The Dime Museum Murders

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Could it really be that time of the year again? Another Halloween, already? It must be, the old man told himself. There were reporters in the downstairs parlor, and that only happened at Halloween.

How long had it been now? Twenty-seven years? Twenty-eight? Yes, twenty-eight. It hardly seemed possible. Harry had been dead for nearly three decades.

Even now, the old man was particular in matters of dress. He had spent fifty-three minutes polishing his black Riderstone wing-tips that morning, applying a second coat of EverBlack with an oil-soaked chamois, and buffing the stitch-work with his late wife's eyebrow pencil. His best suit, the double-breasted tick-weave, got a vigorous brushing, and his black onyx shirt studs received a last-minute spit-shine. A brisk dousing with Jenkinson's Lime Pomade completed his toilette. On his way downstairs, he paused at the mirror. Not bad for a man of eighty-four. In the old days, they called him "Dash."

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