"Now then, Mr. Cranston," said Harry blandly, as though opening a board meeting of some kind, "I think we have some business to discuss."
The little man screwed up his eyes and rubbed them, as if to make this terrible apparition disappear. When he opened them again, my brother winked and gave a cheery wave.
"What-what"-Cranston struggled for breath- "what is-why do-what is the meaning of this?" His face glowed red with the blood pooling in his cheeks. He stared at my brother with wild eyes. "I-I have money! Lots of money!"
"Would you be referring to this money?" Harry asked, waving two fat packets of notes.
"Impossible! How did-?"
"One should not place too much confidence in a Bering wall safe, Mr. Cranston. Even if it does have the new dual-chamber pin-plate.
"Keep the money! Just get me down from here! I beg of you!"
"We wouldn't think of keeping your money, Mr. Cranston," Harry said. "However, we may not exactly give it back, either." He peeled off a few bills from one of the bundles and scattered them to the morning wind.
Cranston gave a shriek as the notes swirled and danced about his head. "God! No!" His hands darted out to snatch at the money, but the sudden movement set him swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Apparently the motion did not agree with him. He made a harsh choking noise and clutched at his throat. The contents of his stomach spiralled twelve stories to the street below.
Harry took out his handkerchief, fluffed it open in the breeze, and held it out to Cranston, who reached for it with a tight, fragile movement, as though clinging to the railing on an icy set of steps. "What do you want from me?" he gasped, dabbing nervously at his lips. "Why are you doing this to me?"
"Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry said.
"Harrington?" A sudden flash of cunning appeared in Cranston's eyes. "I-I do not know who that is."
Harry reached across and gave him a small push on the shoulder that set him swinging back and forth again. "Tell us about Evan Harrington," Harry repeated.
"No!" Cranston cried. "I don't know who you're talking about! I don't know any Evan Harrington! Please stop it!"
Harry reached out and gave another push. "Evan Harrington," he said.
"I can't stand this!" Cranston shrieked, coughing wetly.
"Evan Harrington."
"I don't-"
"Looks a bit like me…" Harry said, giving Cranston another shove.
"Please-!"
"Tried to broker the sale of a valuable automaton…" Another shove.
"I don't-"
"Framed Josef Graff for murder…"
"No-no-''
"Responsible for three deaths in the past three days…" Harry reached out and clutched Cranston by the shoulder, abruptly halting the swinging motion. "I think you can tell me a great deal about Evan Harrington, Mr. Cranston. Begin now, please."
"I don't know a thing about any Evan Harrington! I don't know anything about any murders! You must have me mistaken for-"
"Look up towards your feet," Harry said. "Do you see that handsome fellow straddling the crane? What do you suppose he's doing? Why, it appears as if he's setting fire to the ropes that are anchoring us to the crane!" "No!" Cranston shouted. "You'll die! You'll die with me!"
"Yes, that is a bother," Harry admitted. "Look! The rope is burning quite merrily, having been soaked in kerosene. I would estimate, Mr. Cranston, that you and I have less than one minute before the fire eats through the rope. Then we will fall to the pavement below. It will be a horrible fate-but then, there have been so many deaths lately."
"I haven't killed anyone!"
"All the more regrettable, then."
"For God's sake! I haven't killed anyone!"
Harry grabbed Cranston's nightshirt and pulled his face close to his. "Name the killer," he said.
"I'm not responsible! A man approached me. He- I'll tell you everything, just put out that fire and haul me up!"
"Tell me now," Harry said calmly.
"You're insane!"
Harry merely smiled. "Who approached you?"
"I-I never met the man. He made contact through an intermediary. Most of them do. But I put him in touch with a man who could do the job. All confidential-safeguarded to ensure mutual discretion. I swear, I don't know who hired me!"
"And you passed the assignment on to someone?"
"I'm not a killer! I'm just the man in the middle!"
"The name, please."
"Fred Gittles. My best man."
"Goes by the name of Harrington, does he?"
"Sometimes. Or Richard Feverel. He goes by lots of names. Please-"
"Where do I find Fred Gittles?"
"Thirty-ninth and Broadway. Number three-six-two. For God's sake-"
And then the rope snapped.
I watched Cranston as he fell. His face crumpled and his arms flailed and a sharp little scream died on his lips as though he'd been kicked in the throat. He and my brother seemed to hang in the empty space for a moment, like fish jumping in a summer stream, and then they began to sink in a twisting, corkscrew motion toward the street below.
They must have fallen ten, perhaps twelve feet before I heard the taut zing of the safety wire. They took a hard bounce and bobbed up and down for a few moments before coming to a lazy, gentle swing at the end of the wire.
"Are you all right?" I shouted, cupping my hands to make myself heard over the rising wind.
Harry, still upside-down, gave a cheery salute. "Cranston is unconscious," he called. "I think that went rather well, don't you?"
We had a far easier time getting Cranston off the building. I had brought along a bottle of nerve tonic, and we administered a generous dose before stuffing him back into Harry's sack. We carried him down to the street and loaded him onto the back of the coal cart, then headed back toward his brownstone.
We debated briefly whether or not to turn him over to Lieutenant Murray, but in the end we decided that such a course might create unwanted problems with Jake Stein. Cranston had told us what we wanted to know; we were happy enough to put him back where we found him.
Dawn had broken by the time we dragged the sack through the delivery entrance and carried Cranston up to his own bed. We put what remained of his money back in the wall safe and removed all remaining traces of our visit. I stood back and watched as Harry settled the cotton sleeping cap back onto Cranston's head. "Perhaps when he awakes he will think it was all a narcotic dream," Harry said.
"Until he sees those rope burns on his ankles," I replied. "Come on, Harry, let's go."
Moments later, as we drove away in the coal cart, Harry looked back at the brownstone and gave a sigh of satisfaction. "The burning rope was a brilliant suggestion, Dash," he said. "I thought the poor man was having an apoplectic fit."
"I'm surprised he didn't," I replied. "You were quite impressive up there, Harry."
"I was, was I not?" he agreed. "A shame that no one witnessed the display but ourselves. I wonder…" His eyes drifted upward at the passing skyline.
We drove on in silence for quite some time. Whenever I looked over at Harry, he appeared to be lost in thought. After ten minutes or so, I cleared my throat.
"Harry-" I began.
"No, Dash-don't bother. All that you have to say has already crossed my mind."
"Then you know that we're not going to capture Mr. Gittles ourselves."
His head sank down to his chest. "I know."
"And you know that we're going to police headquarters to turn the information over to Lieutenant Murray."
"Yes," he said dejectedly. "I know."
I looked over at him again. "I expected more of an argument," I said.
"I'm tired of arguing with you, Dash."
"I mean, be reasonable, Harry. The police take a dim view of citizens who make arrests. What did you think we were going to do? Hog-tie Gittles and dump him on the steps at Mulberry Street? Maybe with a little note pinned to his chest-'Compliments of H. Houdini'?"