THE FINGER-PRINTS
(_Friday, July 13; 1.30 p.m._)
Hani joined us a few moments later.
“I am at your service, gentlemen,” he announced, looking from one to
the other of us superciliously.
Vance had already drawn up a second chair beside the one on which he
had stood during his inspection of the top of the cabinet; and he now
made a beckoning gesture to the Egyptian.
“We appreciate your passionate spirit of co-operation, Hani,” he
replied lightly. “Would you be so amiable as to stand on this chair
and point out to me exactly where you set the statue of Sakhmet
yesterday?”
I was watching Hani closely, and I could have sworn that his eyebrows
contracted slightly. But there was almost no hesitation in his
compliance with Vance’s request. Making a slow, deep bow, he
approached the cabinet.
“Don’t put your hands on the woodwork,” Vance admonished. “And don’t
touch the curtain.”
Awkwardly, because of his long flowing kaftan, Hani mounted one of the
chairs; and Vance stepped upon the seat of the other.
The Egyptian squinted for a moment at the top of the cabinet, and then
pointed a bony finger to a spot near the edge, exactly half-way across
the two-and-a-half-foot opening.
“Just here, _effendi_,” he said. “If you look closely you can see
where the base of Sakhmet disturbed the dust.…”
“Oh, quite.” Vance, though in an attitude of concentration, was
nevertheless studying Hani’s face. “But if one looks even more closely
one can see other disturbances in the dust.”
“The wind, perhaps, from yonder window.…”
Vance chuckled.
“_Blasen ist nicht flöten, ihr müsst die Finger bewegen_--to quote
Goethe figuratively.… Your explanation, Hani, is a bit too poetic.” He
indicated a point near the moulding at the edge of the cabinet. “I
doubt if even your simoon--or, as you may prefer to call it,
samûm[*14]--could have made that scratch at the edge of the statue’s
base, what?… Or, it may be, you set down the statue with undue
violence.”
“It is possible, of course--though not likely.”
“No, not likely--considerin’ your superstitious reverence for the
leonine lady.” Vance descended from his perch. “However, Sakhmet seems
to have been standing on the very edge of the cabinet, directly in the
centre, when Mr. Kyle arrived this morning to inspect the new
treasures.”
We had all been watching him with curiosity. Heath and Markham were
especially interested, and Scarlett--frowning and immobile--had not
taken his eyes from Vance. Even Bliss, who had seemed utterly broken
by the tragedy and in a state of complete hopelessness, had followed
the episode with intentness. That Vance had discovered something of
importance was evident. I knew him too well to underestimate his
persistence, and I waited, with a sense of inner excitation, for the
time when he would share his new knowledge with us.
Markham, however, voiced his impatience.
“What have you in mind, Vance?” he asked irritably. “This is hardly
the time to be secretive and dramatic.”
“I’m merely delving into the subtler possibilities of this inveiglin’
case,” he replied, in an offhand manner. “I’m a complex soul, Markham
old dear. I don’t, alas! possess a simple, forthright nature. I’m a
sworn enemy of the obvious and the trite.… You remember what the heart
of the young man said to the Psalmist?--‘Things are not what they
seem.’”
Markham had long since come to understand this kind of evasive
garrulousness on Vance’s part, and no further question was asked.
Moreover, there was an interruption at this moment, which was to place
an even more complicated and more sinister aspect on the entire case.
The front door was opened by Hennessey, and Captain Dubois and
Detective Bellamy, the finger-print experts, clattered down the
stairs.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Sergeant,” Dubois said, shaking hands with
Heath; “but I was tied up with a safe-breaking job on Fulton Street.”
He looked about him. “How d’ ye do, Mr. Markham?” He extended his hand
to the District Attorney.… “And Mr. Vance, is it?” Dubois spoke
civilly but without enthusiasm: I believe his tiff with Vance during
the “Canary” murder case still rankled in him.
“There ain’t much of a job for you here, Captain,” Heath interrupted
impatiently. “The only thing I want you to check up on is that black
statue laying there.”
Dubois at once became seriously professional.
“That won’t take long,” he muttered, bending over the diorite figure
of Sakhmet. “What might it be, Sergeant?--one of those Futuristic
works of art that don’t mean anything?”
“It don’t mean anything to me,” the Sergeant growled, “unless you can
find some nice identifiable prints on it.”
