TAKING A CAST OF THE DEAD.
The next day, before noon, the majority of the former servants of Miss
Ada had presented themselves at the morgue, and all, unhesitatingly,
with the exception of two or three, had recognized the unfortunate
woman. The girl July, whose place Mary had taken at No. 17 East
Twenty-third Street, furnished some information, which, of itself
alone, would have sufficed to dispel all doubts, if any had remained
after these successive affirmations.
July remembered having seen, as she dressed her mistress’ hair, that
her left ear was torn. Now, this wound had not escaped the eye of Dr.
O’Neel, and he specified it in his report of the autopsy.
The drowned woman was really Miss Ada Ricard. This was the first
indisputable point made at the inquest, of which Coroner Davis took
charge.
Therefore, it was not necessary to study any further into the identity
of the victim, but to seek her murderer.
First of all, it was necessary to proceed to burial, but not without
taking an absolutely faithful image of the corpse, in order to reserve
the possibility of any other recognition, or of even confronting it
with the murderer, should he be discovered. It was for this end that
the chief of police had made an appointment with Albert Moor, the
sculptor.
The woman had been photographed, and the likenesses had been reproduced
and distributed in great number; but Mr. Kelly required even more.
Albert Moor had been at the morgue a long while when Mr. Kelly arrived,
who explained to him that he wished a cast of the woman’s head. The
artist, who had examined the corpse, found that the work could not be
deferred until the next day, and promised to do it at once.
Being sure that his instructions would be faithfully followed, the
chief of police ordered the manager of the morgue to transport the body
into the autopsy-room, and to keep it at the disposal of the sculptor;
then he returned to the central office to arrange with the sheriff and
coroner about the rewards for those who had given important information
in the cause of justice.
Mr. Kelly, as a chief of police and a lawyer, did not hesitate to make
known to the public, by posters and through the press, that a reward of
one hundred dollars would be given to any one who would furnish exact
information in regard to the particulars of the crime, and that whoever
would arrest or deliver up the assassin would receive one thousand
dollars.
The intelligent officer was ready to double or triple the sum if,
after waiting a while, he obtained no result. Having done this, and
feeling convinced that, like Titus, he had employed his day well, the
honorable chief of the metropolitan police seated himself at his
dinner-table in a cheerful mood, and afterwards went to his club.
At the same hour, Albert Moor and his guide reached the morgue,
provided with all the apparatus necessary for their work. The manager
of the establishment escorted them to the autopsy-room, where, after
one of the workmen had lighted the gas, for it had become dark, he left
them alone.
According to orders, the drowned woman had been removed from her stone
bed to one of the large metal tables used for authorized medical
operations. Her face and features were in a good state of preservation,
but, from her chest down, there was a horrible gash, for the surgeon
who had examined the body to discover the causes of death, had but
partially drawn the flesh together, and here and there were dark
streaks upon it.
The flesh on the upper portion of the form was still firm; the
shoulders were like marble, and the abundant hair so completely hid the
opening in the skull that the luxuriant beauty, being thus preserved,
strikingly recalled Miss Ada as she was in life. The limbs still
retained their perfect shape.
After examining his subject for a moment with the real curiosity of the
artist, Albert Moor prepared for his work. He first slipped a cushion
under the head, that it might be slightly raised, pushed back the hair
and secured it in a piece of cloth, then washed the face and neck as
carefully as this operation is performed by the people of the extreme
East. Having done this, by the aid of a large brush he moistened those
parts of the body with an oily liquid, intended to prevent the adhesion
of the plaster, and from the top of the head to the chin, and in
various other directions, extended cords, which enabled him to divide
the cast, before it had stiffened, into as many parts as he thought
necessary, for the perfect execution of his work.
While he was making these preparations his assistant was tempering, in
a large wooden bowl, a plaster fine as starch.
The sculptor first covered the face and all the parts of which he
wished to take a cast, then he thickened the layer with successive
layers, under which the outlines of the form slowly disappeared.
He had reached this point in his work when he heard some one softly
open the door. Thinking it was the director of the morgue, whom
curiosity had drawn thither, and being absorbed in his work, he did not
turn round; but he could not check a movement of surprise when he saw
at the head of the dead woman a face unknown to him.
How did this stranger introduce himself into this gloomy place, to
which admission was forbidden?
He immediately had the key to this riddle, for the newcomer, bowing,
gave his name.
It was William Dow.
Now, although the sculptor did not know the celebrated detective by
sight, he knew him perfectly by name, for in a previous criminal
affair, for several months no one was so much talked of as this retired
doctor.
