The Dime Museum Murders

VIII: The Living Sponge

"You'll do no such thing," said Bess, tugging at the collar of her cloth winter coat. "Have you forgotten that this Mr. Harrington may well have killed Mr. and Mrs. Graff? You can't just go chasing after him like some sort of cowboy! Leave Mr. Harrington to the police!"

"I'm not afraid of Harrington, Bess," Harry said in a level tone. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"I know that, Harry," Bess answered. "I'm afraid for both of us."

We had just been to see the rabbi about funeral arrangements for the Graffs, which had left Harry in a despondent humor. "Don't you see, Bess? It's my fault that the Graffs are dead. I should have saved them."

"Saved them?" I asked, settling my trilby on my head. "I think you're being a little hard on yourself, Harry."

"Am I? Exactly what have I accomplished in these past few days? I failed to foresee the danger to Mr. and Mrs. Graff; I failed to arrive at any solution to the puzzle of Mr. Wintour's study; I failed to escape from the holding cell at police headquarters. Nothing but failure! I was

a fool to walk away from Huber's Museum. Even that modest rung of show business may yet prove too great for my talents. Dime Museum Harry. Perhaps that's all I'll ever be."

"Harry, you're just-"

"I believe I shall return to the tie-cutting factory on Broadway, if they will have me. Perhaps there is a position that would not tax the skills of the Great Hou-dini." He thrust his hands out and made a clipping motion, as if working a pair of shears. "Snip, snip," he said. "In the future I might do better to rely on my hands, rather than my brain."

Bess clutched his arm and laced her fingers through his. "Harry, you are behaving like a little boy. This must stop." My brother looked wounded at this, but said nothing. I fell in step behind them, marvelling once again over my sister-in-law's ability to quiet Harry's tempers. Up to this stage of his life, my brother had done very well behaving like a little boy, with Mama there to stroke his brow and make his cares disappear. Bess, whose fire and spirit had so attracted him during their courtship, would not stand for childishness. "I am not your mother," I often heard her say, "I am your wife."

We walked on for a time in silence, with Bess pausing every so often to look in a shop window.

"Harrington is the key," Harry said, as we climbed aboard a horse-drawn omnibus. "Once he learned that Lord Wycliffe possessed a valuable automaton, he used Mr. Graff to establish its authenticity. Through Mr. Graff, Harrington gained an entree into the reclusive Mr.Wintour's private study-which, I must assume, had been his object from the beginning."

"It's not a bad theory," I said, straggling to keep my footing as the omnibus lurched forward. "But where's the motive? Why should Harrington kill Wintour?"

"There are endless possibilities," Harry sighed. "Money. Revenge. A woman. When we find Harrington we will have our answer."

"Lieutenant Murray will find him soon enough," I said, as we found seats at the back. "He'll act on the information we got from Lord Wycliffe."

"You give him too much credit," Harry said. "That man is a shmendrick."

"A what?" Bess asked.

"A good-for-nothing," I, explained. My brother tended to fall back on Yiddish whenever he felt especially frustrated.

"Lieutenant Murray will never solve this case," Harry declared. "Not because he isn't clever enough, he simply doesn't care enough. Soon enough he'll have to turn his attention to all the other crimes and killings and thefts that plague this city."

"Branford Wintour's murder won't be forgotten. His money will see to that. His wealthy friends won't let the police rest until they close the case."

"His wealthy friends will prefer a verdict of death by misadventure to an unsolved murder. There will be meetings behind closed doors and the entire matter will be swept under the carpet. You wait and see. As for the Graffs, they'll be forgotten soon enough-especially now that the Toy Emporium is to be sold."

"Sold?" I asked.

"That's why the rabbi took me aside as we were leaving. Apparently there has been an offer to buy the building, and the rabbi hoped I might help to clear out the

shop, so that the stock can be sold to benefit the congregation."

"Father's old congregation," I said.

"Yes," Harry said. "That's why the rabbi asked."

"How sad," said Bess. "Of course you'll help."

"Later," Harry said. "It will have to wait until after we've found Harrington."

"The shop is being sold?" I asked again.

"Yes, Dash," Harry said. "Why does that surprise you so?"

