Part 7 (1/2)

Lucius gulped his Chambertin nervously. ”It's still theoretical, Doctor, and is not accepted anywhere in the world as legal evidence, but...” He looked to Marcus, seemingly worried that his brother had cost him dessert. ”Oh, all right. Go ahead.”

Marcus spoke confidentially. ”It's called dactyloscopy.”

”Oh,” I said. ”You mean fingerprinting.”

”Yes,” Marcus replied, ”that's the colloquial term.”

”But-” Sara broke in. ”I mean no offense, Detective Sergeant, but dactyloscopy has been rejected by every police department in the world. Its scientific basis hasn't even been proven, and no actual case has ever been solved by using it.”

”I take no offense at that, Miss Howard,” Marcus answered. ”And I hope you you won't take any when I say that you're mistaken. The scientific basis has been proven, and several cases have been solved using the technique-though not in a part of the world that you're likely to have heard much about.” won't take any when I say that you're mistaken. The scientific basis has been proven, and several cases have been solved using the technique-though not in a part of the world that you're likely to have heard much about.”

”Moore,” Kreizler interrupted, his voice snapping a bit, ”I'm beginning to understand how you must often feel-once again, gentlemen and lady, I'm lost.”

Sara started to explain the subject to Laszlo, but after that last little quip of his I had to jump in and take over. Dactyloscopy, or fingerprinting (I explained in what I hoped was a very condescending voice), had been argued for decades as a method of identifying all human beings, criminals included. The scientific premise was that fingerprints do not change throughout a person's lifetime-but there were a great many anthropologists and physicians who didn't yet accept that fact, despite overwhelming supporting evidence and occasional practical demonstrations. In Argentina, for example-a place that, as Marcus Isaacson said, not many people in America or Europe thought much about (or of )-fingerprinting had gotten its first practical test when a provincial police officer in Buenos Aires named Vucetich used the method to solve a murder case that involved the brutal bludgeoning of two small children.

”And so,” Kreizler said, as our waiters appeared yet again, bearing pet.i.ts aspics de foie gras, pet.i.ts aspics de foie gras, ”I take it there is a general s.h.i.+ft away from Bertillon's system.” ”I take it there is a general s.h.i.+ft away from Bertillon's system.”

”Not yet,” Marcus answered. ”It's an ongoing fight. Even though the reliability of prints has been demonstrated, there's a great deal of resistance.”

”The important thing to remember,” Sara added-and how very satisfying, to see her her now lecturing Kreizler!-”is that fingerprints can show who has been in a given place. It's ideal for our-” She caught herself, and calmed. ”It has great potential.” now lecturing Kreizler!-”is that fingerprints can show who has been in a given place. It's ideal for our-” She caught herself, and calmed. ”It has great potential.”

”And how are the prints taken?” Kreizler asked.

”There are three basic methods,” Marcus answered. ”First, obviously, are visible prints-a hand that's been dipped in paint, blood, ink, anything like that, and has then touched something else. Then there are plastic prints, left when someone touches putty, clay, wet plaster, and so on. Last, and the most difficult, are latent prints. If you pick up that gla.s.s in front of you, Doctor, your fingers will leave a residue of perspiration and body oil in the pattern of your fingerprint. If I suspect that you might have done so”-Marcus removed two small vials from his pockets, one containing a gray-white powder and one a black substance of similar consistency-”I will dust with either aluminum powder”-he held up the gray-white vial-”or with finely ground carbon”-he held up the black. ”The choice depends on the color of the background object. White shows up against dark objects, black against light; either would be suitable for your gla.s.s. The powders are absorbed by the oils and perspiration, leaving a perfect image of your print.”

”Remarkable,” Kreizler said. ”But if it is now scientifically accepted that a human being's fingerprints never vary, how how can this not be admitted as legal evidence in court?” can this not be admitted as legal evidence in court?”

”Change isn't something most people enjoy, even if it's progressive change.” Marcus put the vials down on the table and smiled. ”But I'm sure you're aware of that, Dr. Kreizler.”

Kreizler nodded once in acknowledgment of this comment, then pushed his plate away and sat back again. ”Grateful as I am for all of your instructive words,” he said, ”I get the feeling, Detective Sergeant, that they have some more specific purpose.”

Marcus turned to Lucius yet again, but his brother only shrugged in resignation. With that, Marcus pulled something flat from the inner pocket of his jacket.

”Chances are,” he said, ”no coroner would notice or care if they happened on something like this today, much less three years ago.” He dropped the sheet-actually a photograph-on the table in front of us, and our three heads went close together to view it. It was a detail of something, several white objects-bones, I soon determined, but I couldn't be more specific.

”Fingers?” Sara wondered aloud.

”Fingers,” Kreizler answered.

