"In fact, I do." Merylo pulled a folded report out of his coat pocket. "Know much about the Bertillon department?"
"That's, uh, French, isn't it?"
"Well, it's named for a French guy. Invented what we call anthropometry. A way of taking precise measurements of a criminal's features, so they can be used later to identify him. He came up with a lot of other stuff we use every day-like the mug shot. Using plaster to preserve footprints. Ballistics. Showed us how science could be used to solve crimes."
"Sounds like a smart guy. For a frog."
"He got the Dreyfus case totally wrong, but who hasn't made a mistake at one time or other?"
Zalewski looked puzzled. "But how's this help us? We haven't got a footprint. Or a bullet."
"True. But we do have hands. And the hands have fingerprints. You know what they are, right?"
"Course I do. Did that Bertillon guy discover those, too?"
"No, but he showed us how to use them. Our Bertillon department has a pretty substantial collection of them. Including one for a Hungarian mug named Edward W. Andrassy." Merylo paused. "Also known to you as the first victim."
Zalewski's eyes bugged. "What? How'd you figure that out?"
"Andrassy was picked up in 1931 for carrying a concealed. They printed him. Took a mug shot, too. Course, his face is pretty messed up now. But it's definitely him."
"Was he in the mob?"
"Nah. Strictly small potatoes. Long record of petty offenses. Gambler. Drunk. Good-looking-people say he was popular with the ladies, go figure. I never could understand what dames go for. He liked to hang out in some of those sleazy joints on Rowdy Row. Third District. No indication that he ever did anything big time."
"Then why would anyone want to kill him? Like that."
"I'm just guessing, but the mob boys have been known to go crazy violent when they want to send a message. We know Andrassy gambled, and we know that every gambler eventually has some bad luck. Maybe he needed money. Maybe he made the mistake of borrowing from the mob. Maybe he couldn't pay it back."
"So they whacked off his head?"
"Or maybe this big lover boy got involved with some dame he shouldn't. Maybe some hood's moll. Might explain why we have two victims. Maybe there was a love triangle."
"So they whacked off his head."
Merylo swallowed the last of his third dog. "It's not impossible. I went out to his wife's place last night. She said there were some suspicious characters hanging around about two weeks ago. She didn't know who they were and her loving hubby wouldn't tell her."
"Mobsters."
"We shouldn't jump to any conclusions. But it's possible. Wife told me something else. She said she'd seen one of her neighbors in the window several times with a pair of binoculars. Pointed toward Jackass Hill."
"The killer!"
"I hoped. I went over and talked to the guy." He sighed. "Turned out he's got a thing going with a married dame on the other side of the Run. Whenever her husband leaves, she waves this white handkerchief. Lover boy sees it in his binos and skedaddles across the Run to give her a good one."
"Ouch. Not the killer."
"Don't think so. More like a homicide victim in waiting."
Zalewski's eyes lit up. "What about the other corpse? The big guy. Did you print him?"
"Couldn't. Body has decomposed too severely. Apparently he's been dead a lot longer than Andrassy."
"I bet he was a punk thug, too."
"Maybe. It's something to check out."
Zalewski sat up, his eyes bright. "You've done a lot of work. I hadn't heard any of this."
"No one has. No point."
"But you've got a real lead!"
"Did you see the papers after the news of the murders broke? They went gaga with this stuff. The Plain Dealer called it 'the most bizarre double murder in Cleveland history.' The
Press
ran front-page pictures of the boys and the
News
said it was 'vengeance for a frustrated love affair'-even though they had no evidence at all to back up their glamorous story. The newsboys are going to be all over this any day Eliot Ness isn't smiling for the cameras. If we announce that we have leads, they'll expect us to have a killer by Tuesday. I'm going to lay low. Not a good idea to stir things up till you've got something solid."
"I guess not."