I clawed at my jacket pocket for my note pad. A memory was struggling to emerge from the depths of my mind, but-like Harry battling his way out of a strait-jacket-it seemed to be having a hard time of it. "Who's buying the place?" I asked.

Harry shrugged. "A downtown firm. It seems they plan to tear down the building to make room for something new. There's been a great deal of building going on in the old neighborhood lately."

"Do you recall the name of the firm?"

"Dash, you're looking very strange all of a sudden. Of course I remember the name. Daedalus Incorporated. One could hardly forget such a name."

"Daedalus," I said, flipping through several pages of notes. "I wonder if-ah ha! How very odd!"

"What is it, Dash?" Bess asked.

"You'll never guess who just bought the Toy Emporium."

"I told you. Daedalus Incorporated."

"And do you know who owns Daedalus Incorporated?"

"Who?"

I snapped my notebook shut. "Branford Wintour," I said.

Lieutenant Murray was not on the premises when Harry and I arrived at Mulberry Street to share this fresh revelation with him. We were advised that his shift would end within the hour, and that there was some slight possibility of finding him in Donnegan's Tavern, around the corner on Bayard.

Donnegan's proved to be a dark and fragrant establishment, with sawdust on the floor and paintings from County Cork on the walls. We took a booth near the door, and sat watching an energetic pair of arm wrestlers at the bar. Soon enough Lieutenant Murray appeared, looking even more rumpled than he had that morning, if possible.

To my surprise, he greeted us quite cordially. "Mr. Houdini!" he cried. "Mr. Hardeen! A pleasure to see you again! Come to set the department to rights? Got some fresh information on the Lincoln assassination, have you?"

To his credit, Harry took this in good part. "I have already apologized for my-my exuberance the other evening," he said. "I did not mean to suggest that your investigation had not been thorough. As a further expression of my remorse, we should like to buy you a drink."

"Would you now? That's very grand of you, Mr. Houdini. Mine's a Jameson's and water."

I went to the bar and ordered whiskies for the Lieutenant and myself, and a glass of minerals for Harry.

"Your health, gentlemen," said the lieutenant, when I had carried the drinks back to the table. "I'm pleased to see you. Saves me the trouble of bringing you down to headquarters. I had a few more questions about-"

"That can wait," Harry said. "Did you know that Mr. Graff's shop has just been purchased by Branford Wintour?"

Murray cocked his eyebrows at me, amused. "I had heard something of the sort, Mr. Houdini," he said drily.

"You don't find it at all curious that a dead man should be acquiring business property?"

The lieutenant took a quaff of his whiskey. "Not especially," he said. "Branford Wintour had dealings all over the city. Toys-pardon me, juvenile goods-were just a small part of his trade. I happen to know he had money in several department stores, a baking concern and at least three clothing manufacturers. An empire like that doesn't just shut down over night. Wintour's businesses will keep going for years, even if he isn't around to pull the strings."

"But the Toy Emporium! It's too much of a coincidence!"

"Is it? I've been checking around. Branford Wintour had a finger in nearly every property deal south of Canal Street for the past three years. Apparently he was fond of the neighborhood."

Harry folded his arms. "But who authorized the purchase?"

"The directors of Daedalus Incorporated."

"Do we have their names?" I asked.

The lieutenant shook his head. "I'm working on it, though. I don't like coincidences any more than you do. But you're not going to find any sinister conspiracy here, gentlemen. In all likelihood, the members of the board were simply adhering to a policy established by Wintour before his death." He knocked back the rest of his whiskey. "Of course, there is another possibility."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"That Branford Wintour has returned from the dead in order to gain control of every toy shop in the city. For all we know, Wintour's tortured spirit is doing a brisk business in cloth bears even as we speak."

Harry lowered his chin, offended by the lieutenant's flippant tone. "I suppose you're prepared to disregard our information about Mr. Harrington just as readily?"

"Ah. That's what I wanted to speak with you gentlemen about. 1 had an interesting conversation with Lord Randall Wycliffe this morning."

"And?"

"I'm afraid he's denying all knowledge of any Mr. Harrington."

"What!" Harry leapt from his seat. "The man is a bald-faced liar!"

