Part 17 (2/2)
He had an idea, but several of the books he requested next were unavailable. So he moved on to the stationery office and library attached to The Gazette The Gazette. There, Mr. William McGarvie found what the patterer required, including a comprehensive pharmacopoeia-a heavy volume listing drugs and medicines and describing their preparation, uses and effects.
Mr. McGarvie also proudly produced a prize. On the day before his arrest, the patterer had digested a thought-provoking entry in a general medical book. Now he had before him an English commentary on the work of the Spanish poisons expert, Dr. Mathieu Orfila. Dunne recalled Thomas Owens mentioning the expert. The Spanish doctor now spoke clearly to him. The patterer realized that so, too, had the unfortunate Muller. And his message was breath-taking, confirming all of Dunne's suspicions.
Although there was still one gap, that did not put off the imminent denouement-he was certain he had solved the murders. The accidental tomfoolery at the impromptu Sandhills funeral had turned the key to the killing machine's ident.i.ty.
What a fool I've been, he thought, not to have listened sooner to a dead man. Several such, in fact. And one of them gone to dust two centuries ago.
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AS DUNNE DREW closer to the waters of Sydney Cove, the tang of salt and mud, even the s.h.i.+ps' smells of tar, hot canvas, hemp and, from time to time, carpenters' sweet shavings battled valiantly against the too-often pervading stenches of the dry and thus unwashed town. The drought that baked the colony looked like never ending. Even the seagulls seemed tired.
To the patterer, the strongest smells came as he pa.s.sed a sentry and entered a Customs Office bond storeroom, which was cluttered with bagged spices and sandalwood from the East, furs from as far away as Canada, whale and seal oil from the southern ocean, rum from India and wine from the Cape. Even the commodities that were tightly sealed somehow managed to stamp their aromatic ident.i.ties onto the close air. These things and a thousand more were all held in bondage until customs duty was paid.
It was a colorful place, but Dunne thought that it must be duller without the presence or influence of its former chief collector, Captain John Piper. His successors, such as Captain Rossi, oversaw the operations, but more covertly, without Piper's lordly, proprietary swagger.
Of course, nowadays there was not quite the same incentive. Captain Rossi received a flat salary, but when Piper reigned he had taken 4 percent of all duties collected. Originally, his masters expected he might skim off 400 pounds a year, but as business boomed, his fees reached 11,000 pounds.
The patterer well recalled when the customs accounts were found muddled and Piper lost his lucrative post. The collector took it hard and went to sea in his luxury yacht, crewed by blue-and-silver-uniformed sailors who were also skilled musicians. On the open sea, Piper jumped over the side but his serenading sailors fished him out. He then retired across the mountains to hunt kangaroos and wild dogs. In full hunting pink, naturally.
Dunne's daydreams were interrupted by the arrival of the first customs officer he had asked to see. Captain Rossi's letter of introduction worked wonders and the man was eager to cooperate. This fellow enjoyed the t.i.tle of ”gauger,” but he could not help the patterer; his function was to work out the quant.i.ties of cargo items on which duty was to be applied.
The ”tide-waiter” explained that he, suitably enough, awaited the tides' ebb and flow, overseeing s.h.i.+ps' arrivals and departures to detect or deter contraband. His colleague, the ”landing-waiter,” explained that he, on the other hand, waited on the wharf and checked off landed consignments against the s.h.i.+ps' manifests.
The patterer thanked these worthies, but pa.s.sed on. The next-and last-man he interviewed, ah, he was the ”jerquer.” And he was the man Dunne wanted, for a jerquer examined s.h.i.+ps' papers and saw that all cargo was listed and accurately described.
Had he, Dunne asked, seen any unusual cargoes? One from, say, Schweinfurt, in Bavaria? It may have come by way of London, of course.
”Ah, that's an easy one,” replied the jerquer. He recalled only one such consignment. But it had come not from Schweinfurt but from another sausage-eaters' city, Leipzig.
The patterer hid his disappointment, but still let the man steer him to the records. Where, indeed, there was a note of such a load upon which duty had been paid. And thus the jerquer was able to name the s.h.i.+pment's contents-and the address, if not the ident.i.ty, of its recipient. The consignment had gone to the place where the clue originated-the office of The Gleaner The Gleaner.
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THE PATTERER THEN sought out Brian O'Bannion. ”You've shown that you're handy at getting into ground-floor windows-how are you at first-story jobs?”
