily?" Harry asked. "I saw you questioning Lord Wycliffe just now. I could hardly have done better myself. You were quite-"

"Imaginative?"

"I was going to say skillful. You played the scene quite brilliantly."

"That's just it, Harry. I wasn't playing a scene. This isn't some costume melodrama. It's all been just another performance for you, hasn't it? Another role for the Great Houdini."

"I'm not play acting," he said, as we rounded the corner onto Delancy Street. "Our friend is in prison. Or have you forgotten?"

"I could hardly forget, Harry. Not with all these helpful reminders you keep delivering every three minutes."

"You should need no reminding. Mr. Graff has been our friend and protector for many years."

"I know, Harry, but-"

"Like family. That's how he has treated us."

"I know, Harry, but-"

"You and I might still be washing dishes or cutting ties if not for Mr. Graff."

"I know, Harry, but-"

"Anyway, if I have been guilty of embracing my role as amateur sleuth a little too vigorously, at least we may be able to ring down the final curtain tonight. Let's see if Mr. Harrington appears."

The door to Mr. Graff's shop was locked and the windows were shuttered. Harry tugged on the door, then pressed his nose to the glass to peer into the darkened front room. "There's no one in there," he said. "I could pick the lock easily enough, but I don't want to alarm Mrs. Graff."

Harry pressed the bell and glanced up at the apartment above. "No answer," he said. "Perhaps she has gone to stay with her sister in Brooklyn. What time is it?"

I looked at my Elgin. "Harrington should be here in fifteen minutes, if he's coming."

"We may as well get out of the street, then." Harry flipped open a fat leather wallet and withdrew a sturdy two-pin curl-pick. I heard a sharp snick as the lock gave way. "I must speak to Mr. Graff about this. Bess could have picked this lock with her ivory comb." He pushed the door open.

It took a moment for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. We were accustomed to seeing Mr. Graff's shop filled with children. In the dark, it took on a strange and sinister aspect. Shadows played over the marionettes; tin soldiers and straw dolls appeared to be leering at us in the guttering light from the street. "I'll put on some lights," Harry said, feeling his way toward the back room. "Then I will tell you my plan."

"Your plan?"

"Yes. My plan to wring a confession from Mr. Harrington. ''

"Harry, whoever this Mr. Harrington is, we don't know that he killed Branford Wintour."

"He's in it up to his neck," Harry said. "All we have to do is-" He gave a strangled cry.

At first I thought he had been attacked by some unseen assailant in the back room. I ran forward and saw that it was something much worse. "My God, Dash! My God! Who-who would do such a thing?"

Frieda Graff lay on her back in a dark pool of blood. Her eyes were open and fixed on some distant point, and her arms were flung over her head as if to ward off a blow. An angry purple swelling covered the right side of her face, just below the jaw hinge. A bone-handled carving knife lay on the floor beside her.

I sprang forward, stamping my foot on the wooden floor to drive off a trio of rats. Kneeling beside her, I felt for signs of life.

"Dash, is she-?"

"Yes."

"God," he said softly. "God, no."

I reached up to close her eyes, as I had seen my father do.

"Dash, that word. American slang?"

I looked up and saw him pointing at the blank wall behind us. There was a word scrawled in blood. "Yes, Harry," I said. "American slang."

"What does it mean?"

"It refers to her religion, Harry."

I watched his face. His mouth tightened into a hard line and his cheeks darkened. Something clear and eager seemed to fade from his eyes and I never saw it again.

"The police," he said quietly. "Come, Dash, we must call the police. Perhaps they"-He stopped as if seized by the throat. "Dash! Hurry!" He grabbed my arm and literally hurled me toward the door.

'' Harry-what-?''

"Run!" He was out the door before 1 could utter another syllable.

We were still in our evening clothes, and my opera shoes weren't exactly suited for high speed, but 1 managed to keep within a few paces of Harry as he sprinted across Lispenard Street, hooked left onto Broadway, and set off along Canal. By now my lungs were seared with pain, but I kept going. I'd figured out where we were headed.

Harry turned onto Mulberry Street and bounded up the steps to the precinct house. Sergeant O'Donnell looked up in surprise as Harry threw open the heavy doors.

"Mr. Houdini--?"

"The cellblock! Hurry!"

"But-!"

Harry charged past him and crashed through the doors to the stairwell. Gripping the bannister like a pommel horse, he vaulted over the railing and onto the lower stairs, covering the two flights in a single fluid motion. "Houdini!" O'Donnell called from the top of the stairs. "You can't-!"

Lock-picks spilled from Harry's leather wallet as he scrabbled for the proper tool, all the while shouting Mr. Graff's name through the metal grille of the access door. He had the lock tripped by the time I reached him, and I helped to pull back the heavy door.

"Mr. Graff!" he shouted, pushing past me into the cellblock. "Mr. Graff! Are you-?" Then O'Donnell found the light.

The old man hung at the end of a leather belt at the center of his cell, swaying slightly, a piece of paper pinned to his chest. A stool lay on its side below him.

Harry dropped to his knees, his mouth working convulsively, though he made no sound. He pressed his fists to his temples as if to force the terrible scene from his mind. O'Donnell gripped the bars of the cell, his eyes moving from the dead man to my brother to the lock-picks scattered on the floor.

I fell back against a bare brick wall, unable to catch my breath. My head swirled with questions, but one thing had become perfectly clear.

My brother and I were no longer playing a game.