"He's a bald-faced liar who's taking advice from his attorneys," Lieutenant Murray answered. "Sit down, Houdini. I know you're telling the truth. I'm only saying that we're not going to be getting much cooperation from his lordship. It's clear he doesn't want to be involved, and he's willing to stake his word against yours to stay clear of the thing."

"I've never told a falsehood in my life!" Harry insisted. "The very idea is insulting!"

"Is it?" Lieutenant Murray asked. "Were the two of you being strictly candid when you represented yourselves as employees of the Cairo Club last night?"

"We never actually said that we-"

"Be that as it may, Lord Wycliffe won't be volunteering any more information, and there's very little I can do about it."

"Where does that leave us, Lieutenant?" I asked.

"Same place we were last night. Three bodies. No way of knowing if their deaths are even connected to one another."

"Harrington," Harry said grimly. "He killed them all."

"So you say, Mr. Houdini, but we have precious little evidence of that. All we know is that he approached Lord Wycliffe about brokering a deal for Le Fantфme. That's not a crime, so far as we know. I'm telling you, boys, my superiors would be very happy to see this problem vanish." He fingered his empty glass. I stood up and went to the bar for another round.

"Lord Wycliffe mentioned Wilson's saloon on Mott Street," I said when I returned. "He told us that he met Harrington there."

"So you said this morning. I'm afraid Wilson's isn't the type of establishment where they put out the red carpet for the police."

"How do you mean?" Harry asked.

"You've heard of Jake Stein?"

"The notorious criminal?" Harry's eyes brightened. "The nefarious gangland chieftain?"

"Yes, Houdini," said the lieutenant, rolling his eyes slightly. "That's the one."

"Jake Stein is a habitue of Wilson's saloon?"

"Hardly. No one's seen Jake Stein in years. But he runs every bar and disorderly house down there. A clean officer can't get anything out of those people, and the dirty ones aren't about to bite the hand that feeds them."

"How intriguing," said Harry. "A genuine den of iniquity. Tell me, Lieutenant, if I wanted to have someone killed, is Wilson's saloon the sort of place I might turn?"

"Pardon me?" The lieutenant's mouth twitched with amusement. "You and the wife not getting along, Houdini?"

"My wife is the very center of my existence, sir. Let's say I wished to remove a troublesome business rival. My brother, for instance."

"I don't think you want to have me killed, Harry," I said. "Mother would be very cross."

"I mean a truly first-rate job," Harry continued, ignoring me. "Something that might confuse the police and obscure the motive."

"You're talking about the Graffs," said Lieutenant Murray flatly.

"I am."

He sighed heavily. "You think the Graffs were killed by a hired gun?"

"It seems apparent to me that they were."

"I'm sorry, Houdini, I know these people were important to you, but in all candor-"

"Oh, I don't argue that it was artfully done," my brother said. "That was the reason for my question. Where would I go if I wanted to find someone who could perform such a task?"

"Someone who could kill both of them and make it look like a gang killing and a suicide?"

"Exactly."

"Why, that would take a real magician, wouldn't it, Houdini?"

My brother considered for a moment. "Yes," he said, "I suppose it would."

The two of them debated the matter for some time, with Lieutenant Murray probing us rather more skillfully than we questioned him. I jotted down a good many notes over the course of the discussion, but I noticed that the lieutenant filled many more pages of his pad than I did. He also managed to put away an uncommon amount of whiskey at my expense.

After an hour or so, Lieutenant Murray closed his notebook and rose to take his leave.

"One last thing," Harry said. "If my brother and I should happen across Mr. Harrington, would you be interested in speaking with him?"

The lieutenant's face turned hard. "Don't be a jackass, Houdini. Stay out of my road."

"We meet a good many people in our travels. It's not impossible that we should make his acquaintance,"

Lieutenant Murray leaned across the table and thrust his index finger under Harry's nose. "Houdini," he said, "you are quite possibly the biggest son of a bitch I've ever-"

"Lieutenant," said Harry primly, "I will thank you to leave my sainted mother out of this."

The anger drained from the lieutenant's face. "All right," he said with his short, barking laugh, "but you are the most pig-headed, irritating bas-er-individual I've ever come across."

