Free The Dime Museum Murders by Daniel Stashower

laughed. "You mean he didn't
tell you? Your brother has been coming down here for the past three
weeks to get himself locked up in our hoosegow."
    "Late
at night," Harry explained, "so as not to attract
attention."
    "I
thought you wanted attention," I said. "Why have I been
breaking my back to get you locked up at Sing-Sing if you didn't want
attention?"
    "Practice,
Dash. The holding cells here were built on the same pattern as those
at Sing-Sing."
    A
uniformed officer wandered past and gave Harry a companionable nod.
"So you're a regular down here, is that it?" I asked. "Is
that why those officers at the Win-tour mansion seemed to recognize
you?"
    "I
suppose so," Harry said, "although I dare say some of them
recognized me from the stage at Huber's." "Oh,
undoubtedly," I said. "It's a wonder they didn't ask for
autographs."
    O'Donnell
had pulled out a heavy binder and was flipping through the pages.
"You're in luck," he said. "We've only got two guests
in there at the moment, and I
don't suppose either one will give us any trouble. One's a drunk, and
the other's supposed to be a murderer, but he don't look like any
murderer I ever saw."
    "A
murderer?" Harry asked with feigned alarm. "Are you sure
it's safe?"
    "That
old bird won't bother you any. Hasn't said a word since they brought
him down from interrogation. Just sits real quiet like. Caught him
crying when I made my rounds."
    "Well,
I suppose it will be all right then," Harry said. "You
don't mind if my brother comes along? He's going to time me with his
fancy watch."
    "Why
should I mind?" asked O'Donnell, pulling a heavy ring of keys
from a desk drawer. "Follow me, gentlemen."
    He
led us down a set of dank steel-beam steps to a metal-studded door
with a heavy iron crossbar. He lifted the bar and fitted a large key
into a reinforced panel-lock, turning it three times clockwise. The
door rolled open on rusty casters, and O'Donnell held it as we passed
through, sliding it shut behind us once we were inside.
    The
lockup was comprised of only four cells, two on each side, with a
wide corridor running down the center. Four bare lightbulbs dangling
from ceiling cords provided the only illumination. It took only a
glance to see why the warden at Sing-Sing felt so confident about his
escape-proof cells. I'd seen my brother pick his way through some of
the toughest, most heavily warded padlocks ever designed, but the
locks on these cells were beyond his reach—literally. The
prison architects had rigged up a sort of extended hasp, so that the
lock wasn't actually seated into the cell door at all. Instead, it
was bolted onto the wall a good six feet away, securing a metal
cross-beam tight against the cell door. From inside the cell, the
prisoner would have no way of reaching the lock. Harry's skill and
practice were useless here—he simply would not be able to get
his hands on the lock.
    "Harry—"
I began.
    He
winked. "A pretty problem, is it not?"
    As
my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I could make out the dim outline of a
man in each of the two cages to our right. Both men appeared to be
sleeping. I recognized the one closest to us as Josef Graff, whose
plump woodcock shape made him easy to spot even in the dark.
    Sergeant
O'Donnell ignored both prisoners. "You have your choice of two
empty cells this evening, Hou-dini," he said as our footfalls
echoed loudly against the rock floor. "Which will it be? Your
favorite there at the end?"
    "No,
this one, I think," Harry replied, indicating the closer of the
two on our left. "I think the bolt and hasp are rusty on the
other." Harry had fallen a step behind the sergeant as they
moved toward the cell. As Mr. Graff began to stir from his bunk,
roused by the noise of our arrival, Harry turned and raised a finger
to his lips, warning the old man to stay silent. Mr. Graff registered
surprise at the sight of us, but lowered his head and pretended to be
asleep.
    "You
know," said O'Donnell, working on the lock across the corridor,
"this bolt