”Specifically,” Marcus said, ”the fingers of Sofia Zweig's left hand. Note the nail on the tip of the thumb, the one you can see fully.” He took a magnifying lens from his pocket and handed it to us, then sat back to nibble foie gras. foie gras.

”It seems,” Kreizler mused as Sara picked up the lens, ”bruised. At least, there is discoloration of some kind.”

Marcus looked at Sara. ”Miss Howard?”

She put the lens before her face, and brought the photograph closer. Her eyes struggled to focus, and then went wide in discovery. ”I see...”

”See what?” I said, squirming like a four-year-old.

As Laszlo looked over Sara's shoulder, his expression became even more astounded and impressed than hers. ”Good lord, you don't mean-”

”What, what, what?” I said, and Sara finally handed me the gla.s.s and the picture. I followed instructions and examined the nail at the tip of the thumb. Without the gla.s.s it looked, as Kreizler had said, discolored: Magnified, it clearly bore the mark of what I knew to be a fingerprint, left in some kind of dark substance. I was dumb with surprise.

”It's a very lucky chance,” Marcus said. ”Though partial, it's sufficient for identification. Somehow, it managed to survive both the coroner and the mortician. The substance is blood, by the way. Probably the girl's own, or her brother's. The print, however, is too large to be either of theirs. The coffin has preserved the stain extremely well-and now we have a permanent record of it.”

Kreizler looked up, as close to beaming as he was likely to get. ”My dear Detective Sergeant, this is almost as impressive as it is unexpected!”

Marcus looked away, smiling self-consciously, as Lucius piped up in the same worried tone. ”Please remember, Doctor, that it has no legal or forensic significance. It's a clue, and could be used for investigative purposes, nothing else.”

”And nothing else, Detective Sergeant, is needed. Except, possibly”-Laszlo clapped his hands twice and the waiters reappeared-”dessert. Which you gentlemen have thoroughly earned.” The waiters took away our last dinner dishes and returned with Alliance pears: steeped in wine, deep-fried, powdered with sugar, and smothered in apricot sauce. I thought Lucius would have an attack when he saw them. Kreizler kept his eyes on the two brothers. ”This is truly commendable work. But I'm afraid, gentlemen, that you have undertaken it under slightly...false premises. For which I apologize.”

We then explained our activities fully to the Isaacsons, as we consumed the pears and some delicious pet.i.ts fours pet.i.ts fours that followed. Nothing was left out of our account: the condition of Giorgio Santorelli's body, the troubles with Flynn and Connor, our meeting with Roosevelt, and Sara's conversation with Mrs. Santorelli were all discussed in detail. Nor did any of us try to sugarcoat the issue-the person we were hunting, Kreizler said, might be unconsciously urging us to find him, but his conscious thoughts were fixed on violence, and if we got too close that violence might easily spill over onto us. The warning did give Marcus and Lucius some little pause, as did the thought that our business would be undertaken in secret and disavowed by all city officials if discovered. But both men's overarching reaction to the prospect was excitement. Any good detective would have felt the same, for it was the chance of a lifetime: to try new techniques, to operate outside the stifling pressures of departmental bureaucracy, and to make one's name if the affair were concluded successfully. that followed. Nothing was left out of our account: the condition of Giorgio Santorelli's body, the troubles with Flynn and Connor, our meeting with Roosevelt, and Sara's conversation with Mrs. Santorelli were all discussed in detail. Nor did any of us try to sugarcoat the issue-the person we were hunting, Kreizler said, might be unconsciously urging us to find him, but his conscious thoughts were fixed on violence, and if we got too close that violence might easily spill over onto us. The warning did give Marcus and Lucius some little pause, as did the thought that our business would be undertaken in secret and disavowed by all city officials if discovered. But both men's overarching reaction to the prospect was excitement. Any good detective would have felt the same, for it was the chance of a lifetime: to try new techniques, to operate outside the stifling pressures of departmental bureaucracy, and to make one's name if the affair were concluded successfully.

And, I must confess, after the meal we'd just eaten and the wine that had accompanied it, such a conclusion seemed somewhat inevitable. Whatever reservations Kreizler, Sara, and I had had about the Isaacsons' peculiar personal behavior, their work far outweighed such considerations: in the s.p.a.ce of a day, we'd been given a general idea of our murderer's physical stature and weapon of choice, as well as a permanent image of one physical attribute that might ultimately prove his undoing. Add to all this the fruit of Sara's initiative-an initial impression of what the killer's victims had in common-and success seemed, to a man in my drunken state, well within our grasp.

Yet it also seemed to me that my own part in this stage of the work had been too minor. I had made no inauguratory contribution, except to escort Sara earlier that day; and as we fairly well carried Lucius Isaacson to a cab, the clock in Del's having long since tolled two, I combed my rather fuzzy mind for a way to right that situation. What I came up with was equally fuzzy: after getting Sara and Kreizler a hansom and saying good night to them (he would drop her off at Gramercy Park), I turned south and made for Paresis Hall.

