The Tooth and the Nail, page 6
And talk.
Each night, in one way or another, she told me a little about herself… how her parents had been killed in an auto accident when she was a very small child, and she had gone to live with a great uncle and aunt. The aunt had died eight years later. “Then there was just Uncle Will and me,” she explained. “Even then he was an elderly man, but somehow I never thought of him as such. He was big and solid, and nearly completely bald… so bald, in fact, that it looked like his head had been shaved. He didn’t talk much, and was uncomplaining; he was generous… and impractical, too.”
As she talked I tried to see her in relation to this man who had raised her, tried to imagine her as she was then. “Impractical?” I asked. “What did he do?”
“He was an engraver,” she replied, “but he was really more than that. He was an artist. A real one. See…” She unsnapped a small bracelet from her wrist, and opened a tiny locket attached to it. “This is me… an engraving Uncle Will did of me on my fourteenth birthday.” She handed the locket to me, and I tilted the flat golden surface against the light. Suddenly the face of a young girl was smiling into mine. The miniature details of the features, the featherlike tracery of the lines were exquisite. There was nothing to be said. Nodding, silently, I snapped it shut and handed it back to her. She continued, “He always wanted to be an engraver… a great one, in the tradition of Durer. As a young man, he went to Europe to study there. Engraving as an art was beginning to die out; when he returned to this country, he married and in order to earn a living… he became a photoengraver.”
“Is that what he did then… the rest of his life?”
“Yes.” Her voice was tied by sympathy to the past. “He always had a job… and made good money. He kept an engraving bench and tools at home, and once in a while he’d start a steel engraving or an etching at home. When he had finished it, he’d pound it up or destroy it. Or he’d give it to anyone who said he liked it…”
On another night, in the dressing room, Tally was brushing the long velvet gloves which belonged to her costume. She performed the simple job with a concentration that reminded me of a woman doing housework. There was an incongruity between the homey action and the sleek sophistication of her half-naked costume that touched me. I thought of her growing up in her uncle’s household. “Tell me,” I said, “more about the house where you lived… the place where Uncle Will kept his engraver’s bench.”
Momentarily, she continued the brushing. The gloves achieving a satisfactory state of perfection, she hung them over a clothes hanger. Casually, she crossed the small dressing room, regarding me indifferently, then with a sudden laugh, she plumped herself down on my lap. Our double weight caused the aging chair to creak and groan, and it could be heard through the thin partition. In the next dressing room, a little dancer called, “Hey! You’re not supposed to do that on company time!” Tally blushed, and hurriedly attempted to rise.
Catching her around the waist, I held her quiet. “Don’t bother to deny it, hon,” I told her laughing. “Let them think what they like!” The dancer clapped loudly in return.
Tally slipped her arm around my shoulder. Lighting a cigarette, I passed it to her. “Go on,” I said, “ignore the interruptions.”
“Well,” she replied, “we lived in Philadelphia on a little street… but it could just as well have been the same street in Cincinnati or Chicago.”
“Were you ever in Cincinnati or Chicago?” I asked, grinning.
She shook her head, smiling back at me. “No. But our street looked like so many other streets in Philadelphia that I know there must be streets like it all over the country…”
“Sure, hon.”
“It was one of those streets of row houses… you know, they continue for a solid block on both sides of the street, and are exactly the same. But, while each block is exactly the same, no two blocks are alike. I mean,” she sorted her words carefully, “the houses on our block were a little different than the row houses in the next block… and that was a little different from the next one… and so on. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I follow you.”
“In our row all the houses were two stories, but not including the basement, naturally. The houses all used the same adjoining walls, and were built directly up to the sidewalk. There were six little cement steps up to the porch. I know the number of steps because I used to play on them. I’d bounce a ball up the steps, hopping on my left leg and counting; then I’d hop on my right leg, bouncing the ball down the steps again. All the little girls in our row did the same.
“Every house had a small wooden porch, painted white and each porch had two wooden pillars. On the second floor, there was a green bay window. Ohhh, and there’s something else! Everyone in our block was very proud that the windows all had marble sills. It wasn’t really marble, but it was stone and looked a little like it. So we called it marble.”
“Honey,” I told her, “this may come as a terrible shock, but only in Philadelphia do you find row houses like that.”
“Really?” she frowned, and leaning over the dressing table she snuffed out her cigarette.
“The bedrooms were built exactly over the dining room and living room… it wasn’t very pretentious. A workingman’s home…”
“With you in it, doll,” I said, kissing the back of her neck, “it was a mansion.”
“No,” she replied gravely, “it was really a small house. In the winter, Uncle Will glassed in the downstairs porch. We used to store our galoshes and umbrellas there. When Auntie was alive, she always wanted to find another house… but we never did.” She sighed, “It feels funny, talking about them this way.”
