“Now what happens?” I asked Poole.
All the tension had left the inspector’s body. He looked almost jubilant. “Now we take his measurements using the latest methods of detective work, the Bertillon system. Inspector Pettigrilli left behind a box of filled-in cards, his own personal rogues’ gallery, and your man is in there.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“His name is Vito Moroni. He’s from Ravenna. He’s had several arrests across Italy. Extortion. Violence. Assault. Finally, he ended up in Palermo where there was steady work for him. Arrested for killing a judge, but he got off. Arrested for killing the chief of police, but got off. Slippery as an eel, this one. Known associates, one Marco Faldo. That should come as no surprise.”
“Has he admitted to being Vito Moroni?”
“Of course not. He claims to be Guido Palazzo, an out-of-work carpenter doing casual work on the docks. He even has papers, but I believe they are forged-or he might have killed the real Palazzo for his papers.”
By then we were leaving A Division for Poole’s office in the C.I.D. building. The sun had gained some strength since noon and was bathing Great Scotland Yard in golden sunlight. We stopped into the next building, and in a few minutes, Poole put a piece of paper into Barker’s hand.
“It’s the response from the chief of police in Palermo. I think you should see it.”
The letter read:
Pietro Berruto
Prefecture of Police
Palermo, Italy
Inspector Poole
A Division
Scotland Yard
London, England
Dear Inspector Poole,
It is with a heavy heart that we learn of the death of our comrade in arms, Inspector Pettigrilli. Alberto was an exemplary officer and will be sorely missed. The government is considering awarding the medal of St. Michael to his widow in his name. All of us here in Palermo have stories of his courage and his strength. He survived no less than three attempts on his life, and so it comes as little surprise that in the end, that life was all too brief. He was a tireless fighter against the organized gangs of Sicily, wishing to rid the country of this plague, for the good of all. It was his greatest wish to provide a way to connect all police agencies around the world through the use of the Bertillon system, and we are glad that before his death he finished training you at the famous Scotland Yard of London, England.
Sincerely,
Pietro Berruto, Commissioner
“Touching,” Barker said.
“The question is,” Poole said, “whether Moroni will lead us to his boss. He looks like he’ll be a tough nut to crack.”
“If you could see some way to place him in my custody, I’m sure I can get him to crack open a little,” Barker offered.
“I’m sure, Cyrus, but it isn’t his skull we want cracked. Or his ribs. Your methods are occasionally heavy-handed.”
Barker gave one of his wintry smiles. “Just a trifle enthusiastic.”
23
A man came quickly into Poole’s office, and I nearly jumped from my seat when I saw him. He was an Italian in a thick mustache and knit cap, one of the men in the identity parade I’d just attended.
“It ain’t him, sir!” he cried in a Cockney accent. This fellow was as Italian as pork pie with chips. Obviously, he was a constable in disguise. “The cards don’t match up at all!”
Poole took both cards out of the constable’s hands and compared them. The Bertillon card Pettigrilli had brought with him was slightly yellowed with age, but the one the constable had just made was of new buff. The men in the photographs were nearly identical, but now that I saw them together, perhaps not completely identical. I supposed one must allow for the vagaries of light and shadow and expression.
Poole exposed the constable to his choicest vocabulary, which one could use to strip paint and barnacles off the hull of a boat.
“Take your pill, Terry,” Barker counseled, unruffled by the revelation.
The inspector reached into his drawer and pulled out a small brown bottle. He shook several lozenges into his hand and crunched them in his teeth.
“We can still charge him, can’t we?” I asked. “I’ve identified him as the murderer of Victor Gigliotti, after all. It’s him, without a doubt.”
“This card says it isn’t him, and it was prepared by the very man who trained us. Palazzo claims he was at the East India Docks all morning and he has several witnesses who’ll attest to it. His name is even written on the casual labor list, though I suppose it wouldn’t be hard for someone to forge it. Damn! I’ll have to let the blighter go.”
“Did he have a cape?”
“Yes, but no shotgun, no dagger, not so much as a boat hook. Just an innocent dockworker who happens to look exactly like the man who blew a hole in the leader of the Camorra.”
“It was him, I tell you!” I insisted. “He even recognized me!”
“I believe you, Thomas, for once,” Poole said. “I’ll keep him as long as I can, but if a solicitor appears, I’ll have no choice but to let him go. Blast Bertillon and his stupid French method!”
“Is there a way the card could have been altered?” I asked. “Could it be a forgery?”
“It looks genuine enough, lad,” Barker admitted. “I’m afraid Terence is correct. According to these cards, Guido Palazzo is not Vito Moroni. They merely have similar features.”
“Then the cards are wrong, I tell you! I know what I saw!”
“We believe you, lad,” Barker murmured.
“You’re going to let this fellow go, and the first thing he’s going to do is come after me.”
“Perhaps we could use that,” Poole suggested. “Wait for the fellow to come after Llewelyn here and bring him down.”
“After he’s used my chest for a pin cushion? No, thank you. I’ve been sliced enough for one week.”
“You’re not being particularly helpful to this investigation,” Poole complained.
“I’m sorry, Inspector. Shall I walk about Clerkenwell with a big target on my chest? Shall that satisfy?”
“It’s a start,” he replied archly.
“We want to get this fellow as much as you do,” Barker said. “He stabbed Dummolard, after all. But if this charge against him will fail, let it. We’ll try again some other way.”
“Just once I’d like this to go my way, Cyrus. The Yard’s way.”
“Perhaps it shall,” Barker said. “One can never tell about such things. Let’s go, lad. I’ve still got work to do before dinner. Is there any more you need, Terence?”
“The whereabouts of Marco Faldo would be nice,” the inspector replied.
“I should think he’d be in Clerkenwell or Soho.”
“I’ve a mind to take Clerkenwell apart. Go on, out you two. I’ve got to start all over again.”
We showed ourselves out. In Whitehall Street, I was using every trick Mr. Gallenga had taught me. Were there any open windows along the way? Was anyone on the roof? What about the cabs? Did anyone in the street look dangerous? Suspicious? Sicilian? Was anyone glancing my way? Were we being followed?
“This eye training is driving me mad,” I told the Guv. “I don’t know how you can live this way. How can one ever relax one’s guard?”
“One can’t,” Barker replied. “But it gets easier. It becomes second nature. You’ll pick it up. Or you won’t.”
“Such confidence.”
“All the confidence in the world, lad. Have you got sixpence?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, digging about in my pocket. “Here you go. What do you need sixpence for?”