“What’s so funny, Malloy?” she wanted to know when she looked up and caught him staring.

“Nothing’s funny,” he said sobering instantly. “A woman has been murdered.”

She wasn’t fooled. “Am I doing this wrong?”

Perversely, he wanted to tell her she was, but he couldn’t lie. “Not at all. Couldn’t do it better myself.”

“Then why don’t you help?” she snapped. “Start on that side of the room.”

“What am I looking for?”

“The instruments will probably be rolled up in a soft cloth and tied.”

Malloy was the one who found them. They were just as she had said, in a drawer. The cloth was black, and when he untied the string holding it, it rolled out to reveal a set of instruments similar to the one he’d found in Alicia VanDamm’s room the morning after her death. The sizes were graduated, and each instrument was in its own individual pocket. One of the pockets was empty.

“Did you find it?” she asked, hurrying over to see.

He handed her the curette from his pocket. “Is this the one missing?”

She examined the curettes in the set, pulling them out and holding them to the light, then comparing them with the one they’d found. “Yes,” she decided. “It matches the others, and it’s the size that’s missing. This proves Emma Petrovka must have been the one in Alicia’s room that night.”

“For all the good that does us,” he said.

She sighed, a sad sound. Frank had forgotten how forlorn a woman’s sigh could be. “I don’t suppose you’ve found Mr. Fisher yet, have you?”

“He wasn’t in when I called this morning,” he said, “but that’s not unusual. Nobody stays around a flophouse during the day. I’ll check back late tonight.”

“He’s the last one alive who knows who went to Alicia’s room that night. What happens if you don’t find him?”

He could see from the look in her eyes that she already knew the answer, but he said it anyway. “Then we might never find out who killed Alicia VanDamm.”

11

FRANK FOUND THE BRASS LANTERN A LOT NOISIER this evening than it had been earlier in the day. Nightfall had brought the lodgers back to claim their beds or their share of the floor space that was offered, to anyone who could pay, for a few pennies. The “beds” were lengths of dirty, sagging canvas strung between rows of rough-hewn boards. Less than a foot of space separated each hammock, and a man could reach up and touch the bunk above him. Privacy was in short supply in a place like this. No wonder Will Yardley’s friend had no trouble spotting Hamilton Fisher.

The proprietor stood at the door, collecting nickels and pennies and cuffing those who thought to sneak in without paying back out into the street. He frowned when he saw Frank and grew instantly defensive.

“I keep an orderly house here, I do,” he insisted belligerently. “There’s no call to come barging in here. I pay my protection money.”

“I’m not here to bother you. I’m looking for somebody,” Frank said, tossing him a silver dollar. “Tall fellow with buck teeth. Might be calling himself Hamilton Fisher.”

“I don’t care what anybody calls hisself,” the man replied. He smelled of garlic and sweat. “Do you think I keep a register? This ain’t the Plaza Hotel, now is it?”

“I said he’s got buck teeth. Seen anybody like that?” Frank said, not even tempted to give the fellow any more money. Frank liked his informants to be more cooperative than this, so he wasn’t going to encourage bad behavior by reaching into his pocket again, and if this fellow didn’t get more friendly, Frank was going to have to get rough.

The man waited, jutting out his greasy beard and hooking his thumbs in his suspenders. But Frank could wait, too, and he did, glaring his policeman’s glare, which had been perfected after years of practice. As he had anticipated, he won the staring match.

“Might be somebody by that description inside,” the man allowed.

Frank acknowledged the cooperation with a nod and stepped into the building. Most of the bunks were occupied. The men laid down fully clothed because any article of clothing left unattended would be claimed by someone else before the night was over. A group of men were playing cards for matches in a comer, and someone on a top bunk was snoring like a foghorn blasting its way down the Hudson River.

Frank walked up the aisle, glancing at each man in turn. Fisher had been clean shaven when Sarah Brandt saw him last, but he might have let his grooming lapse since he was living harder now. The teeth would be his only certain distinguishing characteristic.

Most of the men recognized his profession immediately and watched his progress warily. People of this class, which was almost the lowest in the city, would fear the police and rightly so. Most of them were felons of some sort or another and could be assumed to have committed a crime of some magnitude within the last twenty-four hours. Even if they hadn’t, they might be picked up and charged with something, then beaten into confessing to it. Frank believed such police behavior was simple laziness, but these men needn’t know this. Better if they were afraid of him.

Someone kicked the foghorn snorer, jarring loose a snort and a string of profanity from him and raucous laughter from everyone else. Frank moved on. The room smelled of sleep and filth and the stink of too many people in too small a space. It was, Frank had long since determined, the aroma of despair. The bare brick walls, the unfinished ceiling, the scarred muddy floors. Not one element designed for comfort in the whole place, because, of course, comfort could not be bought for a nickel.

Too many men were lying in shadow, safe from Frank’s probing gaze, but before long, a weasel of a man sidled up to him, baring his rotting teeth in an ingratiating smile. “Who might you be looking for, governor?” he asked “Maybe I could be of help. Roscoe’s my name, and I always play straight with coppers because they play straight with me.”

Frank took a moment to look the fellow over from the crown of his greasy hair to the soles of his broken shoes. His suit was too big, probably because it had once belonged to someone else, someone who may not have parted with it willingly. Stolen or not, it was showing green in spots where the fabric was so worn that even the color had come off.

Since this Roscoe was clearly not the man he was looking for, Frank figured it was safe to ask for a little help. “I’m looking for a young man, tall and blond with buck teeth. Might have only been around a week or so. His name is Ham Fisher, although he probably isn’t using it right now.”

Roscoe scratched his head, almost dislodging his shapeless hat in the process. “Don’t know if I recollect such a fellow here, governor. My memory ain’t what it used to be…” His voice trailed off expectantly.

Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a dime. This was enough to buy Roscoe an all-night drunk on stale beer. His rheumy eyes lit up, and he grabbed for the coin, but Frank held it out of his reach.

“How’s your memory doing, Roscoe?” Frank asked. “Is it improving at all?”

“Oh, my, yes, it’s improving quite considerable,” he allowed. “In fact, I think I seen the very fellow you’re looking for right down at the end of this row.” He pointed vaguely and reached for the coin again.

Frank tucked it inside his closed fist. “Maybe you’ll show me exactly which bed,” Frank suggested.

Roscoe licked his lips, probably already tasting his first beer. “Sure, governor, I’d be pleased to show you. Right this way.”

Frank followed the little tramp, earning glares from all the men they passed. Frank cowed each of them in turn, taking pride in making one after the other drop his gaze, until at last they reached the bunk Roscoe had indicated.

“That’s him,” he said, pointing to a shadowy figure curled on his side and balanced precariously with his hat pulled over his face. Roscoe reached again for the dime, but Frank wasn’t going to pay until he was sure he’d gotten his money’s worth.