Chapter Thirteen #2
Beside the message was a large manilla envelope with the photography department’s stamp in the corner. Inside were a dozen enlargements of the dead man’s passport photo, four of the entire passport, and the passport itself.
Alec studied the photo with interest. They had blown it up to the point that it was just barely beginning to blur.
While agreeing with Shakespeare that “There is no art to find the mind’s construction in the face,” he judged the subject of the portrait to be a tough man.
His eyes were hard beneath dark slicked-back hair, and his thin-lipped mouth was a straight line with no sign of softness or humour.
Not that that made him a criminal, of course.
Besides, as well as the unreliability of features as a guide to character, passport photos were notoriously uncomplimentary.
And regardless of the victim’s character, his murderer must be punished.
He made arrangements for copies of the passport to be sent to the FBI and the New York police, to follow up his cables.
He couldn’t expect a response for at least five days, probably longer.
With any luck, he wouldn’t have to wait that long to find out the man’s name.
If Dr. Popkin managed to read it, perhaps he’d have wrapped up the case by then.
Slipping the passport into his pocket, he set off for Bloomsbury.
Hunger overtook him en route, and he popped into an Express Dairy milk bar in Oxford Street for a quick lunch.
When he reached the British Museum, he showed his warrant card and asked for Dr. Popkin, saying he was expected. A messenger led him at a great rate into the labyrinth of corridors hidden away behind the equally labyrinthine public halls, galleries, and libraries.
“Do you ever lose visitors in here?” Alec enquired.
“Hardly ever,” the man replied in a lugubrious tone that suggested he wished the answer was “Frequently.”
At last they stopped in front of a door labelled DR. N. POPKIN. The guide knocked.
“Come in!”
Opening the door, the guide announced, “It’s the police, Dr. Popkin.” Now his tone implied that he expected Dr. Popkin to be hauled off to prison on the instant.
“Police? Ah, Mr. Fletcher.” The tall, lean man wore a white coat and white gloves. He had the permanently disappointed look of a basset hound.
“I’m afraid I’m interrupting you, Dr. Popkin,” Alec said, entering and closing the door firmly on his guide. They shook hands.
“Not at all. After all,” Popkin pointed out, gesturing at a sloping glass table with a bright light underneath and a couple of ancient manuscripts on top, their curling corners held down by broken clay tablets incised with strange markings, “these have been lying around for a millenium or two. A few minutes longer won’t hurt them.
I beg your pardon if I seemed unwelcoming.
The truth is, I was looking forward to escaping this mausoleum for a visit to Scotland Yard. ”
“I’m sorry to have deprived you of the outing, sir. I hoped to disturb your work as little as possible. Though if we’re telling the truth, my desire to escape from my office was probably as strong as yours.”
The basset hound grinned disarmingly. “Oh, by all means, let’s have the truth. It’s rare enough here, where practically everything I produce is a matter of inference and interpretation. What have you got for me?”
Alec handed him the passport. “Water has seeped between the pages, and the name is unreadable. I don’t know if there’s any chance you might be able to suggest what it might be.”
“No bloodstains,” Dr. Popkin noted, disappointed again. “No bullet hole.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah well, we must work with what we have.” He opened the booklet. “Odd, I’d have expected India ink in an official document of this nature.”
“So would we. What do you think?”
“Oh, I expect I can give you something. This may take a few minutes. Do sit down.”
“I’d like to watch, if I may.”
“Certainly, though there won’t be much to see. It’s a matter of training the eye to read shadows. I dare say it’s not unlike police work in some ways, eh?”
“Very like. Only our shadows tend to come in larger sizes. Man-size, for the most part.”
Popkin laughed. He took the passport to his glass table, which had brilliant lights above as well as below, and picked up a magnifying glass.
He studied the open page closely, first looking straight down, then squinting sideways.
Then he set down the magnifying glass, turned off the underneath lights, and stuck a jeweller’s loupe in one eye.
Picking up the passport, he examined it at an angle.