CHAPTER 11.

Knowing that I would need to be on my toes once I reached the hall, I decided to walk the mile or so to Cooper Square and let the cold air sober me up a bit. Broadway was nearly deserted, except for the occasional group of young men in white uniforms who were shoveling snow into large wagons. This was the private army of Colonel Waring, the street-cleaning genius who had tidied up Providence, Rhode Island, and then been imported to work the same magic in New York. Waring's boys were unquestionably efficient-the amount of snow, horse manure, and general garbage on the streets had declined sharply since their advent-but their uniforms apparently made them think that they had some sort of enforcement status. Every so often a kid of about fourteen, dressed in one of Waring's white tunics and helmets, would catch a less than stellar citizen throwing refuse carelessly onto the street and try to make an arrest. It was impossible to convince these zealots that they had no such authority, and the incidents continued. Sometimes they ended in violence, a record of which the boys were proud-and one which made me cautious as I pa.s.sed them that night. My gait must have given away my condition, however, for as I walked by several teams of broom- and shovel-wielding vigilantes, they took my measure suspiciously, making it clear that if I wanted to soil the streets, I'd better do it in some other town.

By the time I reached Cooper Square I was feeling fairly alert and mighty cold. As I pa.s.sed the big, brown ma.s.s of Cooper Union I began to think of the large gla.s.s of brandy I intended to order at Paresis Hall; I was thus caught thoroughly off guard when a workmen's truck, bearing the legend GENOVESE & SONS-IRON WORKS-BKLYN., N.Y GENOVESE & SONS-IRON WORKS-BKLYN., N.Y., came careening around the north end of Cooper Square Park behind a huffing gray horse that looked like he'd rather be anywhere than out on such a night. The truck ground to a halt, and four toughs in miner's caps got out of the back, rus.h.i.+ng into the park. They soon reappeared, dragging two expensively dressed men.

”Filthy f.a.gs!” one of the toughs shouted, catching the first man a nice blow across the face with what appeared to be a piece of pipe. Blood came instantly from the man's nose and mouth, spattering across his clothes and onto the snow. ”Get off the streets, if you want to b.u.g.g.e.r each other!”

Two of the other amba.s.sadors from Brooklyn held the second man, who appeared older than the first, while a third put his face close. ”Like to f.u.c.k boys, do you?”

”I'm sorry, but you're really not my sort,” the man answered, with a composure that made me think this had happened to him before. ”I like young men who bathe.” That one cost him three solid blows to the stomach, after which he doubled over and retched onto the frozen ground.

It was one of those moments for fast thinking: I could jump in and get my my head cracked, or I could- head cracked, or I could- ”Hey!” I shouted at the toughs, and they turned their cold-blooded stares on me. ”You boys'd better watch it-there's half a dozen cops on their way, saying no guineas from Brooklyn better start anything in the Fifteenth Precinct!”

”Oh, there are, eh?” said the tough who seemed to be the leader, as he moved back to the truck. ”And which way're they coming from?”

”Right down Broadway!” I said, jerking a thumb behind me.

”Come on, boys!” said the tough. ”Let's settle some mick has.h.!.+” That brought shouts and cheers from the other three as they piled into the truck and headed up Broadway, asking if I wanted to come along but not waiting for an answer.

I moved over to the two injured men, but could only say, ”Do you need-” before they ran off in full flight, the older man clutching his ribs and moving with difficulty. I realized that when the toughs failed to find the cops, they'd probably return for me, and I therefore moved quickly across the Bowery under the tracks of the Third Avenue Elevated to Biff Ellison's place.

Paresis Hall's electric sign was still burning bright at close to three in the morning. The joint had taken its name from a patent medicine that advertised in dive toilets, promising protection and relief from the more serious social diseases. The windows of the Hall were shaded, and honest citizens of the neighborhood were grateful for that fact. Inside the busy doorway-around which stood a wide range of effeminate men and boys, all of them attempting to drum up business with entering and departing customers-was a long, bra.s.s-railed bar, along with a large number of round wooden tables and simple chairs of the sort that were easily broken in fights and easily replaced afterwards. A rough stage had been built at the far end of the long, high-ceilinged room, on which more boys and men in various stages of female dress cavorted to lively yet discordant music provided by a piano, clarinet, and violin.

The essential purpose of Paresis Hall was to arrange affairs between customers and the various types of prost.i.tutes who worked there. This second group included everything from youths like Giorgio Santorelli to h.o.m.os.e.xuals who did not favor women's clothes to the occasional bona fide female, who hung about in the hope that some one of the souls who wandered in would rediscover his heteros.e.xuality to her profit. Most of the a.s.signations worked out in the Hall took place at cheap hotels in the neighborhood, though the second floor had a dozen or so rooms out of which young boys who particularly pleased Ellison were allowed to conduct their business.