The Dime Museum Murders Read Online Free PDF Page A

red hair. Alert and eager to please, Jack must
have been all of eleven years old at the time. Harry and I took an
interest in him because we'd both also worked as bellhops at his age,
and like Jack, we'd always been willing to jump though hoops for a
nickel tip.
    "Evening,
Mrs. Houdini," Jack said, tugging at his cap. He thrust an
envelope at Harry. "Telegram came for you at the box office,
sir."
    "Good
lad," said Harry. He was always saying things like "Good
lad" and "There's a good fellow" to Jack. He also
liked to tousle the boy's hair, which Jack endured with ill-concealed
annoyance.
    Harry
unfolded the telegram and scanned the contents. "It seems that I
am moving up in the world, Dash," he said,
raising his eyebrows. "I've been invited to the home of Branford
Wintour. On Fifth Avenue, no less."
    I
whistled. "Branford Wintour? What's he want with you?"
    "Who's
Branford Wintour?" Jack asked.
    "They
call him the King of Toys," I explained. "There's hardly a
boy in America who hasn't played with one of his whirly tops. He has
a big factory in New Jersey—wooden soldiers, paper novelties,
train sets. Anything you can imagine."
    "I
don't have much time for wooden soldiers," Jack said in a husky
voice.
    "What's
he want with you, Harry?" I repeated. "Some sort of society
wing ding?"
    "I
think not," Harry said. "It seems that Mr. Wintour has been
murdered, and only Houdini can tell the police how it was done."
    Bess
and I looked at each other. Harry's patter—Albert's opinion
notwithstanding—was getting better by the minute.

    "Harry,"
I said, as we trotted up toward Fifth Avenue. "You really need
to fill me in on the details. How was he murdered? Why do they need
you there?"
    He
pulled the collar of his shaggy astrakhan cloak up around his ears,
pretending not to have heard.
    "Who
sent the telegram? Why won't you tell me anything?"
    My
brother closed his eyes and lowered his chin to his chest, apparently
lost in thought.
    We
were riding in a horse-drawn calash, jostling hard as the driver
maneuvered around the evening theater traffic. Harry had said little
since we'd left the theater— nothing, in fact, apart from a
single line: "It is a case for the Great Houdini!" He
delivered this sentiment while throwing his cloak around his
shoulders.
    Now,
sitting back against the leather seat with his brow furrowed and his
fingers steepled at his chin, he looked for all the world like the
hero of some stage melodrama.
    "Harry—"
I began again.
    "Dash,"
he said impatiently, "you cannot expect me
    to
divulge the particulars. It is traditional that the detective remain
tight-lipped until he reaches the scene of the crime."
    Ah.
Suddenly it made sense. "Harry," I said, "you're
thinking of detective stories, not
real detective work. And anyway, you're a performer, not a
detective."
    "Performer!"
he snorted. "I am no mere performer! I am Houdini! I have
talents and knowledge that other men do not! At least our New York
City police seem to appreciate this, if the theatrical community does
not."
    We
rode in silence for a moment. "At least let me see the
telegram," I said.
    Wordlessly,
he passed it over. It read: "Need Houdini Urgent Home Branford
Wintour Stop Murder Investigation Stop Lt. Murray."
    "Harry,
this doesn't tell us much. Apart from the fact that this Lieutenant
Murray is careful with his pocket change. Ten words exactly."
    "It
tells us a great deal," he said.
    "Such
as?"
    He
gave me a corner-of-the-eye look. "It is a capital mistake to
theorize in advance of the facts."
    "Harry,"
I said. "For God's sake."
    I
should explain something. My brother was not a great reader, but he
dearly loved his detective stories. He would read them on trains,
backstage, in the bath— virtually anywhere. His favorite was
Sherlock Holmes, whose adventures he followed religiously in Harper's
Weekly until
the detective's tragic death at the hands of Professor Moriarty, an
event that left him despondent for some weeks. Harry read the
Sherlock Holmes