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Life Begins on Friday
171
thought it was some kind
of signature – which only
went to shown his innate
canniness – and all the while
he had shouted at the top of
his voice that he confessed
to nothing and that he
wouldn’t sign anything.
Now, on his second arrest,
Fane shouted no longer.
He merely looked at
Costache
from
under
lowered eyebrows and said:
‘What you want from me,
Jean? Why do you keep
forcing me to get me hands
dirty? What you got up your
sleeve? What you accusing
me of? I work clean, so I do,
I don’t maim or kill! I just
steal.’
Costache requested the
old fingerprints from the
archive and studied them for
an hour under a magnifying
glass with an ivory handle.
He could swear they were
identical. But he did not
know whether the two
years that had elapsed
were sufficient to provide
conclusive evidence.
We shall see in ten years
whether they’re like tree
rings or not! At home, he
had dipped his own fingers
in violet ink, but nothing
clear had resulted on paper.
Then he got the idea of using
wax. He dripped some wax
from a candle and straight
away pressed the tip of his
right index finger into it. He
would have to wait a few
years before repeating the
exercise. Yesterday, he had
had the fingerprints of the
foreign-looking gentleman
taken, the rather curious
man Petre had brought in,
and not only had he not
been at all surprised, but he
had seemed to know what
it was all about. Only one
conclusion could be drawn: