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CHAPTER 3

Still Monday, September 18

Closest to Naismith on the town grid was Elias Hammer, who was both legit in every sense and reasonably prosperous, with a two-story building to himself just off the main business district. Parlor downstairs front, looking out on the street like a police interrogation room. Office and supply rooms downstairs back. Living quarters upstairs. Everything clean, neat, and antiseptic as a hospital.

When Clayton gave him the sample book, he hesitated, took a second look at it, and said, “How come you’re handling this without gloves, Officers?”

“Offering to let us take your fingerprints, M. Hammer?” Lestrade replied experimentally.

They had in fact dusted the volume, cover and pages, for fingerprints first thing, and had the prints safe on file. But fingerprints helped with identification only when the parties’ prints were on record or could be readily supplied for comparison. And there were laws about whose fingerprints the police could take under what circumstances. The mere fact that a victim had borrowed a sample book of tattoo designs shortly before being murdered wouldn’t have constituted evidence for demanding to take the prints of any tattoo artist who might be the owner, unless the book had been found on the murder scene, preferably splattered with the victim’s blood.

“Sure, Officers,” Hammer said with a grin. “I’ll let you take my fingerprints if you’ll get a tattoo from me.”

Clayton said, “Gratis?”

But Lestrade said, “Why would we wear gloves to handle a lost-and-found item?”

“Yeah,” her partner hurried to add. “The things people find and turn in at the police station! As long as we were coming out to see body artists anyway, we just thought maybe we could bake two cakes in one oven.”

“Yeah, good thought,” Hammer agreed. “But what’ve we done to deserve your attention today, anyway?”

“Just looking for information, M.,” Lestrade told him. “What can you tell us about tattoo stamps?”

“Tattoo stamps? As much as any other tattoo artist, probably more than some.”

“Not above making the things, then?” she pursued.

“Sure, I make stamps. There’s a lot of tridols to be made out of ’em and I’m not above making tridols. Someday I plan on making enough of ’em to move out somewhere as posh as the Dupont-O’Toole establishment.”

“Ever seen this one?” Lestrade nodded at Clayton to show him the tracing.

He studied it a long time, glancing back up at the detectives every so often. Finally he handed the paper back and shook his head.

“Not mine, no. Maybe one of O’Toole’s. Not Fleur Dupont’s, I don’t think. Doesn’t quite look like her style. Maybe Naismith —”

“Who just told us he never debases his art with stamps,” Clayton remarked before Lestrade could cut him off. He was overdue for another dose of Why We Play Our Cards Close to the Chest. Did he have his whole mind on the job this morning? Or was part of it still on that nurse who gave the smoothest flu shots any floater ever enjoyed?

“Naismith told you that?” Hammer was saying. “Don’t believe him. He likes to eat. Or that —” He waved at the paper in Clayton’s hand—“could be one of those mail-order things. I can’t tell you who designed it…if you can call it a design, looks more like a frou-frou for cocktail napkins—but I can give you a guess who’d be likely to use it.”

“For cocktail napkins?” Clayton asked, with another look at the tracing.

“Cocktail waitresses?” Lestrade pushed Hammer. “Who?”

“Even a town this size has its population of perverts and smasters, Sergeant. They’re the ones you want to be looking hard at when you’re looking for murderers. These so-called ‘inferno clubbers,’ these violent rolegamers—they’re the ones you want to be looking at. Hard. Really hard.”

Lestrade didn’t even cock an eyebrow. “And they’d be likely to buy tattoo stamps, would they?”

“Without even blinking. They like to identify themselves. A different design for every subgroup—subhuman group, I’d call ’em. I’ve seen a few marked with three or four different stamped tattoos—that’s the expression, Detectives: a tattoo stamp makes stamped tattoos—showing themselves off as members of three or four smaster dens, sometimes all at once.”

“Hmm,” said Lestrade. “Thank you for the tip, M. Hammer. And you’ve seen these people how?”

“Some of the…some of them come in here to get an old stamp removed or covered up with real tattoo work. And I’ve also seen them around, Sergeant Lestrade. You wouldn’t believe the respectable places—the respectable covers—some of them use to pass themselves off as normal. But once you get an idea where to look, what to look for…” He let his voice trail away.

Lestrade repeated, “Hmm.”

Clayton pointed out, “Respectable people get tattoos, too.” Lestrade happened to know he himself had Yosemite Pete tattooed on one of his upper arms and Gargoyle Gertie on the other.

