"I don't know, Harry," I said. "Perhaps he was uncommonly fond of historical romances."
Harry sat down on the top step of the ladder. "Dash," he said, "there is no secret panel, trap door, or hidden entrance of any kind in this room."
"I was beginning to form that impression."
"Then how did the murderer get in and out?"
"I think we can assume that Wintour knew his killer, and that he opened the door willingly."
"I'll grant you that," Harry said, "though it seems odd that no one else in the household was aware of any visitors. But how did the killer leave the door locked behind him? Someone bolted that door from the inside, and it certainly wasn't Mr. Wintour."
"No," I agreed. "Nor does it seem likely that someone could have arranged a secret meeting with him and then slipped away unnoticed."
"Unless Mr. Wintour himself desired to keep the meeting a secret," said Harry, "which brings us back to the fair Miss Hendricks."
"Yes," I said. "It does, doesn't it?" I walked to the fireplace and scanned the books on the lower shelves. "Let's see… Byron… Wordsworth… Shelley… here we go! Elizabeth Barrett Browning." I pulled a small volume from the shelf.
"Anything there?" asked Harry, climbing down from the ladder.
I flipped opened the front cover to see that the pages had been hollowed out to form a place of concealment. "I guess Mr. Wintour wasn't much of a poetry fan," I said.
"Are those the letters?" asked Harry, peering over my shoulder.
I lifted out a packet of some twenty or thirty envelopes tied with a silk ribbon. The paper was a pale violet hue and heavily scented with perfume. I untied the ribbon and scanned the envelopes. None of them was marked in any fashion. "They must have been delivered by hand," I said, "which means that some third person was privy to their correspondence."
Harry stroked his chin. "Couldn't one of the servants have been running the letters back and forth?"
"Wintour and Hendricks were supposed to be feuding, remember? It would have attracted too much attention if there had been a butler or chambermaid scurrying back and forth. It was probably some mutual acquaintance."
"Hmm. A mutual acquaintance who knew of Mr. Wintour's continued interest in Miss Hendricks. This person could have used this information to arrange a clandestine meeting here in the study."
"My thought exactly."
"Dash, we should read those letters."
"Read them? That's not exactly gentlemanly of you, Harry."
"They may well name the person who acted as courier. It could be a vital clue."
"I admit that, but I don't feel right-"
There was an urgent knock at the doors of the study. "Gentlemen?" called a voice from outside the room. "Are you still in there?"
I shoved the letters in my pocket and slipped the hollow book back onto the shelf. Harry crossed to the doors and unlocked them.
A stocky young man in a checked walking suit stood outside. I recognized him as Henry Gain, the dead man's brother-in-law, whom I had seen at the funeral the day before. He looked to be a year or two short of his thirtieth year-not that much older than Harry and myself-but he carried himself with a certain pompous self-regard that made him seem a great deal older.
"Gentlemen," he said, sweeping into the room, "may I ask why I was not consulted before you made yourself free with my late brother-in-law's rooms?"
"I beg your pardon," said Harry. "We gained permission from Mrs. Wintour. We would not have dreamed of intruding otherwise. I am Harry Houdini and this is my brother Dash Hardeen."
"I'm Henry Grain," he said curtly, ignoring Harry's outstretched hand. "My sister is in no condition to receive callers. Your presence here is an unwelcome intrusion, and I'm afraid I must ask you to leave immediately." The butler appeared in the doorway with our hats and coats. Harry's face began to turn an angry red.
"I regret any distress we've caused," I said, steering Harry toward the door. "Please accept our apologies, along with our condolences."
"But-" said my brother. "We haven't-"
"Come along, Harry. I'm sure Mr. Grain is a very busy man."
"One moment,'' the young man called after us. Harry and I paused in the doorway. "What were you hoping to find in there?"
"Your sister didn't tell you?" Harry asked.
"She mentioned some absurd notion involving a secret corridor," Grain said scornfully. "You can't expect me to believe that was your real purpose in coming here?"
Harry opened his mouth to object and I gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with my index finger. "You're quite right," I said, lowering my voice to a confidential whisper. "We're here on behalf of Mr. Harrington."
Harry's eyes widened with alarm. I gave him another poke in the ribs.
"Harrington?" said Grain. "The name means nothing to me."
"May I speak in confidence?" I asked.
Grain narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Would you give us a moment, Phillips?" The butler nodded and withdrew. "I'm a busy man, Mr.-what was it?"
"Hardeen."
"Yes. I'm a busy man, so I think you'd best come to
the point."
"Your late brother-in-law had a fine collection of mechanical toys and automatons," I said.
"I'm aware of that, sir. One of the damned things killed him."
"Mr. Harrington takes a very keen interest in automatons," I said. "A very keen interest."
"Go on."
"Perhaps Mr. Wintour's collection has a sentimental value for you and your sister. If so, we won't impose ourselves upon you any longer. If not…?"
I let the half-formed question hang in the air. Grain hesitated for a moment, then motioned us back into the study and closed the door behind us. "See here," he said, "are you saying that this Mr. Harrington will pay good money for these trinkets?"
"It's his business."
He glanced over at the array of wind-up figures on the library table. "You have some cheek, sir. You came in here with a cock-and-bull story about examining the study, but really you just wanted to size up my brother-in-law's valuables."
I turned to make for the door. "I can see that you won't be interested in dealing with Mr. Harrington," I said. "I apologize again if we've given offense. Come along, Harry."
"Wait!" the young man cried. "Wait just a moment." He looked around as though there might be someone else in the room. "I won't entirely rule out the possibility of a transaction," he said in a lowered tone, "but it would have to be done in strictest confidence."
"Of course," I said.
"How do I contact this Mr. Harrington?"
Harry bit his lip nervously.
"Well," I said, "Mr. Harrington is an extremely private person, like yourself. He prefers to work through
intermediaries. May we tell him that you would be willing to entertain an offer?"
Grain considered for a moment. "All right," he said, "but you'll have to be discreet. Do you understand?"
"I believe so, sir," I said. "You'll be hearing from us shortly."
"Very well." He led us out of the study and showed us to the front door. "And one last thing, gentlemen."
"Yes?"
"There's no need to mention any of this to Mrs. Wintour. Good day, gentlemen." With that, he closed the door behind us.
Harry waited until we had rounded a corner before speaking. "That man-" he began.
"I know, Harry, I know. You think that Henry Grain killed Branford Wintour." "Well, don't you?"
"If so, then he did it without any assistance from our friend Harrington. How do you explain that? Are you going to tell me that the entire business of Mr. Graff and the automaton was just a coincidence?"
"Of course not! He's bluffing! He knows perfectly well who Mr. Harrington is, for the simple reason that he himself is Mr. Harrington! He arranged the sale of Le Fantфme as a clever pretext in order to-"