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Authors: Robin Adair

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The patterer thanked these worthies, but passed on. The next—and last—man he interviewed, ah, he was the “jerquer.” And he was the man Dunne wanted, for a jerquer examined ships’ papers and saw that all cargo was listed and accurately described.
Had he, Dunne asked, seen any unusual cargoes? One from, say, Schweinfurt, in Bavaria? It may have come by way of London, of course.
“Ah, that’s an easy one,” replied the jerquer. He recalled only one such consignment. But it had come not from Schweinfurt but from another sausage-eaters’ city, Leipzig.
The patterer hid his disappointment, but still let the man steer him to the records. Where, indeed, there was a note of such a load upon which duty had been paid. And thus the jerquer was able to name the shipment’s contents—and the address, if not the identity, of its recipient. The consignment had gone to the place where the clue originated—the office of
The Gleaner
.
THE PATTERER THEN sought out Brian O’Bannion. “You’ve shown that you’re handy at getting into ground-floor windows—how are you at first-story jobs?”
“Anyone on the premises?” asked the Irishman.
“Not to worry you in the area I’m talking about. I need it done today—so that the item you take will be with me tomorrow morning, early.”
“If it’s important to you, of course I’ll do it.”
Dunne smiled. “I wouldn’t ask you to risk it if I couldn’t look you in the eye and say that lives depend upon you.” He told O’Bannion exactly what he was to look for, adding before he moved off, “Be careful near it. It might be wise to wear gloves and a mask.”
HE HAD ONE last duty—and it had always been a pleasant one: He called on Miss Dormin at the dress shop.
“You’ll be pleased to know that the matter of the murders is coming to a head,” he said.
She gasped and shook her head admiringly. “And there’s something I want you to do,” he added. “You must tell no one. Not even Dr. Halloran.”
“Is it important?”
He took her hand and pressed it. “Oh, yes. It’s a matter of life and death.”
He made his request and they talked earnestly for a long while. Then, after a squeeze, the patterer released his hold and said, “Now, go.”
“WE ARE READY to have a last meeting of the principals involved,” said Dunne, handing Captain Rossi a note with a list of names. It was a long list.
“My God, are you mad?” The police chief scanned the names on the note. “They won’t all come. And do we
want
all these people? Besides, it will be Sunday.”
The patterer soothed him. “Oh, I think you’ll find they’ll make time if you tell them it’s the governor’s pleasure that they do. And that they’ll meet our quarry. Finally.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
It is now rendered necessary that I give the
facts
—as far as I comprehend them myself.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar” (1845)
 
 
 
 
 