Merylo began packing away the picnic. "I asked if you were sure you wanted to be my partner. For a reason. There's tons of work to be done, and whether I like it or not, I know I can't do it all. We've got to blanket the area, the homes, the factories, the shanties. Everything you see around you now. Talk to everyone. Especially in Andrassy's neighborhood. Cleveland 's got the largest Hungarian population outside of Budapest -did you know that? We're gonna talk to every one of them. Maybe someone saw something suspicious. Maybe someone carrying a large heavy bundle. Who knows what it might be? But this guy lugged two corpses-and their heads-all the way out here and down the gully. Surely someone saw something." He paused, giving Zalewski a steely eye. "We're going to find that someone."
"Understood." Zalewski helped him put away the condiments. "You know... I think I'm going to like working for you."
Merylo grunted his reply.
Zalewski couldn't let it go. "We're gonna catch this guy, aren't we?"
Merylo looked right into his eyes. "You bet we are. You and me, buddy. He's as good as nailed."
12
Ness stared at the barnlike structure known to the underworld as The Thomas Club. Most of the building still looked like a warehouse, and a dilapidated one at that, but the front facade had been redressed in a swingtown New Orleans style. Still looked tacky to Ness, especially with all the windows draped to ensure that no one could see inside. But whether it appealed to him or not, he knew it was one of the most notorious gambling dens in the county.
On the surface, The Thomas Club appeared to be an ordinary nightspot for drinking and dancing. But everyone for miles around knew it was also one of the largest gambling parlors in the city, replete with table games and slot machines and horse rooms-off-track betting arenas. The Club was conveniently located in Newburgh Heights, which was just outside the city limits and thus beyond the jurisdiction of city police officers. Given that Matowitz couldn't touch it-and the corrupt county sheriff Potts, recently removed from office thanks to Ness, wouldn't-it had thrived for more than five years. Some of Cleveland 's most prominent citizens frequented the place. They felt safe here, because the law couldn't touch them.
That would end tonight.
Over his shoulder, Ness eyed Chief Matowitz, huddled behind him. He seemed a good deal more comfortable than he had been the last time they went out on a raid. Perhaps it was because, on Ness 's advice, he'd bought himself a better coat. But Ness suspected it had more to do with the lead story on the front page of the
Plain Dealer
the night after the raid, a story that prominently featured Matowitz's "pivotal" role. Overnight, George Matowitz had been transformed from uninspiring civil servant limping toward retirement to a local celebrity.
"Appreciate your presence here tonight," Ness whispered. "Especially since we're outside your jurisdiction."
They were huddled on the opposite side of a dirt road, Ness, Matowitz, and Chamberlin, sheltered from the prying eyes of the arriving clientele by deep shadows and thick bramble. "Always willing to loan some of my boys out to the city's safety director. You'll have to make the arrests, though."
"With pleasure."
" 'Bout time to go?"
Ness shook his head. "Few more minutes. Waiting for those men you loaned me to get into position."
"Right. I remember." Matowitz checked his watch. "Nice article in the paper."
"That it was."
"Haven't seen such favorable press in twenty-one years on the job."
"Well, the newspaper boys have to be courted a little. Like a reluctant spinster at a church social."
Matowitz pursed his lips. "You're pretty good at that sort of thing."
"It's part of my job."
"Is that why you keep going out on these late-night raids? Because just between you and me, I think illegal hooch and gambling are probably the least of Cleveland 's problems right now."
"I treat all parts of my job equally," Ness said, bristling only slightly. "But the truth is those newspapers are never going to get very worked up about traffic safety. Can you imagine tomorrow's headlines being SAFETY DIRECTOR BUYS 500 TRAFFIC LIGHTS? Not likely. But midnight raids capture the public's imagination. And the support of the public is key to capturing the support of the city council. They control my funding, as my associate continually reminds me."
Chamberlin doffed an imaginary hat in Ness's direction.
"So," Ness concluded, "think of the midnight hooch and horse raids as the part of my job that pays for the rest of it."
They watched as a man in a full tuxedo and top hat stepped out of a limousine. He was a prominent local banker and his date, whom Ness knew for a fact was not his wife, wore a red beaded gown and a near endless strand of pearls.