“Oh, yeah,” Hammer agreed. “Very respectable people. Doctors, bank presidents, school teachers, sweet little debutantes wanting flowerchain necklaces and bracelets in time for the Big Prom. Not many murderers there. The respectable people tend to want real, stencil tattoos.”

Lestrade decided to remark, “I hear you saying, Scratch a stamped tattoo and you’ll uncover a murderer. So why do you make any of these stamps at all?”

“Hey, Sergeant, I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. I’ve made ’em for high-school honor societies and graduating classes, service groups, bowling teams, once even a Presbyterian confirmation class, for Pete sakes! No, the stamped tattoos you want to check for murderers are the ones on these young floaters with sick, sick hobbies. I try never to make any for unwholesome types like that, but —” Hammer shrugged—“you never know. One or two might get past me. They can dress up like respectable people, when they want to.”

“That’s twice you’ve mentioned murderers,” Lestrade observed.

“And I’ll go on mentioning ’em until you start finding ’em. If you pollies aren’t out looking for whoever murdered that poor kid—what’s his name, Jackson?—who’s been all over the news today, what the hell are we paying you for?”

“Okay, fair enough.” Lestrade gave Clayton a nod to ask his prepared question.

“These stamps, M. Hammer. All the tattoos each one makes are identical as gingerbread bears, but what about the stamps themselves? Are any of them mass-produced?”

“They’d darn well better not be. Not if there’s any ethics left in the profession. Even the mail-order houses have got to live up to their promise of ‘every stamp unique’ if they want to keep their legal standing with IABA.”

Lestrade tapped her chin. “Two artists ever come up with the same design by serendipity?”

“Yeah, that’d be possible. Like it’d be possible to find two snowflakes identical. The Association keeps all the legit stamp designs registered to keep accidental duplication from happening, but there could always be a slip-up. Or an illegal copycat rip-off. And the more popular these things get, the more of them get on the market, the more likely you’re going to find two exactly alike.” Hammer paused. “Of course, sometimes you find two stamps similar enough, you’ve got to look real close to spot the difference. See here—let’s see that one you brought in, again.”

Clayton handed the tracing back over. Hammer squinted at it with a deep frown. “Yeah. Yeah, look here. These little lines petaling out. Each one of ’em’s got a couple of jags. Like little lightning bolts. Take a swirl with smooth curving lines, or just a single jag per line, and at first glance your average eyeball probably wouldn’t pick up on the difference. So round up all the smasters and perverts you can find, but check their symbols real close once you get ’em down to the station house. Not that the whole lot of ’em shouldn’t be put away, anyway. Anything else you’d like to ask me?”

Fielding her partner’s glance, Lestrade pretended to think for a few seconds. “Yes. Oh, yes. Missing person. We’re checking with everybody. Routine. Detective Clayton, show him the photos.”

Hammer took them, looked at them. Looked at them very closely. Very closely. Gave Lestrade a sharpish glance. Took another long look at the photos. “Still missing, you say?”

“That’s right. Ever see him around?”

“Maybe…like you always see people around…but never close enough to say hello. Sorry, Officers, can’t help you with this one. But I’ll tell you this—he looks like the type perverts and smasters go for. Even in a ‘safe’ little city like Forest Green. Anything else?”

Lestrade shook her head. “Not at this time. Well, good-bye, M. Hammer. Thank you for your time. We’ll remember everything you told us.”

* * * *

“Sheboygan!” Dave remarked once they were on the way to their last stop. “I think I preferred Naismith. At least he didn’t put most of his energy into badmouthing his list of potential clients.”

“Naismith may not have enough clients and potential clients that he can afford to insult any of them.” But Lestrade’s mind was only half on Sydney Naismith even as she answered Dave’s comment.

* * * *

The area nowadays called Vadnais Estates had been built in the Gilded Age as the neighborhood of the rich elite. After going through various hard times and slummy generations, it had been reborn, remodeled, redeveloped, repainted in the flower garden of colors they now called the true Victorian fashion, and once again occupied by the richest local elite. “Sheboy!” Dave remarked as they drove through. “Anybody hurting here, they sure don’t show it!”

“They might not, Dave. Could be people living in quiet despair here, like anywhere else. Every spare tridol going into keeping up appearances, none into the pantry.”

“And if they lose weight, they pass if off as fancy spa treatment they’re not really getting?” Dave shrugged. “What price economy? Not all of them, though. Plenty of these have got to be rich in fact. Let’s see…” He read the names above the addresses, usually displayed in custom-brass signs. “Lang…Van Geldman…Imani…Fletcher-Symthe… Ah, here they are! Dupont and O’Toole.”