”Anyone on the premises?” asked the Irishman.
”Not to worry you in the area I'm talking about. I need it done today-so that the item you take will be with me tomorrow morning, early.”
”If it's important to you, of course I'll do it.”
Dunne smiled. ”I wouldn't ask you to risk it if I couldn't look you in the eye and say that lives depend upon you.” He told O'Bannion exactly what he was to look for, adding before he moved off, ”Be careful near it. It might be wise to wear gloves and a mask.”
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HE HAD ONE last duty-and it had always been a pleasant one: He called on Miss Dormin at the dress shop.
”You'll be pleased to know that the matter of the murders is coming to a head,” he said.
She gasped and shook her head admiringly. ”And there's something I want you to do,” he added. ”You must tell no one. Not even Dr. Halloran.”
”Is it important?”
He took her hand and pressed it. ”Oh, yes. It's a matter of life and death.”
He made his request and they talked earnestly for a long while. Then, after a squeeze, the patterer released his hold and said, ”Now, go.”
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”WE ARE READY to have a last meeting of the princ.i.p.als involved,” said Dunne, handing Captain Rossi a note with a list of names. It was a long list.
”My G.o.d, are you mad?” The police chief scanned the names on the note. ”They won't all come. And do we want want all these people? Besides, it will be Sunday.” all these people? Besides, it will be Sunday.”
The patterer soothed him. ”Oh, I think you'll find they'll make time if you tell them it's the governor's pleasure that they do. And that they'll meet our quarry. Finally.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE.
It is now rendered necessary that I give the facts facts-as far as I comprehend them myself.
-Edgar Allan Poe, ”The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845)
SO IT WAS THAT NICODEMUS DUNNE FOUND HIMSELF EXACTLY where his voyage of death and discovery had all started-was it really only a matter of weeks ago?-back in the same secluded room deep in the heart of the George Street barracks.
With him were familiar faces from that first meeting: Governor Darling, Colonel Shadforth and Captains Crotty and Rossi. Their ranks were swollen by the attendance, as desired, of lawyer William Charles Wentworth, Dr. Halloran, his fellow editor Edward Smith Hall and Dr. Owens. None of them commented on the patterer's changed status, from fugitive murder suspect to master of ceremonies. Rossi had evidently calmed those waters, just as he had briefed those new to the company on the bare bones of the crimes.
”We have until one o'clock this afternoon to put this tragic matter completely to rights,” Dunne began. He refused to respond to the questioning looks that greeted this mention of a time constraint.
Then he lobbed his first grenade, continuing quietly, ”In this affair, most of you have been suspects-” He raised a hand to quell the hubbub of angry dissent. ”All of these men have secrets that offer motives strong enough to kill for. Each could have killed at least one of our victims. And, collectively, almost all of you have also conspired to slay one of your fellows-perhaps even a second.” He ignored the renewed buzz of angry objections. ”You must indulge me, as we consider what we first learned about the murders, in order.
”The soldier outside the tavern? Well, if his had been the only murder, Captain Rossi's men and the army would probably have had to file away the facts of his strange wounds and the sugar in his mouth. The investigation would have gathered mildew and the letter to the governor, too, may well have gathered dust. For there were no real clues.” He paused. ”And, he was, after all, just a poor soldier.
”But the death of the New World New World printer, Abbot, taxed any element of coincidence. He had once been a member of the same regiment. He, too, was mutilated. There was another mysterious, wordy 'clue.' Two, in fact. And more sugar. printer, Abbot, taxed any element of coincidence. He had once been a member of the same regiment. He, too, was mutilated. There was another mysterious, wordy 'clue.' Two, in fact. And more sugar.
”The slaughterman's poisoning, although it did not include any physical violence, finally removed the possibility that the similarities between the deaths were mere chance. The poisoner's instructions were given in the backward-sloping, left-handed writing of the first letter-and the same regiment was on the march again. It was lightning striking the same place-a third time. No chance.” He shook his head dismissively.
”Then, the blacksmith's death in the Lumber Yard gave us las.h.i.+ngs by another left-hander and more slas.h.i.+ng, copying that done to the first victim. And more sugar-albeit dyed green. He was no 'Die Hard' veteran, but still there was was a military link, which turned out to be a revealing one and about which I will speak more fully in due course. a military link, which turned out to be a revealing one and about which I will speak more fully in due course.
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