"Is that who I think it is?" Matowitz said, blinking.
"It is," Ness replied.
Matowitz twisted his neck from side to side. "I hope your tip is correct, Ness. 'Cause if you're wrong, we're gonna be in a big mess of trouble."
"I'm not wrong."
"He has half the politicians in Ohio in his hip pocket."
"That's the rumor."
"And he gambles?"
"High-roller gambling."
"This joint owned by Frescone?"
"He's one of several co-owners, along with Shimmy Patton and some of the other bigshots in the Mayfield Road Mob. They control the flow of illegal liquor in these parts."
Matowitz whistled. "Ness-you ever consider maybe starting with the little fish and working your way up?"
The boyish grin crept across Ness's face. "You cut off the head, the serpent dies." He turned toward Chamberlin. "We sure Frescone's inside?"
"Absolutely," his lanky assistant replied, adjusting the lay of his wire-rims. "Saw him go in myself about an hour ago. We've got all the exits-all the sides of the building-covered."
"Maybe he's got a secret exit," Matowitz suggested. "A tunnel or something."
"This club's built on solid bedrock," Chamberlin informed him. "You'd need dynamite to dig a hole in it. And you'd take down the building in the process."
"Still-"
Chamberlin shook his head. "He's inside. Guarantee it."
"Well then," Ness said, rubbing his hands together with relish. "What are we waiting for?"
He lifted his metal whistle to his lips and blew as hard as he could. The shrill alarm permeated the night air.
Ness and his men raced across the street. The three plainclothes officers Matowitz had contributed brought out their battering rams and started working on the front door.
It didn't break. Didn't even budge.
"Toughest wood in the history of creation," Ness murmured. "Try it again, boys."
The three men battered away at the door. They made no progress.
Ness waved them aside and took a closer look. The battering ram had cracked through the exterior wooden doors-but they were reinforced by two solid steel doors.
"That's disappointing," Ness said, with the same inflection other people might give a swear word.
Matowitz's brow creased. "What's going to happen when my men go in through that skylight?"
"They'll be on their own." Ness snapped his fingers. "Men, keep pounding at that door. Bob?"
"Yes, sir?" Chamberlin answered.
"Tell the men on the roof not to go in till they hear me whistle again. From the inside."
"Got it." Chamberlin sprinted around the corner of the building until he reached the ladder.
He returned less than a minute later.
"Not to worry," he said, panting and frowning at the same time. "They can't get in, either."
"What?"
"Seems the skylight has been reinforced. They can't make any more progress than we have."
Ness bit his bottom lip and stared at three men still futilely pounding away at a steel surface that would never give in. At least not unless they used something a great deal stronger than what they had.
"You want them to keep poundin'?" Matowitz asked. "The people inside must've heard it, unless they're all stone deaf."
"Which they're not." Ness glanced at his watch. Four minutes since they started the assault. More than enough time to hide anything.
The men were still beating away at the steel doors when a sliding panel at eye level suddenly opened, revealing a pair of eyes on the other side.
"You knocked?"
Ness stepped forward, showing his badge. "I'm Eliot Ness, safety director. I want this door open. Now."
The eyes disappeared for a moment. Ness heard a soft-spoken word of assent in a voice he thought he recognized. A moment later, he saw one of the heavy metal doors swing open on creaking hinges.
A butler in full evening dress stood on the other side. "You may enter."
The Thomas Club was packed with even more people than Ness had imagined. For the most part, they were well dressed and obviously affluent. The dance floor was filled and a small jazz quartet was playing "Begin the Beguine." The clientele appeared absorbed in themselves and barely noticed the arrival of the newly appointed safety director. Liquor was everywhere, but Ness knew the club had a license and occasionally bought some legal liquor so he would never be able to prove these particular drinks were rotten.
There was not the slightest trace of any gambling or gambling equipment. No sign that it had ever been here at any time.
"Bob, check the kitchen."
Chamberlin pushed his way through the crowd.