Dubois grunted and snapped his fingers toward his assistant. Bellamy,
who had stood imperturbably in the background during the exchange of
greetings, came ponderously forward and opened a black hand-bag which
he had brought with him. Dubois, using a large handkerchief and the
palms of his hands, carefully lifted the statue and placed it upright
on the seat of a chair. Then he reached in the hand-bag and took out
an insufflator, or tiny hand-bellows, and puffed a fine pale-saffron
powder over the entire figure. Following this operation, he gently
blew away all the surplus powder, and fixing a jeweller’s-glass in his
eye, knelt down and made a close inspection of every part of the
statue.
Hani had watched the performance with the keenest interest. He had
slowly moved toward the finger-print men until now he stood within a
few feet of them. His eyes were concentrated on their labors, and his
hands, which hung at his sides, were tightly flexed.
“You’ll find no finger-prints of mine on Sakhmet, gentlemen,” he
proclaimed in a low, tense voice. “I polished them off.… Nor will
there be any finger-prints to guide you. The Goddess of Vengeance
strikes of her own volition and power, and no human hands are needed
to assist her in her acts of justice.”
Heath threw the Egyptian a glance of scathing contempt; but Vance
turned in his direction with a considerable show of interest.
“How do you know, Hani,” he asked, “that your sign-manuals will not
appear on the statue? It was you who placed it upon the cabinet
yesterday.”
“Yes, _effendi_,” the man answered, without taking his eyes from
Dubois. “I placed it there--but with reverence. I rubbed and polished
it from top to bottom when it was unpacked. And then I took it in my
hands and stood it on the top of the cabinet, as Bliss _effendi_ had
directed. But when it was in place I could see where my hands had made
marks upon its polished surface; and again I rubbed it with a chamois
cloth so that it would be pure and untouched while the spirit of
Sakhmet looked down sorrowfully over the stolen treasures of this
room.… There was no mark or print on it when I left it.”
“Well, my friend, there’s finger-prints on it now,” declared Dubois
unemotionally. He had taken out a powerful magnifying glass and was
centring his gaze on the thick ankles of the statue. “And they’re damn
clear prints, too.… Looks to me like they’d been made by some guy
who’d lifted up this statue.… Both hands show around the ankles.… Pass
me the camera, Bellamy.”
Bliss had paid scant heed to the entrance of the finger-print men, but
when Hani had begun to speak, he had roused himself from his
despondent lethargy and concentrated his attention on the Egyptian.
Then, when Dubois had announced the presence of finger-prints, he had
stared, with terrible intentness, at the statue. A startling change
had come over him. He was like a man in the grip of some consuming
fear; and before Dubois had finished speaking he leapt to his feet and
stood in a frozen attitude of stark horror.
“_God help me!_” he cried; and the sound of his voice sent a chill
over me. “Those are _my_ finger-prints on that statue!”
The effect of this admission was dumbfounding. Even Vance seemed
momentarily shaken out of his habitual calm, and going to a small
standard ash-tray he abstractedly crushed out his cigarette, though he
had smoked less than half of it.
Heath was the first to break the electric silence that followed
Bliss’s cry of anguish. He took his dead cigar from his lips, and
thrust out his chin.
“Sure, they’re your finger-prints!” he snapped unpleasantly. “Who
else’s would they be?”
“Just a moment, Sergeant!” Vance had wholly recovered himself, and his
voice was casual. “Finger-prints can be very misleadin’, don’t y’
know. And a few digital signatures on a lethal weapon don’t mean that
their author is necessarily a murderer. It’s most important, d’ ye
see, to ascertain when and under what circumstances the signatures
were made.”
He approached Bliss, who had remained staring at the statue of Sakhmet
like a stricken man.
“I say, doctor;”--he had assumed an easy, offhand manner--“how do you
know those finger-prints are yours?”
“How do I know?” Bliss repeated the question in a resigned, colorless
tone. He appeared to have aged before our very eyes; and his white,
sunken cheeks made him resemble a death’s-head. “Because--oh, my
God!--because I made them!… I made them last night--or, rather, early
this morning, before I turned in. I took hold of the statue--around
the ankles--exactly where that gentleman says there are the marks of
two hands.”
“And how did you happen to do that, doctor?” Vance asked quietly.
“I did it without thought--I’d even forgotten doing it till the
finger-prints were mentioned.” Bliss spoke with feverish earnestness:
he seemed to feel that his very life depended on his being believed.
“When I had finished arranging all the figures of the report early
this morning, at about three o’clock, I came down here to the museum.
