The butler announced us and withdrew as Mrs. Win-tour extended her hand in our direction. Harry crossed the distance to the table in a graceful sliding run and raised the hand to his lips, clicking his heels as he did so. I contented myself by removing my hat.
"It is kind of you to see us, Mrs. Wintour," said my brother. "I know how difficult it must be for you to receive callers at such a time."
"Indeed, Mr. Houdini. But your note was so kind, and the flowers were so lovely. If I can help in any way, I feel I must."
Biggs had been right about the abrasiveness of Mrs. Wintour's voice. A drowning cat would have been positively tuneful in comparison. Even Harry, with his face composed in a mask of sympathetic charm, could not entirely conceal a wince. "Your courage is an inspiration," he said. He held out a covered bowl he had been cradling beneath his arm. "My mother wished you to have this," he said.
Mrs. Wintour tugged at a corner of her veil. "What is it, may I ask?"
"Chicken soup."
The widow hesitated, apparently trying to decide whether to find the gesture charming or gauche. After a moment, a crooked smile broke across her features. "Please set it down here, Mr. Houdini," she said, gesturing at the glass table. "It is really too kind of your mother. You must tell her how exceedingly grateful I am."
Harry smiled and nodded.
"Forgive me," Mrs. Wintour continued, "I have been rude. May I introduce Dr. Blanton, my personal physician?" She indicated the grim figure at her side. "My nerves are in a bit of a state at the moment, and he has been seeing to them."
"Of course. We met Dr. Blanton the other night." Harry and I nodded at the doctor, who gave no more response than the suit of armor in the hall.
"May I offer you tea?" Mrs. Wintour asked. She had raised her veil and placed a lorgnette to her eyes, giving my brother a frank appraisal. She seemed to be warming to him by the moment.
"We will not impose on you any longer than necessary," Harry said. "We merely wished to gain your consent to examine your husband's study."
"Bran's study? Whatever for?"
"To uncover a means of slipping in and out without disturbing the locks."
"The locks? Percy?" She glanced uncertainly at Dr. Blanton.
The doctor cleared his throat. "It would appear these men wish to ascertain if anyone might have entered Branford's study and-I mean-on the night in question."
Mrs. Wintour turned to us. "The police have already been here this morning," she said. "The matter is entirely too distressing. I thought everything was settled. But now-but now-'' Her voice was rising steadily to an even more challenging timbre.
"Mrs. Wintour," Harry said, "we have no wish to upset you further. We merely wish to examine the scene."
"I take it that the little shopkeeper was a friend of yours?"
"He was," Harry said.
"You have my sympathies. However, I really don't see why you should hope to learn anything by examining my husband's study. The police have been very thorough."
I broke in, sensing that Harry was about to share his views on the police investigation. "My brother is a professional escapologist," I ventured. "Problems of this sort fascinate him."
"A what?" The lorgnette returned to Mrs. Wintour's eyes.
"An escape artist. He makes his living by escaping from things-handcuffs, ropes, straitjackets, packing crates-"
"Does he, indeed?"
"Yes. He enjoyed a remarkable success on tour last season."
"I will soon be the eclipsing sensation of America," Harry averred. "Nothing on earth can hold Houdini a prisoner. I-"
"So naturally," I interrupted, "in his distress over the tragic circumstances of your husband's demise, it occurred to Harry that he may be able to shed some light on how an unwanted visitor might have gained admittance."
Mrs. Wintour wrapped a brocade shawl around her shoulders and spent several moments studying the young man who liked to be tied up. Then, languidly waving the lorgnette at Dr. Blanton, she said, "Percy, show them to the study." The doctor began to frame a protest, but Mrs. Wintour held up her hand. "I see no harm," she said, curtly.
With a shrug, the doctor motioned for us to follow him.
"And Mr. Houdini-!" the widow called after us.
"Yes?"
"Do remember to thank your mother for the soup!"
Dr. Blanton conducted us back down the corridor in the manner of a man putting the cat out.
"Doctor?" Harry called after him. "I wonder if you know our brother? Dr. Leopold Weiss?''
"I think not," he said, without turning.
"He is a doctor like yourself."
"Is he. How interesting."
"Another question, if I may?"
Dr. Blanton pulled up and glanced at his watch with showy impatience.
"I did not like to say in front of the lady," Harry said, "but I am convinced that Josef Graff had nothing to do with the murder of Mr. Wintour."
"So I gathered, Mr. Houdini. But I am afraid I do not share this view."
"As you like. I wondered, though, if you might supply a list of the names of anyone who might wish to see harm come to Mr. Wintour?"
Something on the order of a smile crossed the doctor's face-possibly for the first time since the Jackson administration. "A list of Bran's enemies, you mean? You want me to draw up a list of Branford Wintour's enemies?"
"If it would not be too much trouble."
The doctor steepled his fingers. "Mr. Houdini, you could knock down every white pine from here to California and you still couldn't mill enough paper to draw up such a list. Branford Wintour used to boast that he made a business enemy along with every dollar he earned."
"But surely not all of them would have wished to see him dead?"
"Not a businessman, are you, Mr. Houdini?" The doctor turned and continued down the hall. "I will tell you this, though. Bran was working on something unusual these past few months. Something of enormous importance. Wouldn't tell me a thing about it. 'Going to write my name in the history books,' he said. Very mysterious. No doubt he was stepping on some toes with that one."
We reached the entrance to the study. Dr. Blanton pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the doors.
"You have your own key?" Harry asked.
The doctor paused, holding the key in the lock. "These are Bran's keys. I'm seeing to a few of his affairs until the estate is settled." He passed over the heavy ring. "Leave them with Phillips on your way out. Good day to you, gentlemen." He turned and made his way back down the corridor.
Harry pulled me inside the study and locked the door behind us. Putting a finger to his lips, he pulled me to the center of the room. "That man," he said in a low voice, "is the murderer. He killed Branford Wintour and the Graffs besides. I have him now!"
"Got any proof, Harry?"
"Is it not obvious?" he asked in a hushed, but urgent tone of voice. "As a doctor he could easily have obtained the poison used to kill Mr. Wintour! He had the motive and the opportunity!"
"Motive?"
"Did you see him leering at Mrs. Wintour? A vulture, that's what he is. Can't wait to move in and claim the dead man's territory. Strutting around with Mr. Win-tour's keys in his pocket. He's a wrong one, I tell you."
"Harry, if you go to Lieutenant Murray with this ridiculous blather he'll have your head stuffed and mounted like that moose over there."
"I'll get proof. Don't worry about that. Now-" he resumed at normal volume, "-let us see what we can discover about this lock." He walked back to the door and crouched to examine the lockplate. "Dash," he said, pulling a high-powered magnifying lens from his pocket. "Bring me a taper from the fireplace, will you?"
"Can I also get you a deerstalker hat and some shag tobacco?''
"I have a good reason for employing the magnifying glass, Dash. I'm checking for scratches on the bolt mechanism."
I lit a wax taper at the fireplace and carried it over to the door. Harry held it close to the lockplate and peered into the internal mechanism of the keyhole. "Difficult to see anything," he said. He pulled out his lock-pick wallet and selected a tool that did double duty as a screwdriver. With practiced ease he loosened the four corner screws on the brass covering plate and lifted it off, exposing the inner workings of the lock. I peered over his shoulder. It was a heavy gunmetal lever-tumbler lock. Harry fished out the key ring that Dr. Blanton had given us and fitted the heavy bow key over the cam. The twelve-tooth bit on the end of the key fitted smoothly against the tumblers. Harry cranked the key three times. The bolt moved smoothly back and forth each time.