bladder filled with liquid. This is
squeezed between two cogwheels so that a small amount of dye squirts
forth. If the poison dart had been loaded into the figure's blow pipe
it might possibly have been propelled into the victim's neck, but not
without an accompanying splash mark."
We
stopped at a corner and waited for a horse and trap to pass by. "I
find that possibility very unlikely, though," Harry said. "If
I were attempting to stage manage the murder of Mr. Wintour, I would
never place my confidence in so unreliable a device. What is the
likelihood that a poison dart fired in such a way would find its
target? It seems incredible to me that it should have struck Mr.
Wintour at all, much less that it hit him in a vulnerable spot. How
could the murderer even be certain that the blow pipe would be facing
in Mr. Win-tour's direction when it fired?" He shook his head.
"If I were a murderer, I would not be content to leave so much
to chance."
"But
if Le
Fantôme didn't
kill him, how did the murderer get out of the study? It was locked
from the inside."
"A
pretty problem, is it not?"
"Yes,
Harry. A pretty problem. Do you have the answer?"
"I
confess I do not," he said. "Although no doubt the Great
Houdini could think of at least seven ways to enter the study
undetected. But I must gather more data. After all, I never guess. It
is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty."
"
'Destructive to the logical'—is that another bit of wisdom from
the pages of Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?"
He
pretended not to hear me.
"Where
are we going, by the way?" I asked. "The house is in the
other direction."
"We're
going to see Josef Graff."
"The
magic dealer? He's being held at police headquarters!"
"I'm
aware of that, Dash. That's why we're going to see him. I want to
assure him that the Great Houdini will secure his release at the
earliest opportunity."
"Harry—"
"Did
I not prove beyond all doubt that Le
Fantôme could
not have been the cause of Branford Wintour's death? And yet, when I
insisted that Mr. Graff be released, Lieutenant Murray refused!"
"He
didn't refuse, Harry. He merely said—"
"—that
it would be necessary to confirm my 'interesting speculations' before
the suspect could be released. Yes, Dash. I heard him. What twaddle!
Such is the man whom you would have me treat with greater respect."
I
hauled out my Elgin pocket watch and popped open
the
cover. "It's late, Harry. They won't let us in at this hour.
We'll have to wait until morning."
"Well,
perhaps not quite that long," Harry said. "First we will
call on Mrs. Graff. The poor woman is undoubtedly distraught."
"That's
a good idea," I said. "Perhaps you could run the shop for
her until Mr. Graff is released."
"Run
the shop? Don't be foolish! I intend to see her husband vindicated!
The Great Houdini will not rest until Josef Graff is released from
his bonds!"
"I
think we'd better leave the crime-solving to the police," I
said. "We might be more useful keeping his business open."
Harry
sighed. "You have no imagination, Dash."
It
was a familiar refrain, as my brother had long despaired over my lack
of imagination. Not three days earlier, my lack of imagination had
been very much on his mind when I tried to talk him out of an
especially harebrained bridge leap. I should explain that Harry had
been leaping from bridges since the age of thirteen—usually
wearing a pair of handcuffs, or tied in sturdy ropes, or wrapped in a
long length of heavy chain. As a magician, his stage manner was
indifferent at best. As an escape artist, he was unparalleled. He
would stand atop the guardrail of a high bridge, trammelled up in
some impressive restraint, and whip his audience into a state of
frenzied anticipation as he described his "death leap" into
the frigid waters below. When the leap finally came—usually
after a tender word of farewell to Bess— the crowd would
literally gasp with horror. I don't know how many times I stood by
watching as tearful
squeezed between two cogwheels so that a small amount of dye squirts
forth. If the poison dart had been loaded into the figure's blow pipe
it might possibly have been propelled into the victim's neck, but not
without an accompanying splash mark."
We
stopped at a corner and waited for a horse and trap to pass by. "I
find that possibility very unlikely, though," Harry said. "If
I were attempting to stage manage the murder of Mr. Wintour, I would
never place my confidence in so unreliable a device. What is the
likelihood that a poison dart fired in such a way would find its
target? It seems incredible to me that it should have struck Mr.
Wintour at all, much less that it hit him in a vulnerable spot. How
could the murderer even be certain that the blow pipe would be facing
in Mr. Win-tour's direction when it fired?" He shook his head.
"If I were a murderer, I would not be content to leave so much
to chance."
"But
if Le
Fantôme didn't
kill him, how did the murderer get out of the study? It was locked
from the inside."
"A
pretty problem, is it not?"
"Yes,
Harry. A pretty problem. Do you have the answer?"
"I
confess I do not," he said. "Although no doubt the Great
Houdini could think of at least seven ways to enter the study
undetected. But I must gather more data. After all, I never guess. It
is a shocking habit—destructive to the logical faculty."
"
'Destructive to the logical'—is that another bit of wisdom from
the pages of Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?"
He
pretended not to hear me.
"Where
are we going, by the way?" I asked. "The house is in the
other direction."
"We're
going to see Josef Graff."
"The
magic dealer? He's being held at police headquarters!"
"I'm
aware of that, Dash. That's why we're going to see him. I want to
assure him that the Great Houdini will secure his release at the
earliest opportunity."
"Harry—"
"Did
I not prove beyond all doubt that Le
Fantôme could
not have been the cause of Branford Wintour's death? And yet, when I
insisted that Mr. Graff be released, Lieutenant Murray refused!"
"He
didn't refuse, Harry. He merely said—"
"—that
it would be necessary to confirm my 'interesting speculations' before
the suspect could be released. Yes, Dash. I heard him. What twaddle!
Such is the man whom you would have me treat with greater respect."
I
hauled out my Elgin pocket watch and popped open
the
cover. "It's late, Harry. They won't let us in at this hour.
We'll have to wait until morning."
"Well,
perhaps not quite that long," Harry said. "First we will
call on Mrs. Graff. The poor woman is undoubtedly distraught."
"That's
a good idea," I said. "Perhaps you could run the shop for
her until Mr. Graff is released."
"Run
the shop? Don't be foolish! I intend to see her husband vindicated!
The Great Houdini will not rest until Josef Graff is released from
his bonds!"
"I
think we'd better leave the crime-solving to the police," I
said. "We might be more useful keeping his business open."
Harry
sighed. "You have no imagination, Dash."
It
was a familiar refrain, as my brother had long despaired over my lack
of imagination. Not three days earlier, my lack of imagination had
been very much on his mind when I tried to talk him out of an
especially harebrained bridge leap. I should explain that Harry had
been leaping from bridges since the age of thirteen—usually
wearing a pair of handcuffs, or tied in sturdy ropes, or wrapped in a
long length of heavy chain. As a magician, his stage manner was
indifferent at best. As an escape artist, he was unparalleled. He
would stand atop the guardrail of a high bridge, trammelled up in
some impressive restraint, and whip his audience into a state of
frenzied anticipation as he described his "death leap" into
the frigid waters below. When the leap finally came—usually
after a tender word of farewell to Bess— the crowd would
literally gasp with horror. I don't know how many times I stood by
watching as tearful
Similar Books
