know, these impressionable young admirers, was that Harry had usually sprung the cuffs or slipped the ropes before he ever hit the water. His showman's instincts told him not to make it look too easy, so he would remain under water while the minutes ticked away, silently, treading water below the surface. His lung capacity and endurance were phenomenal, having been honed by long practice sessions in the family bath tub. At his peak, he could remain underwater for five minutes, so that when at last he broke the surface, waving the handcuffs or ropes above his head, the roar from the crowd would be deafening. It seemed to them that they had seen a man cheat death. Actually, they had seen a man who could hold his breath for an uncommonly long time.
Harry was never content to let this stunt alone. He was forever adding more chains and leaping from higher vantages in an attempt to add drama to the escape. Then one day he announced his intention to jump off the new Brooklyn Bridge-wrapped in fifty pounds of iron shackles. It seemed to me, I told him, that he could accomplish much the same effect with a leap from the top of our apartment house. At a certain point, I tried to explain, it really didn't matter whether he was leaping into water or onto solid ground. Harry wouldn't listen to my arguments about the unprecedented height of the bridge, or the added danger of the extra restraints. When it became apparent that I couldn't talk him out of it, I appealed to a higher authority-I mentioned Harry's plan to our mother. She took him aside for a quiet word, and the subject of the Brooklyn Bridge leap was never mentioned again.
Harry continued to list my failings as we rode the Sixth Avenue elevated down to Broadway. He kept talking as we got off and walked five blocks south. He finally ran out of steam when we reached Graff's Toy Emporium.
Graff's was a narrow shop front in a row of dull-red brick buildings, with a wood-framed display window crammed with rag dolls, hobbyhorses, pinwheels, and every other sort of gimcrack and gewgaw. As boys, Harry and I would sweep the floors and wash the windows just for the pleasure of spending time there. Even then, my brother had little patience for tin soldiers, cloth bears, or any of the other more conventional playthings. At the end of an afternoon's work-when the floors and door handles were gleaming-Harry always made straight for the wobbly green case where Mr. Graff kept the Delmarvelo Magic Sets.
The Delmarvelo "Young Conjurer Deluxe" set came in a sturdy pine box with a hinged top. On the lid, a brightly painted label showed a boy-magician enthralling his friends and family. The boy wore a black cape and top hat over his Little Lord Fauntleroy playsuit, and the table in front of him featured a bowl of fire, a houlette of cards, and a winsome bunny who seemed to be winking broadly. The boy's audience was divided equally among well-scrubbed children, whose faces glowed with admiration, and dignified adults in evening dress, who looked on with gentle approval. My eye always came to rest on a particular girl in the front row, whose blond curls were gathered up in a red bow. She had her hands clasped together and pressed against, her cheek, with her head tilted just so, gazing at the boy-magician with frank adoration.
Sometimes, if we had done our work especially well, Mr. Graff would let us take the display set into the back room for an hour or so. Harry would click the metal latch and lift the lid with a quiet note of awe, as if uncovering a holy relic. Inside, the tricks were carefully arranged on a bed of straw. I need hardly say that there were no fire bowls or winking bunnies in the Delmarvelo set, but there were several good-quality tricks made of lacquered wood, richly colored in burgundy and black with Chinese detailing. There was a set of rice bowls that neither one of us ever quite mastered, an excellent set of cups and balls, a vanishing wand with break-away tips, a rising card effect, and a double-double coin tray. My favorite was the tiny wooden ball vase, with its delicate fluted stem and bright red polished ball. The effect was simple: the ball was placed into the cup of a small wooden holder and a close-fitting cap was lowered over it. When the cover was lifted-behold!-the ball had vanished. I've done a great many wonderful tricks since then, and Harry and I once caused an elephant to vanish from the stage of the New York Hippodrome, but I can't recall any effect that gave me quite the same feeling of accomplishment.
"Dash," Harry said as we paused outside the shop. "Have you been listening to anything I've said?"
"Sorry," I answered, returning to the present. "Was it important?"
"Never mind. I don't know why I trouble myself." I peered through the window into the darkened shop. "Harry, are we really doing any good here? I don't want to raise Mrs. Graff's hopes for nothing."
"It will not be for nothing," he said sharply. "You may be assured of that."
Harry rang a bell that sounded in the apartment upstairs. We saw a fluttering of the curtains at the second floor window. A moment later the glow of an oil lamp was visible in the shop. I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Graff as she made her way to the door. She was a broad, sturdy woman with a lot of spare flesh that always seemed to vibrate in accordance with her moods. Her face, normally red and smiling, now appeared pinched and drawn, and her shoulders appeared to sag under the strain of her misfortunes. Nevertheless, she brightened at the sight of the pair of us waiting in the entryway. "Ehrich! Theodore! It is so good of you to come and see me!" She gathered us both in a rib-snapping embrace.
"It is good to see you, Mrs. Graff," Harry gasped as the last particles of air were squeezed from his lungs.
"We're sorry to call so late in the evening," I managed to add.
"My boys! My boys!" She released us and stepped back, beaming over us both. "Let me look at you! See how big you're getting! Theodore, so tall! Ehrich, so broad!"
"I have embarked on a rigorous course of personal conditioning," Harry said proudly. "I am developing my musculature in a systematic and scientific manner."
"How nice," Mrs. Graff said, as if admiring a child's finger painting. "And you, Theodore? Are you still in newspaper school?"
"Journalism," I said. "No, I've been travelling with Harry and Bess for the past few months, getting involved with the act. I may-"
"You should continue your studies, Theodore. Josef always says-Josef-" her face clouded as she recalled her husband's predicament.
Harry took her hand and gently led her to a chair. "Mrs. Graff," I said, "we don't wish to upset you, but can you tell us a little bit about what happened? When the police came?''
Her eyes welled with tears. "I do not know what I can tell you, Theodore. We were eating our supper when the police came to the door. Such a racket! They dragged Josef away in a wagon. I was down at the police station for two hours, but I could learn nothing. Nothing that made sense, at any rate. They say he killed a man! My Josef, a murderer! He won't even lay traps for the rats, this is how big a murderer he is!"
"Did you know Branford Wintour?" Harry asked.
"Our best customer," Mrs. Graff said. "Although he doesn't come to the shop anymore. Josef goes to see him whenever something special comes along. Mr, Wintour has always been a perfect-no! Is that who Josef is supposed to have killed? Ridiculous!"
"Have you seen Mr. Wintour lately?" I asked. "No. But his man-what is his name?-Phillips, I believe. Phillips has been here three times in the past week." She gripped a corner of her shawl and twisted it around her fingers. "Mr. Wintour, dead? This is terrible news. How did he die?"
"I'm not entirely certain," Harry said. "Did your husband have a special deal brewing with Mr. Wintour? Was he handling something very unusual?"
She nodded. "He was quite secretive about it, Ehrich, but I know there was a very special item involved and that he expected to earn a large commission. He said he was going to buy me a winter coat."
"Do you have any idea what the item might have been?" "No."
"Did you ever see the man who was selling it?" "A queer bird. He would only come to the shop at night. I never saw him." "Never?"