"No," Harry said. "I would have brought him inside."
"It's not how these things are done in New York."
"Perhaps they should be," Harry replied with some heat. "You know perfectly well what will happen when we tell our story to Lieutenant Murray. He'll fold his arms and shrug his shoulders and tell us to mind our own business. I can hear him now. 'The police can manage this investigation quite well without your assistance, Mr. Houdini.' Honestly, Dash, I don't know why you place such confidence in that man."
He pulled his collar up around his chin and would not speak to me for the rest of the ride to Mulberry Street.
To his credit, Lieutenant Murray did not tell us to mind our own business. He didn't even fold his arms or shrug his shoulders. He listened to our story with frank admiration, and knew better than to press too hard when we glossed over certain details-such as our visit to Jake Stein and our abduction of Joshua Cranston.
When we finished, he leaned back in his chair and gave an appreciative whistle. "Joshua Cranston," he said, with a note of reverence in his voice. "The two of you got Joshua Cranston to sing like a nightingale."
"Well," said Harry, trying to appear modest, "I suppose we did."
The lieutenant turned to the desk sergeant who had taken down our statement in longhand. "When was the last time we hauled Old Brassnuts in here, Sergeant?"
"I couldn't say," the sergeant replied. "Can't be more than three weeks, though."
"He tell us anything useful?"
"No, sir."
Lieutenant Murray nodded. "I didn't think so. But somehow when these two boys tapped him on the shoulder, he spat out a name. A real, live name." He shook his head at the wonder of it. "How did you do it?"
"Well," said Harry, perching awkwardly between discretion and boastfulness, "we-we-"
"We got him to see things from a fresh perspective," I said.
"All right," said the lieutenant. "Play it your way. If this pans out, the New York Police Department will be very much in your debt. There may even be a citizen's commendation in it for you." He noted Harry's glum expression and turned to me. "Why's he so gloomy?"
"He wanted to bring you Gittles himself."
"Did he? How'd you talk him out of it?"
"I--"
"I don't suppose you could take us along when you
arrest Mr. Gittles?" Harry broke in. "I should like to see this murderer face to face."
"There'll be plenty of opportunity for that at the trial, Houdini. I'm afraid we can't allow civilians to hitch along on an arrest run."
"But-"
"Houdini, you did the right thing coming down here. If you and your brother had tried to snatch this Gittles character by your lonesome, he'd have got himself some fancy-pants attorney and claimed unlawful detention." He stood up and reached for a leather gun holster that had been hanging over the coat rack. "I'd like to have you with us when we nab him, but our hands are tied."
Harry gave a bitter laugh. "If only our hands were tied," he said, "that would be the least of my troubles."
Harry continued to sulk as we left the precinct house and returned the coal wagon to its rightful owner. "It's just not fair, Dash," he said as we made our way north to Sixty-ninth Street. "I wanted to hear the man confess. We earned that right."
He kept on in this vein for some time, and I managed to ignore most of it until we found ourselves standing outside the apartment building. "Get some sleep, Harry," I said. "Then you and I had better find ourselves some honest work."
"What, you're not coming in? Mama will have breakfast ready!"
"I'm bushed, Harry. I just want to crawl into bed for a few hours."
He shook his head, despairing over the lay-about habits of his younger brother. "Very well, Dash. Go on home to bed." He sighed and turned toward the building. "Dash," he called after me, "try not to sleep your life away."
I walked the six blocks to my boarding house and wearily climbed the stairs to my room. I felt exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I stripped off my dark clothing, took a quick bath, and shaved. Then I changed my linen and pulled on a clean suit. I was back on the street again inside of an hour.
I caught the elevated train and headed downtown. On the way, I chewed over what Joshua Cranston had told us that morning. As far as I knew, every word of it was true. It didn't matter a bit to me. The police were welcome to Fred Gittles. I wanted to know who hired him. If Cranston didn't know who was pulling the strings, neither would Gittles. That was the name I wanted. That was the only name that really mattered. I didn't know who it was, but I had a hunch.
You may wonder why I didn't share any of this with my brother. The truth is, I wasn't quite as much of a lay-about as he imagined. Much as I loved him, there were times when I would rather have taken that leap off the Brooklyn Bridge than listened to another moment of his self-absorbed prattle. There were times when I preferred to be something other than the brother of the Great Houdini.
It must have been about nine o'clock by the time I reached the Toy Emporium. The door was shuttered and the windows were soaped to discourage gawkers. The police had fastened a warded Hocking padlock onto the hasp. Luckily, my brother isn't the only one in the family who's handy with a crescent-pick. I gave a cheery whistle and handled my pick as if it were a standard key, hoping that any passers-by would think I belonged there.
I had the lock open in seconds. I stepped inside and pulled the door fast behind me. I hadn't been in the store since the discovery of Mrs. Graff's body, and though I knew her remains had long since been carted away, I could not suppress a shudder as I peered into the back room. No evidence remained of the horrors of the previous evening, apart from a greasy stain on the duck's-egg carpet.
I pushed back through the curtain into the main section of the store. A Minotaur Express Steam-Action Electric Train was set up on a display platform at the center of the room. A heavy black circuit panel sat on the floor below, with thick, cloth-covered wires snaking upward toward the track connector points. I reached down and tripped the swing-lever. The crackle and hum of electricity coursed through the circuits.
A wooden panel with seven control knobs sat at one end of the track. I reached across and turned the knob closest to me. The black cast-iron locomotive gave a shrill whistle. I turned another knob and the draw bars strained as the train lurched forward. I watched for several minutes as the train made a stately progress around the platform, passing beneath a small trestle bridge and through a miniature town, complete with a station, post office, and water tower. A pricing slip dangled from the control box. I reached over and pulled it up. Seven dollars and fifteen cents. I tried to imagine the life of a boy whose parents could afford such a toy.
I switched off the buzzing electricity and unhooked the black locomotive. I lifted it off the track and copied down the model number. Replacing the car on the track, I went back into Mr. Graff's office.
Josef Graff had been one of the smartest merchants in New York, as he himself had told us only two nights earlier. I knew that he would not have stocked such an expensive item if he did not expect to sell two or three of them, and I also knew that he would have kept a careful record of each transaction. I pulled open the file drawer of his battered old desk and found a green stock folder marked with the name "Minotaur." I pulled it out and spread it on the desk.
I read through the file carefully-sales receipts, stock orders, manufacturer's specifications, the works. Then I read it again to be certain I hadn't missed anything. The specifics were a whole lot more detailed than I expected. When I finished, I gathered up the documents and put them back in the drawer. Minutes later, I was back on the street, the door carefully locked behind me.
It took about twenty minutes to get to Sixty-ninth Street. I breezed through the kitchen, said a quick good morning to my mother and Bess, and headed straight for the back bedroom. "Come on, Harry," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up. Let's not sleep our lives away."