One night, I was seated reading the paper in the dressing room, the chair tilted against the wall, my feet propped on the make-up table. There was a story in it concerning a con man who had been picked up for working the old sealed envelope switch. Briefly, it’s this: the sharper hustles up a sucker, and gets the mark to put up some money… for one reason or another. The sharper gives him security to hold… usually government bonds, which he puts into an envelope and seals in front of the mark. Later when the sucker begins to wise up, he opens the envelope and discovers it’s stuffed with newspaper. The con man had simply switched the envelopes and taken off with the loot. It’s surprising, though, how the racket goes on forever.
I read the story aloud to Tally, and when I had finished, I chuckled. Surprisingly, she didn’t join me. “No one ever pulled that on Uncle Will,” she said, “but I guess it’s the only one they missed.”
“You mean the old man was a mark?” I asked.
“No, not that. He was always open to a hard luck story, and he was always an optimist; between the two, he was nearly always broke. All during the years he was working, he made a good salary but we never had any money. Oh, the rent was paid,” she shook her head, “and the grocery bill, and we had enough to wear—but it was always just being able to make it. Uncle Will would lend money to anyone who asked him. And he was forever buying things… things that would make a fortune overnight… and never did! He bought land during the last bubble in the thirties and lost it; he speculated in funeral lots in cemeteries which were never developed; he put money in the stock of a rear-motor automobile and not even one car was ever made.” She shook the memories away, wearily. “He invested in South American government securities at a big discount, and they were later canceled by a new government. Everything he did… went wrong.”
Tears welled up suddenly in her eyes; mascara trickled down her face streaking her make-up. “The poor old man,” she said. “Uncle Will was… he thought everybody was honest… like himself. Even when he was old and sick… and childish… he still believed in miracles.”
“Take it easy, kid,” I told her. “You may not know it, but that mascara running looks like the marble face of Venus cracking up.” I handed her my handkerchief, and she wiped her eyes. “There, that’s better,” I added. “Now, what was all that hollering about?”
She managed a smile. “I was being foolish. It wasn’t anything. It’s still so soon after Uncle Will’s death… I feel bad whenever I think about him.” She stood before the dressing table, and began repairing her make-up. “It’s funny,” she said, “about the only two men in my life…”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Is this going to be a confession? If it is, don’t expect me to reciprocate with my boyish confidences unless my lawyer and agent are present.”
“Don’t be silly.” She caught her hair in a velvet bow, and turned to face me. She smiled, “I’m sure you’ve been very trustworthy. Anyway, you interrupted me at exactly the wrong word. I was saying that the only two men in my life, who I have loved, are you and Uncle Will. And you are both so different. Uncle Will was… a…”
“A real blue-nosed Philadelphia square,” I said.
“Don’t be jealous, please!” Her eyes twinkled, and I grinned. “No,” she continued, “he lived in a wonderful world all by himself. While you… wise guy… know all the answers, don’t you?” Standing on her toes, she locked her arms around my neck, and kissed me on the mouth. Then holding her head to one side, she asked, “Well, don’t you?”
“You’re not just whistling up a breeze, kid,” I agreed solemnly. “Furthermore, I think the quality of lipstick has degenerated since I was a youth.”
She refused to rise to my chaffing, and looked into my face, her eyes very near to mine. I realized, belatedly, she was serious. “I love you, darling,” she said softly, “and I’m so glad you’re in love with me.” Gently, she loosened her arms, and taking a step back, looked at me. “But I’d hate to be the person you really hated, Lew.”
“Wait a minute!” I said, trying to laugh it off. “Where’d this conversation come from? I don’t hate anyone. I love the world. I’m a do-gooder! I beat a drum…”
“Yes, dear.” Tally turned, smiling sweetly and slipped into her coat. “I’m going out to get a candy bar. May I bring you one?” she asked, banteringly.
“No,” I replied, “bring me an oyster instead. One with a pearl in it.”
And so, for a while, that was the way it was. It was a life held tightly within itself, in the night; a dressing room where we waited until the show went on, and the orchestra played our cue. The applause from the tables; the paychecks on Friday. Sometimes we walked the early morning streets back to the hotel, stopping for pre-dawn coffee and rolls with the truck drivers, milk men, and cops. It was Broadway when the night has gone and the lights have vanished, but day has not yet arrived. The sidewalks are bare and lonely; the hour is bleak and unlovely; but it’s wonderful if you’re walking along with the gal you love.
Then it’s not bare or lonely at all.
Nine
THE MAN IN THE WITNESS CHAIR was Deputy Chief Medical Examiner Howard M. Eggleston. Dressed in a neat charcoal gray suit, with a lighter gray and maroon striped tie, he answered questions precisely and with authority. Cannon asked, “How long have you been in the medical examiner’s office, Dr. Eggleston?”
“Seven years.”
“In that period of time how many autopsies have you performed?”
“Each year?”
“Yes, each year.”
“Well, between two hundred and two hundred and fifty… the number is not the same each year.”
“Yes, I understand that. But is it fair to say that in seven years you have performed between fourteen hundred and seventeen hundred and fifty autopsies?”
“That would be correct, sir.”
“Dr. Eggleston, you would consider that figure a conservative estimate? If it were necessary, you could get the exact number as a matter of record from your files?”