I’d told Kyle about the new shipment, and I wanted to make sure that
everything was in order for his inspection.… You see, Mr. Vance, a
great deal depended on the impression the new treasures made on him.…
I looked over the items in that end cabinet, and then re-drew the
curtain. Just as I was about to depart I noticed that the statue of
Sakhmet had not been placed evenly on the top of the cabinet--it was
not in the exact centre, and was slightly sidewise. So I reached up
and straightened it--taking hold of it by the ankles.…”
“Pardon me for intruding, Vance,”--Scarlett, a troubled look on his
face, had stepped forward--“but I can assure you that such an act was
quite natural with Doctor Bliss. He’s a stickler for orderliness--it’s
a good-natured joke among the rest of us. We never dare leave anything
out of place: he’s constantly criticising us and rearranging things
after us.”
Vance nodded.
“Then, as I understand you, Scarlett, if a statue was left a bit
askew, it would be practically inevitable that Doctor Bliss, on seeing
it, would set it right.”
“Yes--I think that’s a reasonable conclusion.”
“Many thanks.” Vance turned again to Bliss. “Your explanation is that
you adjusted the statue of Sakhmet, by taking hold of its ankles, and
forthwith went to bed?”
“That’s the truth--so help me God!” The man searched Vance’s eyes
eagerly. “I turned out the lights and went up-stairs. And I’ve not set
foot in the museum till you knocked on my study door.”
Heath was obviously not satisfied with this story. It was plain that
he had no intention of relinquishing his belief in Bliss’s guilt.
“The trouble with that alibi,” he retorted doggedly, “is that you
haven’t got any witnesses. And it’s the sort of alibi any one would
pull when they’d got caught with the goods.”
Markham diplomatically intervened. He himself was patently not
convinced one way or the other.
“I think, Sergeant,” he said, “that it might be advisable to have
Captain Dubois verify the identity of those finger-prints. We’ll at
least know definitely then if the prints are the ones Doctor Bliss
made.… Can you do that now, Captain?”
“Sure thing.”
Dubois reached in the hand-bag and drew forth a tiny inked roller, a
narrow glass slab, and a small paper pad.
“I guess the thumbs’ll be enough,” he said. “There’s only one set of
hands showing on the statue.”
He ran the inked roller over the glass slab, and going to Bliss, asked
him to hold out his hands.
“Press your thumbs on the ink and then put ’em down on this paper,” he
ordered.
Bliss complied without a word; and when the impressions had been made
Dubois again placed the jeweller’s-glass in his eye and inspected the
marks.
“Looks like ’em,” he commented. “Ulnar loops--same like those on the
statue.… Anyhow, I’ll check ’em.”
He knelt down beside the statue and held the pad close to its ankles.
For a minute or so he studied the two sets of finger-prints.
“They match,” he announced at length. “No doubt about it.… And there
ain’t another visible mark on the statue. This gentleman”--he gestured
contemptuously toward Bliss--“is the only person who’s laid hands on
the statue, so far as I can see.”
“That’s bully with me,” grinned Heath. “Let me have the enlargements
as soon as you can--I got a feeling I’m going to need ’em.” He took
out a fresh cigar and bit the end off with gloating satisfaction. “I
guess that’ll be all, Captain. Many thanks.… Now you can go and
victual up.”
“And let me tell you I need it.” Dubois passed his camera and
paraphernalia to Bellamy, who packed them with stodgy precision; and
the two of them walked noisily out of the museum.
Heath finally got his cigar going, and for several moments stood
puffing on it voluptuously, one eye cocked at Vance.
“That sorta sews things up--don’t it, sir?” he asked. “Or maybe you’ve
swallowed the doctor’s alibi.” He addressed himself to Markham. “I put
it up to you, sir. There’s only one set of finger-prints on that
statue; and if those prints were made last night, I’d like to have
somebody drive up in a hearse and tell me what became of the
finger-prints of the bird who cracked Kyle over the head. Kyle was hit
with the top of the statue, and whoever did it musta had hold of it by
the legs.… Now, Mr. Markham, I ask you: is any one going to rub off
his own finger-prints and leave those of the doctor? He couldn’t have
done it if he’d wanted to.”
Before Markham could reply, Vance spoke.
“How do you know, Sergeant, that the person who killed Mr. Kyle
actually wielded the statue?”
Heath gave Vance a look of amazement.
“Say! You don’t seriously think, do you, that this lion-headed dame
did the job by herself--like this Yogi says?” He jerked his thumb at
Hani without turning his eyes.
“No, Sergeant.” Vance shook his head. “I haven’t yet gone in for the
supernatural. And I don’t think the murderer erased his finger-prints
and left those of Doctor Bliss. But I do think, d’ ye see, that
there’s some explanation which will account for all the contradict’ry
phases of this astonishin’ case.”
