"Harry, the only thing we know about Mr, Harrington is that he looks something like you. Henry Grain does not look like you. Benny the Human Skye Terrier looks more like you than he does."
Harry frowned. "It was dark when Mr. Graff met with
Harrington," he said. "Harry."
"All right. But he could easily have hired this Mr. Harrington to do his dirty work for him. You have to admit that he has a powerful motive. He seems to be making himself very free with the dead man's treasures."
"I'll grant you that," I said.
"Seems to me there's only one way to be certain," Harry continued.
"How's that?"
"It should be obvious, Dash," Harry said. "We'll have to find Mr. Harrington and ask him for ourselves."
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-"