Stein's eyes narrowed for a moment, but the grin stayed fixed in place. He threw a don't-this-beat-all look at the back-wall boys. Without realizing it, Harry had dodged a bullet.
"Okay, Houdini," Stein said, "you've been looking for me all over town. What was it you wanted?"
"Two friends of mine have been brutally murdered," Harry began. "They were an elderly couple who-"
"The Graffs. Ran the Toy Emporium."
"Precisely. I am seeking information about this terrible tragedy."
Stein folded his arms across his chest. "May I ask why you think I would know anything about it, Houdini?"
Harry swept his right hand over his head, a stage flourish. "Because, sir, Jake Stein knows things."
It was the right answer. Stein grinned as he swung his feet off the table and knocked his cigar over an ashtray. "I'm not sure what sort of help you're looking for, kid. The old lady got cut up by a gang. The old man strung himself up in a jail cell. What else do you want to know?"
"I am not entirely happy with that explanation," Harry said. "Not happy at all."
Stein cleared his throat-a horrible, gravelled sound. "You want me to find the kids that carved the old lady, is that it? Look, kid, I'm not in the business of-"
"I do not think that Mrs. Graff's death was the work of a gang."
"No?" Stein leaned forward, genuinely curious. "Why not?"
Harry answered at great length, summarizing the events of the past three days, beginning with our summons to the Wintour mansion. Stein listened closely, interrupting twice to ask for clarification, nodding appreciatively at our exploit in the Cairo Club, and wondering aloud over the puzzle of Branford Wintour's study.
"Harrington, is it?" Stein asked when Harry had finished. "The name was Evan Harrington?"
"Yes."
"Harrington did the job on Wintour, then laced the old couple to keep them mum-that's what you think?"
"Laced?"
Stein sighed. "Killed. You think Harrington killed them to cover his tracks?"
"That is my theory."
Stein gave a hot, gasping noise that I took to be a chuckle. "Evan Harrington. A wooden nickel of a name if ever I heard one."
"I am aware of that, of course," Harry said. "It may surprise you to learn that my name is not actually Harry Houdini."
"Is that so, Ehrich?"
My brother stiffened.
"Ehrich Weiss," Stein continued, "and his brother Theodore. Sons of the Rabbi Mayer Samuel Weiss. A good man, your father."
Harry gave a faint cry of surprise. "You knew him?"
"Not to speak to. I heard him two or three times, though. Morning services. I liked the look of him. Very devout. Not like these young ones today. I was sorry to hear he'd passed."
Harry paused, momentarily bewildered. "It is kind of you," he said.
"How is your mother?"
"She is well, thank you."
"Good." Stein bit the end off a fresh cigar. "I'm still not quite certain how I can help you," he said, as one of the wall-boys stepped forward to light his cigar. "What is it that you want from me?"
"Let us assume that the Graffs were killed by a single individual, as I have outlined. I wondered if these acts might suggest a pattern to you, if you perhaps recognized a certain-well-"
"Do I recognize the work," Stein said helpfully. "Isn't that what you're asking?"
"Yes. Yes, sir. This person would have to be clever enough to slip in and out of Mr. Wintour's locked study without leaving any trace, but also brutal enough to attack Mrs. Graff with such unwonted savagery."
"You say these toys are valuable?"
"They are not toys."
"Well, whatever they are. Worth a few bucks?"
"Indeed. But I do not think that is why Mr. Wintour was killed."
"I'd have to agree," Stein said. "Nobody I know would go to all that trouble for a bunch of-what was it you called them?"
"Automatons."
"Yes." He sent a cloud of smoke toward the low ceiling. "Here's my problem, Houdini. I can think of any number of punch-and-peel men who could have slipped into Wintour's study without too much trouble. And I know maybe a dozen knife artists who might have done the old lady and made it look like gang boys-if they had a reason to do it. The old man in the cell, I don't know from that. Maybe he killed himself, maybe he didn't. But you see my problem? You're asking me
if I recognize the work. If I were looking, I'd be looking for two guys. Not one."
Harry weighed this answer carefully. "In my profession," he said slowly, "one must be able to do many things. When I work in a dime museum, I am sometimes called upon to be a strong man, or a juggler, or a clown. Once I even ran a ghost show. A talented performer wears many hats."
The old man rubbed the stubble on his chin. The door opened behind us and a slight man wearing a black suit and a homburg slipped into the room. Stein did not acknowledge him. "In my business," Stein told us, "matters are different. You got a leaky pipe, you call a plumber. You got a broken door, you call a carpenter. Do you understand me?"
Harry nodded. "Two different men."
"Put it this way," he said. "Whoever killed Wintour had nothing to do with killing the old lady." He looked up at the man in the Homburg, then back at Harry. "You really think she got killed by a working man? You're sure it wasn't just gang boys?"
"I'm sure of it," Harry said.
Stein leaned back in his chair and swung his feet back onto the table. His eyes came to rest on me. "You don't say much, do you, Theodore?"
"Not a whole lot, no," I said.
"But you saw what went on in the toy shop?"
"Uh, yes, I did." I shuffled my feet, self-conscious at having been put on the spot.
"And who do you think killed her?" Stein grinned behind his cigar, enjoying my discomfiture.
I stopped shuffling and looked him straight in the eye, damned if I was going to let him stare me down. "I don't know who killed her," I said. "I don't know if it was a gang of street thugs, or someone trying to make it look like street thugs, and frankly I don't care. All I know is that she was a sweet old lady and she deserved better than to get slit up the belly like a brook trout. My brother and I are chasing all around town looking for someone who might know something. Maybe we'll find something, maybe we won't. Maybe we'll do some good, maybe not. It's better than sitting home with a book."
Harry was looking at me with an expression of interest and surprise, as though I'd just pulled a dripping octopus from a top hat, instead of the customary rabbit. Stein puffed his cigar and glanced again at Homburg man, who shook his head.
"So all you boys want to do is find who did this to the sweet old lady, is that it?"
"And her husband," said Harry.
"Mr. Stein," said Homburg man. "This is not-"
Stein held up a hand to silence him. "This thing," Stein said, "I don't like to see this sort of thing on my patch. It… doesn't look well. But I don't want to stir the pot too much. Someone might take offense. But I like you boys. I'm going to-"
Homburg man renewed his objections. Stein silenced him again with a look that could have melted iron.
"I don't know who killed your friends," Stein continued. "I'm not even sure I need to know. But I know who I'd ask about it, if I were you."
"That would be very helpful," Harry said.
Stein wrote a name and address down on a slip of paper. "This gentleman is a pretty cool bean. You want something from him, you got to have money or you got to have muscle. You two don't seem to me like the money type."
"No," Harry admitted.
Stein pushed it across the table at us. "There is one thing," he said.
"Yes?" Harry asked, reaching for the paper.
"Anyone finds out where you got this name, then you boys have got a problem with me."