But fine food and wine were only part of the reason for the Delmonicos’ prosperity: the family’s professed egalitarianism also drew customers in. On any given night at the uptown restaurant on Twenty-sixth Street and Fifth Avenue, one was just as likely to run into Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell as Mrs. Vanderbilt and the other matrons of New York’s high society. Even the likes of Paul Kelly were not turned away. Perhaps more amazing than the fact that anyone could get in was the fact that everyone was forced to wait an equal amount of time for a table—reservations were not taken (save for parties in the private dining rooms), and no favoritism was ever exhibited. The wait was sometimes annoying; but to find yourself on line behind someone like Mrs. Vanderbilt, who would squawk and stamp about “such treatment!” could be very entertaining.
On the particular night of our conference with the Isaacson brothers, Laszlo had taken the precaution of engaging a private room, knowing that our conversation would be deeply upsetting to anyone around us in the main dining room. We approached the block-long restaurant from the Broadway side, where the cafe was located, then turned left at Twenty-sixth Street and pulled up to the main entrance. Cyrus and Stevie were dismissed for the evening, having had a lot of late nights recently. The rest of us would get cabs home after dinner. We stepped up to the door and then inside, and were immediately greeted by young Charlie Delmonico.
The family’s older generation had almost completely died off by 1896, and Charlie had given up a career on Wall Street to take over the business. He couldn’t have been better suited to the task: suave, dapper, and eternally tactful, he attended to every detail without a look of care ever narrowing his enormous eyes or ruffling a hair of his natty beard.
“Dr. Kreizler,” he said as we approached, taking our hands and smiling delicately. “And Mr. Moore. Always a pleasure, gentlemen, especially when you are together. And Miss Howard as well—it’s been some time since you’ve been in. I’m grateful that you are able to return.” That was Charlie’s way of saying he understood Sara had been through a lot since her father died. “Your other guests, Doctor, have already arrived, and are waiting upstairs.” He kept talking as we checked our outer garments. “I remembered you saying that you found neither olive nor crimson conducive to digestion, so I have placed you in the blue room—will that be satisfactory?”
“Considerate, as ever, Charles,” Kreizler answered. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome to go right up,” Charlie said. “Ranhofer is, as always, ready.”
“Ah-ha!” I said, at the mention of Delmonico’s brilliant chef. “I trust he’s girding himself for our stern judgment?”
Charlie smiled again, that same gentle curve of the mouth. “I believe he has something quite remarkable planned. Come, gentlemen.”
We followed Charlie through the mirrored walls, mahogany furniture, and frescoed ceiling of the main dining room and then up to the private blue room on the second floor. The Isaacson brothers were already seated at a small but elegant table, looking a bit bewildered. Their confusion mounted when they saw Sara, whom they knew from headquarters; but she very cagily sidestepped their questions, saying that someone had to take notes for Commissioner Roosevelt, who was taking a personal interest in the case.
“He is?” Marcus Isaacson answered, the dark eyes to either side of the pronounced nose going wide with apprehension. “This isn’t—well, this isn’t some sort of test, is it? I know that everyone in the department is up for review, but—well, a case that’s three years old, it doesn’t really seem fair to judge us…”
“Not that we don’t appreciate that the case is still open,” Lucius said hurriedly, mopping a few beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief as waiters arrived with platters of oysters and glasses of sherry and bitters.
“Calm yourselves, Detective Sergeants,” Kreizler said. “This is no review. You are here precisely because you are known to be unassociated with those elements of the force that have brought on the current controversies.” At that, both Isaacsons let out considerable amounts of air and attacked the sherry. “You were not,” Kreizler continued, “particular favorites of Inspector Byrnes, I understand?”
The two brothers eyed each other, and Lucius nodded to Marcus, who spoke: “No, sir. Byrnes believed in methods that were—well, outdated, let’s say. My brother—that is, Detective Sergeant Isaacson—and I have both studied abroad, which made the inspector extremely suspicious. That, and our—background.”
Kreizler nodded; it was no secret how the department’s old guard felt about Jews. “Well, then, gentlemen,” Laszlo said. “Suppose you tell us what you were able to discover today.”
After arguing for a moment about who would report first, the Isaacsons decided it would be Lucius:
“As you know, Doctor, there is a limited amount one can tell from bodies that are in such an advanced state of decomposition. Still, I believe we uncovered a few facts that slipped by the coroner and the investigating detectives. To begin with, the cause of death—excuse me, Miss Howard, but aren’t you going to take notes?”
She smiled at him. “Mentally. I’ll transfer them to paper later.”
This answer did nothing for Lucius, who eyed Sara nervously before going on: “Yes, uh—the cause of death.” The waiters reappeared to remove our oyster trays and substitute some green turtle soup
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would the murderer cut their throats if he’d already strangled them?”
“Blood lust,” Marcus answered, very matter-of-factly, as he ate his soup.
“Yes, blood lust,” Lucius agreed. “He was probably concerned with keeping his clothes clean, so that he wouldn’t attract any attention during his escape. But he needed to see the blood—or maybe smell it. Some murderers have said it’s the smell rather than the sight that satisfies them.”
Fortunately, I’d already finished my soup, as this last comment didn’t do wonders for my stomach. I looked over to Sara, who was absorbing it all with great poise. Kreizler was studying Lucius with immense fascination.
“So,” Laszlo said, “you hypothesize strangulation. Excellent. What else?”
“There’s the business about the eyes,” Lucius answered, leaning back so that his soup bowl could be removed by the waiters. “I had some trouble with the reports on that one.” We were now presented with
“Excuse me, Doctor,” Marcus said quietly. “But I did want to say—remarkable food. I’ve never had anything quite like it.”
“I’m delighted, Detective Sergeant,” Kreizler answered. “There is much more to come. Now, then—as to the eyes?”
“Right,” Lucius said. “The police report made some mention of birds or rats having gotten at the eyes. And the coroner was apparently willing to stand by that, which is fairly extraordinary. Even if the bodies had been out in the open rather than in an enclosed water tower, why would scavengers feed only on the eyes? What puzzled me most, though, about such a theory was that the knife marks were quite distinct.”
Kreizler, Sara, and I all stopped in mid-chew and looked at each other. “Knife marks?” Kreizler said quietly. “There was no mention of knife marks in any of the reports.”
“Yes, I know!” Lucius said jovially. The conversation, though gruesome, seemed to be relaxing him; the wine didn’t hurt, either. “It really was strange. But there they were—some very narrow grooves on the malar bone and supraorbital ridge, along with some additional cuts on the sphenoid.”
They were virtually the same words Kreizler had used to Theodore and me in describing Giorgio Santorelli’s body.
“At first glance,” Lucius continued, “one might’ve been led to believe that the various cuts were unconnected, indications of separate jabs of a blade. But they seemed to me to bear a relation to each other, so I tried an experiment. There’s a fairly good cutlery store in the neighborhood of your Institute, Doctor, which also sells hunting knives. I went there and bought the kind of blade I thought was probably used, in three different lengths— nine-inch, ten-inch, and eleven.” He fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket. “The largest proved the best fit.”
At that he dropped a gleaming knife of what seemed gigantic proportions onto the center of the table. Its handle was made of deer antler, the hilt was brass, and the steel of the blade was engraved with a picture of a stag
