"It should be apparent," Harry answered in a low voice. "Mr. Stein told us that we would need either money or muscle to get what we wanted from Joshua Cranston. We have no money; therefore, we shall use muscle-as only the Brothers Houdini can."
"And how might that be, may I ask? By creeping around in black clothes?" I peered into the darkened coal cellar. "Suppose Cranston keeps a gun?"
"Then we must rely on the element of surprise," Harry said. He pushed past me and climbed down a half-flight of stone steps leading into the house.
I had little choice but to follow as Harry walked toward the center of the coal cellar. He fished around in the cloth sack he was carrying and pulled out his bull's-eye lantern. Lighting the flame, he adjusted the focusing lens into a narrow beam. "Come along," he whispered. "These stairs will lead us up through the kitchen. The master bedroom is on the second floor at the back."
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"Mrs. Roth's nursemaid told me. She had it from Cranston's valet. Stay behind me."
We crept up the stairs to the kitchen and passed through to a richly decorated parlor. Harry swept the beam of his lantern toward a winding staircase at the front of the house. "Just a moment, Dash," he said, reaching into the cloth sack. "Better put this on." He handed me a strip of black fabric.
It was one of those little domino masks such as Robin Hood or some operatic villain might have worn. "Harry," I whispered, "you're being preposterous! This is the sort of mask you might wear in stage melodrama!"
"We must safeguard our identity," Harry insisted. "Put it on."
"Raffles."
"What?"
"Raffles," I repeated. "You want to wear this mask because Raffles, the gentleman burglar, wears one." My voice had risen dangerously, but I found I was having trouble controlling it.
"Ridiculous," Harry whispered, petulantly.
"That's how you see yourself, isn't it? The Great Harry Houdini, amateur cracksman, slipping away from the ambassador's reception to relieve the duchess of her diamond tiara. Poor old Inspector Murray, the doddering chief of the Surete, has never managed to apprehend our dashing rogue, who always leaves a pair of silver handcuffs as his calling card. Oh, how many times have the hapless officials of-''
"Stop it, Dash!" my brother snapped. "It's not like that at all. I just thought we would need a proper costume if we are to frighten Mr. Cranston. He will naturally assume that we are dangerous burglars and tell us what we wish to know."
"Harry, no real burglar ever wore one of these things."
He fingered the delicate little mask wistfully. "Let us put them on anyway," he said.
"Suit yourself," I said, shoving mine into my pocket. "But why stop there? Think how frightened Cranston will be if he sees you twirling the ends of a wax moustache."
Harry gave the mask another mournful look. "You have no imagination, Dash," he said, slipping it back into the cloth sack.
Flinging the sack over his shoulder, Harry began a cautious ascent of the main staircase, clinging to the bannister and trying to lighten his tread on the potentially creaky floor boards. I followed suit, though it seemed to me that we had already made enough noise to rouse the dead.
At the top of the stairs we could hear the steady, two-note drone of a sleeping man snoring lustily. Harry flicked the shade on the bull's-eye lantern, masking the beam. Creeping to the door of the master bedroom, Harry nudged it open with his foot.
Cranston lay on his back at the center of a sprawling four-poster bed. He wore silk pajamas and a cotton night cap, and his hands were clasped contentedly over the modest bulge of his stomach.
"He doesn't look much like a killer, does he?" Harry whispered.
"He doesn't look as if he'd harm a fly," I answered. "Or Muggins the poodle, for that matter."
Harry passed me the lantern. "There's only one way to find out. When I give the signal, shine the beam in his eyes. I'm going to give him the fright of his life." He crept to the sleeping man's side and raised his arms in the manner of an animal about to pounce. "Now, Dash!"
I snapped the lantern's shade open and beamed the light onto Cranston's face. At the same time, Harry filled his lungs with air and let out the fearsome growl he had perfected as Yar, the primitive strong man of the dime museum circuit. "Joshua Cranston!" he shouted. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"
Cranston didn't stir. The snoring continued without interruption. Harry furrowed his brow. "He appears to be an uncommonly sound sleeper," Harry said at a more normal volume. He seized the sleeping man by the shoulder and shook him roughly. Cranston began to mumble and swipe at his eyes, as if to bat away the beam of the lantern. "Joshua Cranston!" Harry shouted at an even louder pitch. "Your moment of judgement is at hand! Rise and face your darkest nightmare!"
The sleeping man muttered something that concerned a woman named Dolores, then rolled over and resumed snoring.
I swept the lantern beam to a low table beside the bed. "Harry," I said.
"Wait just a minute, Dash." He gripped the edge of the mattress and gave it a mighty heave upward. Cranston rolled off the opposite edge and onto the floor in a tangle of bedclothes. "Joshua Cranston!" he thundered. "Your day of judgement has arrived! Turn and face your accusers!"
Cranston flailed about groggily for a moment, found his pillow, and went back to sleep. "Harry," I said, "it's going to take more than judgement day to wake this man up." I held out a blue-glass vial.
"What is it?" Harry asked, pulling the cork stopper. "It smells vile!"
"Grunson's Nerve Tonic," I said. "An efficacious and healthful remedy for the treatment of persistent neuralgia and wakefulness."
Harry shoved the stopper back into the vial as if squashing a bug. "So. He is drugged."
"Heavily."
"How long before we can wake him?"
"No way of knowing."
"An hour?"
"At least."
Harry nudged the sleeping man with his foot. "Dash, I have a rather interesting idea."
Two hours later, Joshua Cranston began to stir.
As he slowly regained consciousness, he became aware that much had changed while he was under the influence of his sleeping draught. For one thing, he was no longer in his bedroom. For another, his legs were securely tied. Also, he was dangling head-down from a crane atop the Bayard Building, twelve stories high, looking straight down onto Bleecker Street.
When his screams subsided, he became aware of my brother Harry, dangling head-down beside him at the end of a sturdy rope.
"Good morning, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "Tell me, whatever became of Muggins the poodle?"
XI: The Upside-down Man
Mr. Cranston continued screaming for some time. His voice seemed to ebb and flow in the strong winds whipping around the top of the building, and there was a certain fascination in listening to the sound fall away, like a stone disappearing into a well. Tall buildings were not so common then as now, and from our lofty vantage atop the Bayard Building, which had only just been completed that year, we seemed to be looking down on a sleeping village at the foot of some majestic mountain. It made for quite a peaceful scene-apart from the very noisy distress of our companion-with everything shaded a faint lavender in the cool wash of dawn.
Harry, hanging upside-down beside Cranston, waited patiently for him to cease his vocalizations. "I assure you, Mr. Cranston, no one can hear you," Harry said, although we both doubted that this was true. "Do you see how far down the street is? No one is about at this hour." He folded his arms, swaying slightly in the morning breeze.
We had selected the Bayard Building to take advantage of a gear-action construction crane mounted on the ornate cornice, which, during daylight hours, was being used to haul a set of granite angels into position. It had been a considerable chore dragging Cranston's sleeping body across town and up to the top of the building, but the expression on our victim's face more than justified the effort.