 
S
O IT WAS THAT NICODEMUS DUNNE FOUND HIMSELF EXACTLY where his voyage of death and discovery had all started—was it really only a matter of weeks ago?—back in the same secluded room deep in the heart of the George Street barracks.
With him were familiar faces from that first meeting: Governor Darling, Colonel Shadforth and Captains Crotty and Rossi. Their ranks were swollen by the attendance, as desired, of lawyer William Charles Wentworth, Dr. Halloran, his fellow editor Edward Smith Hall and Dr. Owens. None of them commented on the patterer’s changed status, from fugitive murder suspect to master of ceremonies. Rossi had evidently calmed those waters, just as he had briefed those new to the company on the bare bones of the crimes.
“We have until one o’clock this afternoon to put this tragic matter completely to rights,” Dunne began. He refused to respond to the questioning looks that greeted this mention of a time constraint.
Then he lobbed his first grenade, continuing quietly, “In this affair, most of you have been suspects—” He raised a hand to quell the hubbub of angry dissent. “All of these men have secrets that offer motives strong enough to kill for. Each could have killed at least one of our victims. And, collectively, almost all of you have also conspired to slay one of your fellows—perhaps even a second.” He ignored the renewed buzz of angry objections. “You must indulge me, as we consider what we first learned about the murders, in order.
“The soldier outside the tavern? Well, if his had been the only murder, Captain Rossi’s men and the army would probably have had to file away the facts of his strange wounds and the sugar in his mouth. The investigation would have gathered mildew and the letter to the governor, too, may well have gathered dust. For there were no real clues.” He paused. “And, he was, after all, just a poor soldier.
“But the death of the
New World
printer, Abbot, taxed any element of coincidence. He had once been a member of the same regiment. He, too, was mutilated. There was another mysterious, wordy ‘clue.’ Two, in fact. And more sugar.
“The slaughterman’s poisoning, although it did not include any physical violence, finally removed the possibility that the similarities between the deaths were mere chance. The poisoner’s instructions were given in the backward-sloping, left-handed writing of the first letter—and the same regiment was on the march again. It was lightning striking the same place—a third time. No chance.” He shook his head dismissively.
“Then, the blacksmith’s death in the Lumber Yard gave us lashings by another left-hander and more slashing, copying that done to the first victim. And more sugar—albeit dyed green. He was no ‘Die Hard’ veteran, but still there
was
a military link, which turned out to be a revealing one and about which I will speak more fully in due course.
“I believe the same hand killed all our victims. Could some of them be copycat affairs? I think not. Consider that too much intimate knowledge would be required of cases, but they were never made completely public.” Dunne smiled encouragingly at Captain Rossi.
“So, a pattern had emerged—which promptly appeared to be broken by the seemingly unconnected death of Madame Greene. Hers was the most intriguing, until the two most recent murders. And yes, gentlemen, they will be the last in this chain of slaughter. The killing of the
Gleaner
compositor, Muller, was almost the death of me.”
Rossi had the good grace to redden at this.
The patterer continued. “I had already harbored certain suspicions, but Muller told me something—although I didn’t see it at the time—that lifted the veil on the terrible secrets—”
Wentworth interrupted. His lawyer’s forensic mind had already caught an inconsistency. “Sit fast, sir!” he said. “You just referred to ‘the two most recent murders.’ In the plural. Wasn’t the man Muller the last?”
“Chronologically, yes,” Dunne replied. “But before him—and uncounted so far—was the maid, Elsie.”
Rossi recovered his wits first. “But wasn’t she … didn’t she commit suicide?”
Dunne shook his head. “We were supposed to think so, but she was certainly slain—to silence her—and by our angel of death, no one else. And then someone wanted
me
dead. For getting too close.”
Governor Darling spoke for the first time. “So what, to your mind, is the link between the soldiers’ deaths and Madame Greene’s? And you’ve thrown in the German and now the maid, for good measure.”
“Bear with me, sir,” soothed the patterer.
“I still want to hear why you’ve damned well accused us!” interposed Wentworth furiously.
He glowered when all Dunne would say was a curt “All in good time” before continuing. “Until the very last I had trouble making the connection stick. Certainly, Madame was poisoned like The Ox, but where did the others fit in? There seemed no link between their deaths and the Sudds case, which provided a common thread between the earlier murders …” He paused and waited while Captain Rossi explained to the uninitiated the concept that the killings were revenge for the persecution of the unfortunate soldier.
Before Dunne could speak again, Wentworth butted in. “What of all the gabble about … what was it called? … yes, the
zuzim
? And the biblical verse nonsense?”
“Oh,” replied the patterer. “I believe the Hebrew rhyme was really just a red herring—although a blood-red one. The sender knew that such horrendous deaths, as they mounted up, would bring ever-closer scrutiny.
“So perhaps the idea was, at least partly, to divert our energies into searching for a mystical Jewish avenger. The Exodus verse? Well, it is in keeping with the theme of vengeance, but it only repeats the threats, shedding no new light on the deaths. It is almost as if something were missing. I thought at one stage that the killer
wanted
to be caught. But, if so, there were more victims to come. Why, after only two, alert us and perhaps cut short the desired cycle? And the whole idea collapses when we consider Elsie and Muller, who were apparent outsiders plucked into the fatal circle for other reasons.”
The governor cleared his throat. “Madame Greene?” His reminder was firm.
“Yes,” said Dunne. “I could see no link, not until I finally deciphered a coded message sent to us by the doomed printer at the
New World
, Will Abbot.” He passed to his listeners the proof of the typesetting found with the body.
“A knowledgeable colleague pointed out to me that the type used was smaller in size than it should have been. Why? Now, Abbot must have had some inkling of his coming death, even before he began to set this material.
“He couldn’t write down his attacker’s identity, couldn’t even set it in type, in the event it was read and smashed. So he did the next best thing—the
only
thing—which was to set a clue by using the
wrong
type. He chose a case of type in a size that was unsuitable, then signaled his intention by setting a first line that indicated the subsequent lines were not set as instructed. Why else would he set such a first line? He already knew, without reminding, that a larger type size was required. No, the message was for some future reader, he hoped.
“Later, Dr. Owens idly asked my observant friend what was involved in a switch of types and he was told that it only required the compositor to select a different wooden case of type. I remember Dr. Owens being told simply, ‘The case is altered.’ On that deadly day in the printery, the type shuffle would have meant nothing to the killer. Abbot could only hope that someone would one day understand. I finally did. And, as I will soon explain, the murdered Muller gave me the same message.

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