The Dime Museum Murders Read Free

extra time he wants? He wants to try out a
new bit. Two audience members come up and tie his hands, then Harry—"
    "I
know, Dash. He told me all about it. He gets three minutes, just like
everybody else."
    "It
could be a great act. He gets out of the ropes, and also a bag and a
trunk. But the kicker is that—"
    "—when
it's all over, Bess is inside the trunk. I know, Dash. They've
switched places. In the twinkling of an eye. But he still only gets
three minutes. Just like everybody else."
    I
turned and gazed across the street at the marquee of Thornton's
Theater, which was emblazoned with the name of Miss Annie Cummings,
the Songbird from Savannah. "You know," I said, "my
brother really is as good as he says he is."
    "Sure,
Dash. And one day it'll be his name up there in tall letters. And
shortly after that, I'll be elected president of the United States."
    "What
a gruff and crusty fellow you are, Albert."
    "I'm
a realist, Dash. I know your brother is talented, but it's not
enough. His timing stinks. His delivery stinks. His patter stinks.
His—"
    "All
of those things will get better. I'm telling you, he's
a natural showman. He has a real instinct for drama. I've seen people
literally holding their breath waiting to see if he'll find a way to
escape from an old nailed-up packing crate. All he needs is a chance
to show what he can do. Now, if Mr. Beckman should give him one of
the warm-up spots at Thornton's, just a few minutes at the top of the
show, I know Harry could—"
    "Dash.
It's a dance hall. Burleycue."
    "Harry's
worked burlesque halls before."
    "Really?
I wouldn't have thought he had the legs for it." Albert looked
at his watch and tossed away the stump of his cigar. "Do me a
favor, wouldja? Run the bally for me? Chester's down with the
grippe."
    The
bally, I should probably explain, is an act performed outside the
tent or the theater to lure the marks inside. A crowd gathers to see
the act—whatever it is—and the talker launches into an
elaborate spiel, describing the many miracles and marvels to be found
just beyond the ticket window. If the talker is any good—and
Albert was one of the best—the marks will just about knock him
over in their haste to get inside. Sometimes the bally would be a
sword-swallower; sometimes a fire-eater. The absent Chester was an
accomplished blockhead—meaning that he could drive three-inch
spikes into his nose with a hammer.
    Happily,
Albert didn't expect anything quite that exotic from me. There was a
set of heavy wooden Indian clubs sitting by the entrance. I picked
them up and started juggling—an easy overhand pass
routine—while Albert delivered his grind. I don't remember
exactly how the patter went, but I do recall that it began with the
words "Step right up, folks," and that it promised "a
world of wonders such as mortal eyes have never beheld."
    Between
Albert's grind and my juggling, it wasn't long before we'd gathered a
crowd of perhaps fourteen or fifteen people, about as many as could
be expected on a chilly Tuesday evening. Albert collected a handful
of coins, issued paper tickets, and ushered our small audience
through the door.
    The
so-called Palace of Wonders had been established on the ruins of a
failed butcher's shop, and the smell of salty meats still hung about
the room. Mr. Beckman had used red and gold hanging banners to cover
the walls and display windows, but otherwise the space was much as it
had been—a long, dingy room with high windows along the
left-hand wall. No one had even bothered to sweep the sawdust from
the floor.
    A
narrow platform ran along the left wall beneath the windows, creating
a performance ramp that Albert described as his "Arcade of
Miracles." It was perhaps two feet high and no more than four
feet deep, and the performers stood there in plain view waiting for
the show to start. They all snapped to attention as the crowd
filtered in, and bustled around the platform trying to make
themselves look interesting.
    Albert's
job was