"You are welcome to your opinion," Harry said.

"I'm grateful for that, Mr. Houdini." The lieutenant settled his hat on his head. "Thanks for the drinks, gentlemen. Now go back to pulling bunnies from top hats. Leave the police work to me." He turned and headed for the door.

Harry watched him go, rolling a coin across his knuckles. "What a most unreasonably stubborn man," he said. "One must be more open to opposing views in this world."

"You don't say."

"Oh, indeed! As our late father often said, 'Toleration is good for all or it is good for none.' "

"I don't recall him ever saying that."

"No? Someone else, perhaps."

"Harry, Lieutenant Murray has just shot down virtually every theory and idea you've had about this business. And he's ordered us to mind our own affairs. You seem to be taking this in remarkably good spirits."

"The lieutenant is not the only source of information in this town," Harry said, smiling happily.

"No," I said, tilting my glass back to finish up the last swallow of whiskey, "there's also the library."

"I was thinking more along the lines of Mr. Jake Stein."

A hot jet of whiskey went down the wrong pipe. "Harry," I coughed. "No."

"Why not?" he asked, patting me on the back. "If one cannot get satisfaction from the law, he must turn to the outlaw."

"Harry, this is Jake Stein you're talking about. You don't just pop in for tea with Jake Stein."

"Fine," said Harry brightly. "No tea, then. Just polite conversation." He continued rolling the coin across his knuckles.

Jake Stein is forgotten today, but in our boyhood he was a figure of awe in the neighborhood, a son of immigrants who rose to control much of the criminal activity of the Lower East Side. As children we spoke of him in hushed tones, as though the mere mention of his name would call down fearsome acts of vengeance upon ourselves and our families. "Careful what you say," the older boys would tell us. "Jake's men can hear you."

I studied my brother's open, smiling face. "So, Harry, you want to march into Jake Stein's office, wherever it might be, and ask him if he killed the Graffs?''

"Well, no," he answered, "that might be imprudent. I want to ask him if he knows of anyone else who might have killed the Graffs."

"You know, Harry, I've seen you do a lot of crazy things. I've seen you sink to the bottom of the East River with one hundred pounds worth of manacles hanging off you. I've seen you-"

"I just want to ask him a question. The man knows everything that goes on around him. He sits motionless, like a spider in the center of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them."

"I believe you're thinking of Professor Moriarty. Tell me, why should Jake Stein even agree to see us?"

"Why not? I just want to know if he recognizes the work of a certain killer. He may have an appreciation of such things." He took the coin he had been rolling, held it at his fingertips and then-with a sharp, twitch of a motion-caused it to vanish. "You see that? A perfect back palm. When I see that, I think instantly of the work of T. Nelson Downs, the 'King of Koins.' I have an appreciation of such things. Perhaps it is the same with Mr. Stein."

"You think Stein is a connoisseur of murder?"

He seemed to consider it seriously. "Perhaps, yes. In any event, we must find out or our investigation is at a standstill." He stood up and reached for his coat.

We continued this strange conversation all the way to Mott Street, with Harry refusing to listen to any of my sensible arguments in favor of health and longevity.

"If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times," Harry said, as we stood outside Wilson's saloon, "you have-"

"-no imagination. I know, Harry, I know."

He turned and pushed through the clouded glass doors. I hesitated for a moment, gave a shrug, and followed him in.

At first glance, Wilson's appeared to be a rather nicer establishment than the one we had just left. The floor was clean and the brasswork gleaming, and a row of polished mirrors and gas jets on the far wall gave the room a bright, rosy glow. Only the clientele gave any indication of a less salubrious atmosphere. The scattering of sullen men at the bar, and clustered around the low round tables, gave an unmistakable air of menace.

Incongruously, Harry whistled a happy tune and marched to the bar, where the bartender was mopping the counter with a rag. "I say, good fellow," Harry said brightly, "would you happen to know where we might call upon Mr. Jake Stein?"

The barman stopped polishing the counter. Conversations died. Heads turned toward my brother. If there had been swinging saloon doors, we'd have heard them creak.

"I-I'm afraid I can't help you there, sir," said the barman.