“Maybe there is.” Heath felt that he could be tolerant and
magnanimous. “But I’m pinning my opinion on finger-prints and tangible
evidence.”
“A very dangerous procedure, Sergeant,” Vance told him, with unwonted
seriousness. “I doubt if you could ever get a conviction against
Doctor Bliss on the evidence you possess. It’s far too obvious--too
imbecile. You’re bogged with an _embarras de richesse_--meanin’ that
no sane man would commit a crime and leave so many silly bits of
damnin’ evidence around.… And I believe Mr. Markham will agree with
me.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Markham dubiously. “There’s something in what
you say, Vance; but on the other hand----”
“Excuse _me_, gentlemen!” Heath had suddenly become animated. “I gotta
see Hennessey--I’ll be back in a minute.” And he stalked with vigorous
determination to the front door and disappeared.
Bliss, to all appearances, had taken no interest in this discussion of
his possible guilt. He had sunk back in his chair, where he sat
staring resignedly at the floor--a tragic, broken figure. When the
Sergeant had left us he moved his head slowly toward Vance.
“Your detective is fully justified in his opinion,” he said. “I can
see his point of view. Everything is against me--everything!” His
tone, though flat and colorless, was bitter. “If only I hadn’t fallen
asleep this morning, I’d know the meaning of all this.… My scarab-pin,
that financial report, those finger-prints.…” He shook his head like
a man in a daze. “It’s damnable--damnable!” His trembling hands went
to his face, and he placed his elbows on his knees, bending forward in
an attitude of utter despair.
“It’s too damnable, doctor,” Vance replied soothingly. “Therein lies
our hope of a solution.”
Again he walked to the cabinet and remained for some time in
_distrait_ contemplation. Hani had returned to his ascetic adoration
of Teti-shiret; and Scarlett, frowning and unhappy, was pacing
nervously up and down between the delicate state chair and the shelves
holding the _shawabtis_. Markham stood in a brown study, his hands
clasped behind him, gazing at the shaft of sunshine which had fallen
diagonally through the high rear windows.
I noted that Hennessey had silently entered the main door and taken
his post on the stair landing, one hand resting ominously in his right
coat pocket.
Then the little metal door at the head of the iron spiral stairs swung
open, and Heath appeared at the entrance to Doctor Bliss’s study. One
hand was behind him, out of sight, as he descended to the floor of the
museum. He walked directly to Bliss and stood for a moment glowering
grimly at the man whose guilt he believed in. Suddenly his hand shot
forward--it was holding a white canvas tennis shoe.
“That yours, doctor?” he barked.
Bliss gazed at the shoe with perplexed astonishment.
“Why… yes. Certainly it’s mine.…”
“You bet your sweet life it’s yours!” The Sergeant strode to Markham
and held up the sole of the shoe for inspection. I was standing at the
District Attorney’s side, and I saw that the rubber sole was
criss-crossed with ridges and that there was a pattern of small hollow
circles on the heel. But that which sent an icy breath of horror
through me was the fact that the entire sole was red with dried blood.
“I found that shoe in the study, Mr. Markham,” Heath was saying. “It
was wrapped in a newspaper at the bottom of the waste-basket, covered
up with all kinds of trash… hidden!”
It was several moments before Markham spoke. His eyes moved from the
shoe to Bliss and back again; finally they rested on Vance.
“I think that clinches it.” His voice was resolute. “I have no
alternative in the matter now----”
Bliss sprang to his feet and hurried toward the Sergeant, his
hypnotized gaze fastened on the shoe.
“What is it?” he cried. “What has that shoe to do with Kyle’s death…?”
He caught sight of the blood. “Oh, God in Heaven!” he moaned.
Vance placed his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Sergeant Heath found footprints here, doctor. They were made by one
of your canvas shoes.…”
“How can that be?” Bliss’s fascinated eyes were riveted on the bloody
sole. “I left those shoes up-stairs in my bedroom last night, and I
came down this morning in my slippers.… _There’s something diabolical
going on in this house._”
“Something diabolical, yes!--something unspeakably devilish.… And rest
assured, Doctor Bliss, I am going to find out what it is.…”
“I’m sorry, Vance,” Markham’s stern voice rang forth ominously. “I
know you don’t believe Doctor Bliss is guilty. But I have a duty to
perform. I’d be betraying the people who elected me if, in view of the
evidence, I didn’t take action.--And, after all, you may be wrong.”
(He said this with the kindliness of an old friend.) “In any event, my
duty is clear.”
He nodded to Heath.
“Sergeant, place Doctor Bliss under arrest, and charge him with the
murder of Benjamin H. Kyle.”