“Easy. They used an inferior pen nib as well as inferior ink. It has scratched the paper. If you wouldn’t mind passing me that notebook on the desk there—”
“I’ll write it in my own, sir, if you’ll dictate the letters to me.”
“MICHELE, capital C, ASTE, double L, ANO. Michele Castellano. Italian, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, I would,” Alec said thoughtfully. “Thank you, sir. I never dreamt you’d be able to give me so definite an answer, let alone so quickly.”
“We aim to please.”
“Needless to say, the matter is confidential.”
“Of course,” Popkin agreed cordially. “Dare I hope to learn what it’s all about when you have bagged your villain?”
“I’d say of course, sir, if it weren’t for the possibility of international ramifications…. Oh, what the hell, after what you did in the War, you know all there is to know about international ramifications! I’ll be glad to send you a report.”
Popkin beamed. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. I’ll look forward to it.”
Rather than ring for a messenger, he himself escorted his guest out to the great portico, so not until Alec was descending the steps to Great Russell Street was he able to consider what he had learnt.
Michele Castellano. Italian American. His mind went back to that evening a couple of months ago, in St. John’s Wood, when the Pearsons had come to dinner and an unexpected American had turned up.
Pearson had spoken of reading about Irish, Italian, and Jewish bootleggers in America organising into increasingly violent gangs.
Scotland Yard were naturally most concerned about the Irish aspect.
In spite of the Irish Free State, the Irish were in general anti-British, yet fugitives from the American police were quite likely to have relatives living in Britain.
Despite a growing number of Italian restaurants in London, the community of Italian expatriates was minuscule in comparison.
The subject of American gangs had arisen because of Lambert’s advent, and, lo and behold, Lambert had turned out to be a Prohibition agent.
The young idiot had babbled about following gangsters to England, but Alec hadn’t paid much attention.
In his opinion, Lambert’s superiors had probably sent him across the Atlantic to get him out of their hair.
What was it he had claimed to be his purpose in England? All Alec could recall was that he had tried to bring a gun into the country—which implied a willingness to use it.
Lacking the firearm, could he have resorted to other methods with one of the villains he purported to be chasing?
Had the apparently ingenuous Lambert hit Michele Castellano over the head and then, with his thumbs, compressed both carotid arteries until the man lay dead?
Lambert, who would lose his head if it weren’t firmly attached to his body?
He would never have found the right spots to compress.
Lambert, who was still to be seen out and about in Hampstead, even after leaving the Fletchers’.
Still, the only reason to connect Lambert with Castellano was that they were both Americans.
Except that Castellano had been found murdered in Constable Circle, where Lambert had spent considerable time …
What had Daisy said about Lambert and their next-door neighbours, and about the Jessups’ mysterious American visitor?
Once again, it seemed he ought to have paid more attention to Daisy’s guesswork, or intuition, or whatever it was that made her so often and so infuriatingly right.
His sigh was so heartfelt that the woman sitting next to him on the number 24 bus he had unthinkingly boarded gave him a look of sympathy and said, “Never you mind, ducky. The night is darkest before the dawn.”
He nodded an acknowledgement, but as the bus negotiated Trafalgar Square, with Nelson’s Column in the middle, he found himself dwelling on the admiral’s death in battle. Then the Charing Cross statue of Charles I brought to mind the king’s execution.
The bus trundled down Whitehall, with all the panoply of government on either side and the Houses of Parliament ahead.
Alec reminded himself that Nelson’s fleet had won a glorious victory at Trafalgar, and that Cromwell’s grim rule had ended with the restoration of Charles’s son to the throne in a constitutional monarchy with no claims of “divine right.”
Alec swung down from the bus at the Cenotaph stop and hurried into the Yard.
Things were really not going too badly. He had far more information than when Daisy had broken the news of the body in the garden to him, just a few hours ago.
More important, he had a good idea of where to look for more answers.
The most frustrating moment in any police investigation came when one didn’t know where to turn next.
This time, he knew. First, he had to cable Michele Castellano’s name to Washington and New York. And then he needed to talk to Daisy.