"Not to worry!" said the magnanimous Harry. "But if you should happen to see him-or any of his acquaintances-I would be obliged if you would pass along a message. Tell him that the Great Houdini is looking for him. Good day!"

Harry headed for the door. I followed four steps behind, hoping no one had noticed that we came in together.

"I think that went very well," he said on the sidewalk outside. He pointed to another saloon. "Let's try in here!"

"Harry-" I grabbed his arm but he shrugged it off.

"Honestly, Dash. Sometimes I don't know who fusses over me more-you or Mama."

And so we repeated the scene in every saloon and flop house for three streets running. In each instance Harry would saunter up to the bar, slap his hand on the counter and announce his interest in Jake Stein-"the notorious criminal," as he took to describing him.

The reactions ranged from shock to bemusement to outright laughter, but Harry soldiered on with dogged persistence. "Tell him the Great Houdini is looking for him!" he called at each stop.

We were just exiting a gambling house on Humphrey Street when I noticed that we were no longer alone in our wanderings. There were two of them, stocky rough-hewn characters wearing gray cloth coats and peaked caps. They dogged us through five more stops, keeping a fair distance, but paying close attention. At last, as we worked our way over to Bowery Street, the taller of the pair stepped up and tapped Harry on the shoulder. "Understand you're looking for Mr. Stein?" His cap made it difficult to make out his features, except for his nose. It was clear he had put in some time in a boxing ring.

"Why, yes," said my brother. "Would you happen-?"

Our friend put a finger to his lips. "This way," he said, motioning down an alley.

"Uh, Harry-" I began.

"Come along, Dash!" Harry called over his shoulder, gaily. "Mustn't keep Mr. Stein waiting! Honestly-" he turned to deliver some comment on the intransigence of younger brothers, but the remark was cut short by the thud of a fist to the solar plexus. Harry went down hard, gasping violently for breath. Rough hands twisted my arms behind my back and shoved me against a brick wall. "Not-not fair," Harry gasped, raising himself up on one elbow. "I wasn't-I wasn't set."

Our two attackers glanced at each other, amused by the pluck of the little man with the tidy bow tie. "Did you hear that?" said the one who had floored Harry. "He wasn't set." He grinned and said it again. That turned out to be a mistake.

My brother and I had been fairly green when we arrived in New York some ten years earlier. We did not stay green for long. We learned to make our way with our fists, and there were few neighborhood hooligans and bullies who had not mixed it up with the Brothers Houdini now and again. We were tough boys who grew into tough young men. My brother could bend iron bars in his bare hands. Me, I was just plain scrappy.

"He wasn't set," said the one pinning my arms, still enjoying a nice chuckle over it.

"I wasn't either," I said, and I drove the heel of my shoe into his instep. His grip loosened and I bought some fighting room with an elbow to the windpipe. Harry, meanwhile, plowed his head into the stomach of the shorter man. A metal pipe clattered onto the paving stones.

"Now, my man," Harry said, "we shall see how you do in a fair contest!"

"Harry," I said, fending off a rabbit punch, "just shut up and fight."

"Very well," he said, somewhat exasperated. He cocked his arm and hurled his thunderbolt-a right hand straight to the other man's jaw hinge. It made a sound like a cracking walnut off the hard bone. The man's head snapped back but his feet never moved. He was out before he hit the ground.

This put a healthy scare into the taller one. I saw his hand move under his coat and I figured I didn't want to know what was under there. I sent a kick to the knee and hopped back while his legs melted under him. He dropped to a kneeling position as I grabbed the back of his head and brought it smashing down on my knee, which happened to be shooting upward at the time. His head made a funny sound, too, but his was a whole lot wetter. I let go and he flopped backward in a heap.

Harry examined his knuckles for bruising, in much the way he might have chosen an apple from the corner vendor's cart. "I wasn't set," he said.

"So I gathered. Come on."

We turned and walked toward the mouth of the alley, and that's when we ran into the man with the Smith and Wesson. He was small, red-haired, and he had three friends with him. One of them was cracking his knuckles, another had a length of chain wrapped around his first, and the third had a knife that he kept flicking open and closed.

"Which one of you is the Great Houdini?" asked the man with the gun.

"I am," my brother said.

"Mr. Stein will see you now."