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.

But what was more distinctive about the Hall, along with only a few other such places in town, was a near total lack of the secretiveness that usually marked h.o.m.os.e.xual dealings in the city. Released from the need to be in any way careful, Ellison's patrons cavorted raucously and spent freely, and the Hall did enormous business. In the end, however, neither the scale nor the unusualness of its operations could keep it from being at heart like any other dive: sordid, smoky, and thoroughly disheartening.

I hadn't been inside the door thirty seconds before there was a small but strong arm around my torso and a cold piece of metal at my throat. The sudden aroma of lilac alerted me to Ellison's presence in the general area behind me; and I a.s.sumed that the metal I felt was the signature weapon of one of Biff's cronies, Razor Riley. Riley was a skinny, dangerous little miscreant from h.e.l.l's Kitchen who, though a Gopher, occasionally ran with and worked for Ellison, whose s.e.xual preferences he shared.

"I thought Kelly and me made ourselves pretty clear the other day, Moore," Ellison boomed. I still couldn't see him. "You ain't tying me to the Santorelli business. You gutsy or just crazy coming in here like this?"

"Neither, Biff," I said, as clearly as extreme fear would allow: Riley was notoriously fond of cutting people up. "I just wanted you to know that I did you a good turn."

Ellison laughed. "You, scribbler? What could you do for me?" At that he came around to face me, his ridiculous checked suit and gray bowler all reeking of cologne. He held a long, thin cigar in one beefy hand. scribbler? What could you do for me?" At that he came around to face me, his ridiculous checked suit and gray bowler all reeking of cologne. He held a long, thin cigar in one beefy hand.

"I told the commissioner you didn't have anything to do with it," I gasped.

He came close, his thick lips parting to release the stench of bad whiskey. "Yeah?" he said, his little eyes gleaming. "And did you convince him?"

"Sure," I said.

"Oh? How?"

"Simple. I told him it wasn't your style."

Ellison had to pause as the ma.s.s of cells that, in his case, pa.s.sed for a brain mulled this over. Then he smiled. "Say-you're right, Moore. It ain't ain't my style! Well, whattaya know-let 'im go, Razor." my style! Well, whattaya know-let 'im go, Razor."

At that the several employees and customers who had gathered to see if there would be bloodshed dispersed in disappointment. I turned to the wiry figure of Razor Riley and watched as he folded his favorite weapon, pocketed it, and then smoothed his waxed mustache. He put his hands on his hips, ready to fight-but I just straightened my white tie and neatened my cuffs.

"Try milk, Riley," I said. "I hear it helps the bones grow."

Riley went for his pocket again, but Ellison laughed and restrained him with an effusive hug. "Aw, that's all right, Razor, let the guy crack wise, it ain't gonna hurt you." Then he turned to me and put an arm around my neck. "Come on, Moore, I'll buy you a drink. And you can tell me how come it is you turned into my pal all of a sudden."

We stood at the bar, and I could see all the sad business of the Hall reflected in a large mirror that ran along the wall behind the endless bottles of bad liquor. Remembering exactly who and what I was dealing with, I abandoned the cherished idea of a brandy (besides being of shockingly poor quality, it was likely to be laced with any combination of camphor, benzine, cocaine shavings, and chloral hydrate) and ordered a beer. The swill I was given may even have been been beer, too, at some point in its existence. As I took a sip, one of the chanteuses on the stage at the other end of the Hall began to whine: beer, too, at some point in its existence. As I took a sip, one of the chanteuses on the stage at the other end of the Hall began to whine: .

There's a name that's never spoken, There's a name that's never spoken,And a mother's heart half broken,There is just another missing from the old home, that's all...

Ellison took a gla.s.s of whiskey, then turned when a boy-wh.o.r.e patted his rump. Biff tweaked the youth's cheek roughly.

"Well, Moore?" he said, staring into the boy's painted eyes. "Why the good turn? Don't tell me you'd like to sample the wares down here."

"No, not tonight, Biff," I said. "What I thought was that maybe since I helped you out with the cops, you might be willing to share some information-you know, give me a hand with the story, that kind of thing."

He eyed me up and down as the boy-wh.o.r.e disappeared into the noisy throng. "Since when does the G.o.d-almighty New York Times New York Times run stories like that? And where the h.e.l.l you been tonight, anyway, a funeral?" run stories like that? And where the h.e.l.l you been tonight, anyway, a funeral?"

"The opera," I answered. "And the Times Times isn't the only paper in town." isn't the only paper in town."

