Secret of the White Rose (21 page)

“Simon Ziele—glad you’re back. It’s been a dog’s age, hasn’t it? You ought to come around more often. I could’ve supplied you with something that might’ve chased off whoever took a piece out of you.” He gave a pointed look at my swollen eye and bruised face, even more painful now that the doctor’s sedative had worn off.

But I preferred not to carry a gun except in those rare instances where it was absolutely necessary. I didn’t want to be tempted to use it.

“I’m all right, Sully,” I said. “Besides, I hear you have a piece here in the shop that the captain and I are very interested in.”

Sully’s eyes, their color a match for the dark blue nickel guns on the counter in front of him, glinted with excitement. “I do.” He pulled out a wooden box, which he placed on top of the glass display case.

“Yesterday the captain brought me a bullet from a murder weapon.”

“That’s right.” Mulvaney nodded. “I have it here.” He once again brought out the small brass ball that had taken Judge Porter’s life.

Sully picked up the bullet and stared at it—a tiny thing compared to his broad fingers. “It’s a .32-caliber bullet, obviously. And when I looked at these lands and grooves,” he said, “I immediately suspected that it came from a Browning automatic pistol.” He looked up. “You’re aware that it’s possible these days to match an individual bullet to the gun that fired it?”

“We are,” I said. “Ever since Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes himself showed us how.”

Years ago, Holmes had famously called a gunsmith into the courtroom to test-fire an alleged murder weapon. He then used a magnifying glass to compare the markings on the test-fired bullet to the bullet from the victim. He was satisfied. And after he showed the jury, they were convinced as well: they promptly convicted the defendant.

“So you’re familiar with the method, too,” Sully said with approval. “I test-fired an ordinary 1900 Browning automatic pistol yesterday for the captain. We examined the bullets afterward and they were similar—enough so that I would have told you with certainty that your murder weapon was a Browning pistol. But the marks weren’t perfect enough to tell us that it was the same Browning model that had fired this bullet.” He held up the brass slug once again, then tapped his head with his finger. “That’s when something occurred to me. A similar Browning pistol was returned to the shop only yesterday. And I thought, why not test it out to see if the marks were closer? Sure enough, that Browning made marks identical to the bullet that killed your man. We’re talking dumb luck. To identify the exact Browning model would have been the best we could have hoped for, but this…” he said, his voice trailing off.

He looked at me strangely. “Perhaps you’d like to see for yourself?”

I nodded to encourage him.

He smiled with anticipation as he opened the wooden box. Nestled inside was a small six-inch-long pistol, silver-colored, with a double-barreled silhouette and humpback shape. He looked at it with obvious satisfaction. “She’s a real beauty: there aren’t many of these nickel ones in circulation. More commonly they are blued.” He picked it up. “And she weighs under a pound.”

Watching him handle the gun with his bare fingers, I shot a look of concern at Mulvaney.

“I dusted it for prints personally when I first saw it yesterday,” he said. “There were none. It had been wiped clean—though we don’t know whether the killer was trying to avoid detection or was just cleaning his gun.”

Sully looked at me. “Ready to test-fire?” He held an extremely thick wad of cotton in one hand, the Browning pistol in the other. He placed the cotton in a wooden crate, loaded the pistol with a new brass .32-caliber bullet, and fired. The loud crack reverberated in my ears for several seconds.

He lifted out the wad of cotton and passed it to me. Picking up the tiny brass bullet, I placed it next to our original, found at Judge Porter’s murder scene—and the magnifying glass that Sully provided showed the truth, even to my swollen eyes: we now had in our possession three bullets with identical markings. There seemed little doubt that the shiny nickel pistol in Sully’s hand was our murder weapon.

“Well, then,” I said, placing the bullet on the glass counter. “We’ve found our murder weapon. What can you tell me about its owner?”

Sully gave me a sly look. “Assuming, of course, that its buyer and eventual user are the same.”

“Assuming that, yes.”

Sully was one of the sharper informants I’d ever encountered. I supposed that in his line of work, he had to be.

Mulvaney and I followed him as he crossed the room to a small walnut secretary where he kept a ledger. He pulled it out and showed it to us; I was pleased to see that he kept notes organized by weapon, not by customer.

“See here.” He pointed to a notation for a 1900 nickel Browning. “The gun came into my shop on Monday, September tenth, from my usual distributor. I cleaned and tested it; then it sat until a customer came in to inspect it on Thursday, October fourth. He was pleased, and purchased it the following day: October fifth. Then yesterday—Wednesday, the twenty-fourth—he returned to my shop. He complained about the recoil, said it was faulty.” He sighed. “I knew he was lying to me; this little Browning is one of the finest that’s ever come into my shop. And I normally don’t take a return after seven days have passed. But in this case, I refunded his money and took the gun back—simply because I liked the pistol so much. I knew I’d have no difficulty finding a new owner—one who’d appreciate it.”

“Did he give a name or address?” I asked.

“No address, but he gave his name,” Sully replied. “Didn’t the captain tell you?”

I gave Mulvaney a questioning look.

“You’ll do better to ask for more information about what the buyer looked like,” he said, his voice almost a growl.

“Why?” I asked, now suspicious.

Sully shrugged. “I can only tell you what I told the captain yesterday. He was a tall man with broad features. White-blond hair. He looked Scandinavian to me; my best guess was Swedish, based on his accent. But I’m no expert.”

I immediately thought of our elevator attendant at the Breslin Hotel.

“A woman waited for him outside,” he continued. “I didn’t get a good look at her, but she was short. Petite, if we want to be polite. And exotic looking.”

“Chinese?” I asked, for Mei Lin immediately sprang to mind.

“I dunno. Didn’t get a good enough look.”