Thanks to him, the police of New York had finally put their hands on a
band of counterfeiters who, for more than two years, had boldly drawn
from the coffers of the government.
Although he did not understand the motive of this nightly visit, the
operator returned William Dow’s greeting with an expression in his face
which told how flattered he was to find himself with a man for whom he
professed real admiration. Both, in their way, were artists.
“You know, sir,” said the detective, “how curious I am about all that
in any way concerns the discovery of a crime; you therefore will not be
astonished at my presuming to come here. You are doing a great service
to the cause of justice, and I wish to see for myself how you perform
this delicate operation.”
The sculptor willingly explained to his visitor what he had already
done, and after assuring himself that the plastic was in the necessary
state of cohesion, he took the end of the cord extending the length of
the face, and, raising it skilfully, cut the mask in two. He did the
same with the other cords arranged in various directions, saying:
“Now, I must wait until the plaster takes the form sufficiently, then
I remove each of these parts which, united, will give me a cast into
which it only remains for me to pour the material of which I am to make
the bust. If I wish to have anything more finished, absolutely perfect,
I go over the bust again with the chisel to correct imperfections, and
use it for a second cast, from which is obtained a work of art which
needs only finishing touches.”
“That is very ingenious, sir,” said William Dow, “but when I examine
this body, I truly regret that you have taken a cast only of the upper
part. Do you not think that it is one of the most beautiful models for
sculpture that could be found?”
“It is, indeed, admirable in its shape and proportions.”
“Why, then, did you not take an entire cast?”
“Mr. Kelly asked me only for the head. To do more would be considerable
labor, and very difficult besides, for Doctor O’Neel, who made the
autopsy of the unfortunate woman, left the body open. After filling in
the vacuum caused by the removing of the viscera, and which occasions
the alteration in the flesh, it would be necessary to draw together
the separated parts in order to have a model without solutions of
continuity. Don’t you see?” Saying which, Albert Moor removed the cloth
from the body that William Dow might judge of the state of things for
himself.
“It is true,” answered the detective, examining with the coolness of
a practitioner the open body; “but it does not seem to me impossible
to remedy this obstacle. I have some surgical knowledge, and I think
I could myself put this body in a suitable condition. Give me five
minutes to go to the doctor on duty at Bellevue Hospital to obtain the
necessary instruments, and, if you then think the thing possible, I
shall beg you to do it, and charge your own price for the entire cast
of this woman. I think, in the interest of art, it would be a useful
work.”
“I think so, too, sir,” said the sculptor, delighted to have an
opportunity to earn a large sum. “My plaster is sufficiently dry;
during your absence I shall take it off. We can then do the whole body.”
William Dow left. He was, no doubt, well known in the establishment,
for in a few moments he returned to the autopsy-room in company with a
hospital nurse, who brought all the articles needed for the peculiar
operation about to be performed.
Albert Moor had disengaged the head from its covering, and the face now
appeared of a yellow ivory hue. The moulding had succeeded perfectly.
The detective began his work at once. After filling in the cavities of
the stomach and bowels with oakum saturated with an aromatic solution
and corrosive sublimate, in order to retard decomposition, he drew
the sides of the opening together, and united them so skilfully that
the body soon took its natural form. He did the same with the other
solutions of continuity which Doctor O’Neel had made in the throat and
the top of the cranium, to find proofs that the poor woman had not been
asphyxiated by submersion, and that she had not succumbed to an attack
of apoplexy. Then he arranged the rich mass of hair with such art that
the head did not show the least sign of the autopsy.
It was really a moving, peculiar spectacle of which this silent little
room was the scene in the still hours of the night.
“Is that all right?” asked William Dow, when he had finished his
horrible task.
“Perfectly, sir,” answered Albert Moor, and then setting to work
himself, the sculptor prepared the body as he had done the head.
The detective watched him attentively. In less than an hour, all was
done. The corpse was lost to sight beneath a thick coating of plaster,
which after removing cords was divided into twenty fragments. It looked
like a block of snow.
“In the morning,” said the artist, “I will take off my mould; we can
then decide on what is to be done with it, as you think best.”
“We will come to an understanding about that. Meanwhile I must thank
and compliment you on the skill with which you have performed this
difficult work.”
While they were exchanging these words they had made their preparations
for departure; but Albert Moor did not wish to leave until he had told
the watchman at the morgue not to touch or let anyone touch the cast
before his return.
As for William Dow, before leaving the autopsy-room, his intelligent
eyes gazed long and thoughtfully at the inert mass, and he murmured:
“Who knows if this will not be more than a work of art, and if this
woman of stone will not accuse herself some day.”