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.