One more fenced estate of half a dozen treeful acres. The husband and wife team’s tasteful plaque, mounted on their glazed blue brick gatepost, read: “Dupont & O’Toole: Fine Body Art. By appointment only.”

“Guess these floaters aren’t hurting for tridols, anyway,” Dave remarked.

Lestrade replied. “One of them could have inherited wealth, maybe both.”

“And they just tattoo for the same reason Narjinski paints and Lulabelle dances?”

“Art is where you find it, Detective.” On the gatepost opposite the one with the plaque, Lestrade located an unobtrusive black doorbell button. She tabbed it. If the power line to the front door was still in operation, fine. Otherwise, they’d give it five minutes before walking up unannounced. There was a dog the size of a seeing-eye pony just lying there beneath the birdbath, looking at them lazily. A mixed breed, like ninety-five plus percent of the population, canine and human alike. Lestrade guessed this one was predominantly Labrador and Saint Bernard, spiced with almost everything else in the Big Dog genetic line-up. It looked friendly and, if it wasn’t, Dupont and O’Toole were due a crippling fine for leaving their front gate latched instead of key-locked.

“Speaking of body art,” she went on to her junior, “when and where did you get yours, Dave?”

“Yosemite Pete to mark my high-school graduation back in Rensselaer, Gargoyle Gertie to celebrate getting out of the Navy. Did you know I’ve also got a third one, Sarge?”

Hearing a ‘bet you can’t guess where’ implied in his tone of voice, she said, “Ivy vines circling round and round your navel?”

It was pure irony on her part, but he stared openmouthed. “Wow! Sergeant Lestrade, you scare me sometimes.”

The dog got up, shook itself, and came over to the gate to lick Lestrade’s hand through the wrought-iron grille.

“It isn’t ivy,” Dave went on. “But it does circle round and round my navel. Actually, it’s a dragon spread over my chest with his tail circling around my belly button. Nobody could mistake it for ivy, so I know you didn’t sneak my shirt up and spy on me when I was napping. But…sheboy, you guess good!”

“Maybe I just know you better than either one of us was aware, Dave.”

Three minutes after Lestrade rang the bell, a mid-age blond woman in brown culottes and a green jacket-blouse with big pockets came strolling down the path and called out to them, “Eet ees by zee appointment onlee.”

“We don’t need an appointment, M.,” Lestrade told her. “We’re police detectives on official business.”

The dog looked back and forth between them, and whined a little. The blond sped up so fast her phony French accent dropped off. “Good boy, Pango. Officers?” She swung the gate open. “Whatever have we done?”

“Police business includes soliciting expert opinions, M.—Dupont, you’d be?”

She nodded. “Actually, it’s Hilga Strudelmeyer. ‘Fleur Dupont’ is my professional name.”

“What about your husband?” Clayton asked. “How many names does he have?”

“Just the one. He really is Lyman O’Toole, all the way through. I’m afraid he’s in Indianapolis today, getting supplies.”

“We may come back,” Lestrade told her, “if we find we need to. Meanwhile…” She tossed a pointed look at the mansion among the trees. Like pretty well every residence in Vadnais Estates, that place had lots of room inside.

“Oh!” said M. Dupont-Strudelmeyer. “May I ask you in? Offer you coffee or…or tea?”

“Coffee will be very welcome, M.,” Clayton replied, probably hoping for a sandwich or something else it could wash down.

Pango padded up to the house after them, probably hoping pretty much the same.

Indoors, they sat around coffee and cookies on the table in a breakfast nook big enough for zoning and bright enough for the Fourth of July, looking into a kitchen where every square centimeter that could be stone was marble or highly polished granite, and the rest was stainless steel rubbed down to a soft gleam. Probably kept up by housecleaners coming in at least every other day. Like Clayton had said, big tridols at work here. And Lestrade guessed more of those tridols came from inheritance or shrewd investments or both than from body art, no matter how exclusive and expensive.

Pango lay under the table obviously waiting for crumbs. Very biblical. What was that passage Christians liked to quote? Something about the dogs eating the scraps that fell beneath the table… “All right, Detective Clayton,” she said, “we might as well start with our missing person.”

M. Dupont-Strudelmeyer gave the photos a polite scrutiny and shook her head, more in helplessness than negation. “I think I’ve seen someone who might have been him, going into one of the houses where gamers meet. Mostly rolegamers, though the Cartiers host weekly bridge parties and the Orlovskies hold a chess tournament every couple of months. This boy…looks more like one of the rolegamers. One we’ve seen from time to time during the summer. They have a big rolegaming party at M. Imani’s every Sunday, very orderly and well-behaved young people, some oldsters as well. The Langs, and the Forester-Joneses, over on the other side of Vadnais Park, also hold rolegame parties sometimes. But this boy…he just looks like so many other young men his age, doesn’t he? You say he’s missing? How long?”

