Read Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) for Free Online Page A

buildings had been preserved by jacking them up on stilts then constructing new stories beneath them. The row houses that were his destination now sat above businesses that had set up shop in the newly created spaces.
    At Sixth, Bradshaw waited for the streetcar to pass, then dodged horse droppings on the fresh brick pavement to hike the stairs up to a wooden walk running the length of the row. He knocked on the front door of the third house.
    The door was opened almost immediately by Mrs. Creasle, who replied to his request to see Billy, “Must you see him today? He’s had such a shock.” Mrs. Creasle was a slight woman of late middle age, with silvering fair hair, and a pretty but forgettable face. This feature had been passed on to a number of daughters who all came to the door at his arrival, one after the other, eyeing him curiously, and asking if he was the famous Professor Bradshaw they’d read about in the newspaper. He said he supposed he was.
    “I won’t keep Billy long,” he said to Mrs. Creasle.
    She sighed in resignation and led Bradshaw, not into the parlor as he expected, but to a room she called Billy’s “storeroom,” at the back of the house.
    It turned out not to be a room for storage, but a small room dedicated to the past and future of the department store, its walls covered in posters of Macy’s, Harrods, Woolworth’s, and Bloomingdale’s. On a round table backed by a dark curtain, miniature homemade mannequins in doll clothes were arranged like a store’s show-window display, complete with descriptive signs. Billy, a young man, small and pale like his siblings, stood beside the table, turning a handle that made the tabletop slowly spin.
    Mrs. Creasle departed after introducing Bradshaw to her son, but she left the door ajar and he suspected she was listening from the next room.
    “How does it work?” Bradshaw asked, hoping to put the boy at ease for he seemed nervous, keeping his attention on his display and glancing often toward the open door.
    “I, uh, built it like a giant butler’s assistant.” He rubbed his palms on his trousers. “Do you know the device? A large round tray that sits on ball bearings and spins around? I read a description of one in a newspaper. It’s for serving meals. The writer called it a ‘Lazy Susan.’ Mine is for turning window displays and spins the same way, only with a hand crank, and the full-size model will have an electric motor. On my next design, the mannequins will stand on inset bases that spin separately.”
    “Like the figures in a music box?” Bradshaw was dismayed to learn that O’Brien’s comment about the boy possibly being an inventor was true. He had no wish to discover another young man, who obviously had the potential for a successful future, to be guilty of murder.
    “Yes, like a music box, only motor-driven, not spring. I’ll be able to control them separately, and I’ll install a clock mechanism, so all the products are fully rotated in about five minutes. You can’t have it longer than that without losing a customer’s attention and risking them crossing the street to the competitor.”
    “I dare say such a display would keep shoppers entertained. Where’d you learn to do this?”
    “Oh, I picked it up here and there.” Billy shrugged, but a grin revealed his pleasure at the compliment. “I think the novelty of it would at first draw a crowd, but people soon get used to things, you know, and you must keep presenting new attractions.”
    He was a fidgety young man, unable to keep still, moving about his display with a tape measure. He met Bradshaw’s eye openly enough, though, when he spoke, and while eager to show off his display, he wasn’t so self-absorbed as to be unaware of Bradshaw’s reactions. Indeed, Billy seemed to adjust his presentation in response to Bradshaw’s comments. Billy Creasle was a born pleaser, a showman, with a feel for his audience.
    “Can you take a break for a minute? I need to ask you