“The number would fall between the two extremes of the figures you mentioned. It can be substantiated by the official records.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Now in those seven years, as a result of your duties, you have examined a great number of bodies… literally running into the hundreds. You have examined both men and women, children, too, of many ages and races?”
“That is correct. Under the law, an examination is required in all cases of homicide, accidental, unnatural, and suspicious deaths.”
“You have made identification of bodies with members missing, such as head, arms, legs?”
“In some cases, yes.”
“And in cases where bodies have been so badly decomposed as to make features and fingerprints unrecognizable?”
“Yes.”
Denman arose. “This is very interesting,” he addressed the judge, “but what is the counselor attempting to prove?”
Cannon, in turn, addressed the bench. “As the counselor for the defense knows very well, I am establishing the background of the witness for expert testimony.”
Denman, who had no desire for the extreme efficiency of the medical-legal activities of the medical examiner’s office to be too well established with the jury, snapped, “The defense will grant Dr. Eggleston to be an expert,” and sat down.
Cannon returned to his witness. “Now, Dr. Eggleston, I have a number of exhibits. As I introduce them to the court, I will ask you to identify them. First, this hatchet identified by Mr. Cane; have you examined it in your laboratory?”
“I have.”
“What did you find?”
“At the point of the V where the claws on the hatchet come together, there were traces of blood and broken sections of hair.”
“Could you identify the blood as human blood?”
“Yes, sir. It was human blood known as type O.”
“Was it possible to identify the hair?”
“The hair was identified as coming from a human head.”
“Thank you. Now here is an envelope, also identified by Mr. Cane, which contains several hairs taken from the hair brush of Isham Reddick. Have you examined these hairs?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Eggleston. “The hairs in the envelope are identical with the hairs found on the hatchet.”
The jury, as a body, leaned forward, its eyes fastened on Eggleston. “You mean that without a question, without a doubt, the hairs from the hatchet and the hairs from the brush are identical?”
“That is right.”
“Will you please show us how you reached that conclusion?” A projector and a small screen were set up, and cross sections of the hairs, greatly enlarged, were demonstrated to the court. Eggleston in a dry definite voice pointed out the duplication of cellular construction and points of identification. When he had concluded, Cannon resumed his examination. “Here is a piece of canvas, identified by Harold Lafosky. Have you examined it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you find?”
“The canvas had been burned by fire, and contained traces of paint, and stains of blood.” Eggleston paused, then added, “It was human blood.”
“Could you identify the type?”
“Yes. It was type O.”
“Here is a vial with a label containing the name of Detective Cane, and bearing the word ‘furnace’—identifying it as having come from the furnace room. What did you find in this vial?”
“Scrapings, such as are found in the cracks and on the floors in furnace rooms… dirt, soot, coal dust, wood and fiber splinters, traces of oil and turpentine. Also, traces of human blood.”
“Could you identify the blood by type?”
“I could. It was type O.”
Picking up the second vial, Cannon offered it to Eggleston. This vial contained the sediment taken from the water trap beneath the wash basin in the basement. Cannon asked Eggleston what it, too, contained. “Dirt, fatty particles such as are used in soap bases, lye, both natural and synthetic bristles from brushes, and traces of human blood.”
“You identified the blood by type, Doctor?”
“I did. It was type O.”
“Again, Dr. Eggleston,” continued Cannon, “I have an envelope… a large, heavy Manila one. This envelope was identified by Mr. Lafosky. It contains a sampling of ashes gathered from the ash receptacle beneath the firebox of the furnace. You have examined the contents. Will you tell the court what your analysis showed?”
The deputy chief medical examiner withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket, referred to it briefly, and then recited a long list of chemical properties, in a flat unaccented voice. When he had finished, Cannon turned to the jury and said, “I’ll ask the witness to reword his statement.” He smiled briefly, “I couldn’t understand a word he said.” The jury nodded in grim agreement.
“Well,” resumed Eggleston, “in addition to coal ash, wood ash, certain residues of vegetable origin…”
“Such as what, Doctor?”
“Cotton, linen. There was also evidence of protein origin…”
Cannon interrupted him. Very slowly, pronouncing each word distinctly, he asked, “Does that mean the possibility of human flesh… or rather, what might at one time have been human flesh?”
“That is correct.”
There was a long moment of complete silence in the courtroom. Cannon stretched it to the breaking point, then coughing gently, broke the spell, and proceeded with his introduction of evidence. “Now, Doctor, another important point of identification.” The prosecuting attorney unrolled the sheath of oiled paper. Within was the length of blackened charred bone, attached with a tag bearing the name of Detective Meyers. “Can you tell me if you have examined this,” said Cannon, “and if you have, please tell me your findings.”
“I have examined it,” Eggleston stated. “It is a length of bone medically termed the tibia.”
“In layman’s language, Dr. Eggleston, that would be called the shin bone?”
“Yes.”
“What more can you tell the court about it?”
“It is of human origin and belonged to an adult male.”
“Could you determine the height of such a male?”
“Yes, within certain limits. The male was between five feet ten and six feet tall.”
“How could you determine this, Doctor?”