“Not long at all, M. Dupont,” said Lestrade. “Just long enough to make us ask everyone. Routine. How about clearing our lost and found item out of the way next, Detective Clayton?”

He put the catalog down on the table. The body artist examined it and shook her head. “Not ours. Very neatly done, though. I’d guess M. Hammer’s, though it could be M. Naismith’s. I’m afraid I don’t make as thorough a study of our fellow artists’ styles as I probably should. Or it could belong to somebody from out of town.”

“Thank you, M. Dupont.” Lestrade kept her voice carefully neutral. “Detective Clayton, our last item?”

Again he got out the tracing, unfolded it, and slid it across the marble tabletop to M. Dupont-Strudelmeyer. She picked it up and studied it for several seconds. “My professional opinion on this, Officers?”

“If you’d be so good, M.,” Lestrade replied.

“Well…it’s pretty enough, but is it Art?”

Lestrade pressed on, “Any thoughts whose style it might be?”

“Any competent tattoo artist could… Some of them might not want to, but almost any of us could… I take it this is a— Oh, dear Lord in Heaven!” Dupont exclaimed. “This wasn’t—could this be connected to that—that horrible murder just this past wraparound?”

Seeing Clayton open his mouth, Lestrade beat him to the punch. “We’re always investigating several cases at a time, M. Dupont. Even in a town this size. So. Can you rule out any of your fellow body artists who wouldn’t soil their hands with something like this?”

“Well, we wouldn’t, Ly and I. Fortunately, we have enough money as it is. Unless…” Her hand trembling slightly, she laid the tracing flat on the table and studied it again. “As one element of a larger picture…or even by itself, with a few individualizing touches… Yes, it could have some possibilities, after all.”

“Could it be a stamped tattoo?” Clayton asked.

“Certainly. In that case, we couldn’t legally use it if we wanted to. Not unless the client already had it and asked us to incorporate it into a larger picture. All stamp designs are registered.”

“How do you check?” Clayton said curiously.

The body artist sighed. “With great difficulty, Officers, with great difficulty. The literature speculates that someday we may have electronic brains to file and sort through things like this automatically, but for here and now I’m afraid it’s still pretty much the old honor system. Resting mainly on what the client tells us. And since these stamps became so popular, the annual IABA directory has gotten as thick as the New York phone books.”

Lestrade asked, “Anything to stop an individual artist from turning out two identical stamps of his or her own design?”

Dupont-Strudelmeyer took a minute to answer that one. “Not legally, I don’t think. No, the design would be the individual artist’s, to re-use at will. It’d be more a matter of commercial ethics. You wouldn’t want to annoy any client who bought a stamp from you by selling one with the identical design to another client.”

“Not even two officers of the same club?” asked Clayton.

“Well…a case like that could be an exception…but I still don’t think it’d be very wise. Any kind of a club or association can break up, and then you could see rival organizations wearing the same design. No…it might work for something like a graduating class, where the membership never changes no matter what internal politics may develop. Then you might see two or three identical stamps—say, one for the class president and one for the faculty advisor. But otherwise…you’ve got to understand, Officers, you’ve caught me more or less in a blind spot here. Ly and I don’t design stamps, don’t even have the right equipment.”

“But you do have those annual directories?” Lestrade wanted to know.

Dupont sighed. “Yes, we’ve got the directories. IABA guide­rules. Every year adds more designs, and once they’re there, they’re there forever.”

“How do you keep updated on the designs being made between editions?” Clayton rubbed Pango behind the ears.

“Honor system,” Dupont repeated.

“You might get a ‘Friendly Dog’ sign for your gate,” Lestrade observed.

“We have one. We decided to take it down after somebody was murdered here in Forest Green. We’ve even talked about getting a watchdog that isn’t so friendly.”

“Let’s not panic, M. And we’d like to borrow your latest directory.” Lestrade didn’t make it a question.

She noticed Clayton smothering a sigh, probably thinking he was going to end up checking the thing page by page. Well, maybe she’d help him out there. She didn’t have anything more important in her plans for this evening, and he was hoping to snag a quick date. Talking about this nurse he’d just met, the one who gave flu shots so smoothly a floater didn’t even feel it.