“And you got his name?” I repeated the question to Sully and held my breath with anticipation.

But some sixth sense gave me his answer before he said the words.

“It was Sanders. He said his name was Leroy Sanders. See?” Sully pointed with heavily blue-stained fingertips to a different place in his ledger. “I made him sign.”

I traced the signature lightly with my own finger. And I’d need no handwriting expert to tell me what I clearly saw with my own eyes: the signature perfectly mirrored the one made in the hotel register. The signer at the Breslin—and the purchaser of this Browning pistol—were one and the same.

CHAPTER 15

Holding Cell at the Tombs, Centre Street. 12:30
P.M.

The main holding cell on the first floor of the Tombs was typically filled with a motley assortment of drunkards and thieves, but today it was filled to capacity with the thirty-some men—all anarchists—that Mulvaney had rounded up at the beer hall last night following my assault.

The junior officer in charge had been expecting me.

“You came down quicker than we thought,” he said with a grin. “No rush to press charges if you’d like to keep them in the cooler a bit longer.”

“Not that some of them don’t deserve a stay at the Tombs, but I’m hoping you have one man in particular,” I said. “Tall and broad shouldered with white-blond hair and other Scandinavian features. Possibly a Swedish accent.”

“I’ll check,” he said, leaping to his feet. “Meanwhile, why don’t you and the captain make yourselves comfortable in the viewing room.”

The viewing room was a chamber just off the main hallway, characterized by a small slit in the wall that allowed a view of the holding room while still providing some measure of privacy as the potential convicts were paraded in front of it.

Mulvaney, keeping his frustration barely in check, exclaimed out loud, “It makes no sense. Who is this Swedish man who is killing judges in the name of Leroy Sanders?”

“I agree. Leroy Sanders must be the key. We find out who he is and we’re on our way to solving these murders,” I said. I was about to continue but was interrupted by the officer from the Tombs. “Here they are,” he said.

A lineup of six blond men passed in front of the window, standing alternately face forward, face left, and finally face right.

“Second from the left was one of my attackers last night,” I said to the officer, pointing out the stocky blond who had carried the bully stick. “You can book him formally on charges of assault. But he’s not the man we’re looking for.”

“We have a few more in the pen who may interest you,” the officer replied. He stepped outside to direct those men handling the lineup. Five of the men followed one policeman to the left to be released; my attacker was led to the right for booking.

A parade of several more lineups passed in front of me, and I was able to identify Savvas and the swarthy man with sour breath as my other attackers. But I saw no sign of the elevator operator from the Breslin Hotel.

After the junior officer retreated to help book my assailants, I turned to Mulvaney. “You put Mike Burns in charge of interviewing everyone at the Breslin; he must have a lead on our Swede. Where can we find Burns?”

“The commissioner has been breathing down my neck for any leads from the Breslin murder. While I don’t typically like my men going around me, I told Burns to report his findings directly to the commissioner. He’s one of my best men and he knows how to handle sensitive information. I knew I would be tied up with you all morning,” Mulvaney said. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. “Almost one o’clock. I daresay we can catch him. Besides,” he added more grimly, “the commissioner’s certain to learn of the beating you took last night. He may as well hear it from you.”

My stomach clenched, even though I recognized the truth in what Mulvaney said.

*   *   *

We stopped by police headquarters at 300 Mulberry Street only to learn that the commissioner was taking lunch at Lombardi’s on Spring Street.

I was famished, having been unable to eat Bridget Mulvaney’s hearty breakfast, so Lombardi’s was almost music to my ears. “May as well join them for lunch,” I muttered, as we retraced our steps downtown again—not bothered in the least.

Lombardi’s was packed when we arrived. Several construction workers were lined up outside the door, waiting to buy as much of a tomato pie as two cents would get them.

We made our way past the line to the dining area, where two rows of red and white checkered tables were packed with diners. We found General Bingham sitting in the rear next to the large brick oven that encompassed almost the entire back wall. The General was helping himself to a large tomato pie slice. Mike had apparently finished; he was now surrounded by papers and talking to the General at a rapid clip. He didn’t notice our approach, but the General did.

“Captain. Detective. Sit and join us.” He wiped his gray handlebar mustache with his red napkin. “We’ve got plenty of food; help yourselves.”

Mulvaney and I each took a slice of tomato pie and gratefully accepted the glasses of water that a waiter brought over. And while I typically would have had a hard time eating anything under the commissioner’s stern gaze, I had no problem with a Lombardi’s slice under my nose.

“You came to report progress,” he said, turning a careful eye to my injuries. “Progress that came at some personal cost, at least to the detective.”

“Aye,” Mulvaney said, “we have something to report—as well as to check. You see, we believe Detective Burns may hold the key to unraveling our case. We’ve found the murder weapon that killed Judge Porter. And we also have a good physical description of the man who purchased it at A. H. Funke’s. We hope that the detective’s interviews at the Breslin may have yielded the man’s identity.”

The General laughed, loud and deep. “And Burns was just telling me that his interviews yielded no information whatsoever.”

Mike Burns flushed in embarrassment. “This is news to me, General.” Turning to Mulvaney, he asked, “What type of man are you looking for?”

Mulvaney and I took turns filling him in as to this morning’s progress. When we had finished, I said, “So, based on the gun shop’s description and the matching signatures, we’re looking for the Breslin’s day elevator operator who took us upstairs the same morning Judge Porter’s body was discovered. We saw him with our own eyes—and I’d recognize him anywhere.”

“But he wasn’t among the anarchists you rounded up after last night’s beer hall meeting,” the General said thoughtfully.

I indicated that he was not.

Mike Burns gave us a bewildered look. “But I interviewed all three elevator operators who work at the Breslin. Not one comes close to matching your description.”