"Yeah?" He didn't sound convinced. "Well, I don't know nothing about it, Moore. Gloria, she used to be okay. Really. h.e.l.l, I let her use one of the rooms upstairs, even. But she got-troublesome. Starts asking for a bigger cut, starts telling the other girls they ought to ask for one, too. So, a couple a nights ago, I says-Gloria, keep it up and you're out on your pretty little a.s.s. Then she plays like she'll make nice, but I don't trust her no more. I was gonna get rid of her-not in any permanent meaning of the word, right?-but just kick her out, let her work the streets a couple a weeks and see how she liked it. And then-this." He gulped whiskey and blew cigar smoke. "The little guttersnipe had it coming, Moore."

I waited a moment for him to go on; but his attention was distracted by two young men in stockings and garters who were shouting threats at each other out on the dance floor. Knives soon appeared. Ellison chuckled at the sight, and then offered his a.s.sessment: "You two b.i.t.c.hes cut each other up you won't be no good to n.o.body!"

"Biff?" I said eventually. "So that's all you can tell me?"

"That's all," he answered with a nod. "Now, how about you get outta here before there's trouble?"

"Why? You hiding something? Upstairs, maybe?"

"No, I ain't hiding anything," he answered, annoyed. "I just don't like reporters in my place. And my customers don't like it, neither. Some of 'em are respectable boys, you know-got families and positions to consider."

"Then maybe you'll let me take a look at the room Gior-Gloria used. Just to convince me you're square." used. Just to convince me you're square."

Ellison sighed, leaning back on the bar. "Don't push it, Moore."

"Five minutes," I answered.

He considered it and nodded. "Five minutes. But don't talk to n.o.body. Third door on your left, when you get up the stairs." I started to move away. "Hey." As I turned back, he handed me my beer. "Don't abuse my hospitality, pal."

I nodded and took the beer, then pushed through the crowd to a staircase at the back of the Hall. Several boys and men approached me, seeing the evening suit and smelling money. They propositioned me with every conceivable line, some running their hands along my chest and thighs. But I put a good grip on my billfold and stayed on course to the staircase, trying to keep the physically repellant suggestions with which I was peppered from registering in my mind. As I pa.s.sed the stage, the droning singer-a fat, middle-aged man wearing heavy facial powder, lip rouge, and a top hat-repeated the refrain: .

Yes, there is still a mem'ry living, Yes, there is still a mem'ry living,There's a father unforgiving,And a picture that is turn-ed to the wall!

The inside of the staircase was unlit, but the glow of the Hall crept in enough to let me see where I was going. The old, colorless paint on the walls was peeling badly, and as I mounted the first step I heard a grunting sound coming from behind me. Looking into a dark recess on the other side of the doorway, I saw the faint outlines of a youth, his face shoved up against the wall, and another, an older man, who was pressing against the youth's naked backside. With a shudder that made me trip I turned away and hurried up the stairs, pausing once I was in the bare second-floor hall to take a big belt of beer.

Calming a bit, but beginning to wonder about the wisdom of my initiative, I found the third door on the left: a thin, simple wooden job, just like all the others in the hallway. I grabbed the k.n.o.b, but then thought to knock. I was surprised when a boy's voice said: "Who is it?"

I opened the door slowly. There was nothing in the room but an old bed and a night table next to it. The paint on the walls was a red that had turned brown, and it was peeling in the corners. There was a small window that looked out on the blank brick wall of the building next door, across about ten feet of alley s.p.a.ce.

On the bed sat a flaxen-haired kid, maybe fifteen, his face painted much as Giorgio Santorelli's had been. He wore a sheer linen s.h.i.+rt with lace cuffs and collar, and some theatrical tights. The makeup around his eyes was smudged-he'd been crying.

"I'm not working right now," he said, straining to reach a falsetto pitch. "Maybe you could come back in an hour or so."

"That's all right," I said, "I'm not-"

"I said I'm not working!" the young man shouted, losing the falsetto altogether. "Oh, G.o.d, get out, can't you see I'm upset?"

He broke down in tears, clutching at his face, and I stood by the door, suddenly noticing that it felt very warm in the room. I watched the boy for a few minutes, and then something occurred to me: "You knew Gloria," I said.

The boy sniffed and wiped carefully at his eyes. "Yes. I knew her. Oh, my face-please go away."

"No, you don't understand. I'm trying to find out who killed him-her."

The boy looked up at me plaintively. "Are you a cop?"

"No, a reporter."

"A reporter?" He looked back at the floor, wiped his eyes again, and chuckled humorlessly. "Well, I've got a h.e.l.l of a story for you." He stared out of the window forlornly. "Whoever it was that they found down on that bridge-it couldn't have been Gloria."

"Wasn't Gloria?" The rising temperature in the room was making me thirsty, and I took another big swig of beer. "What makes you think so?"