Manton Kent cleared his throat. “Is that all the writing you were able to recover?”
“Unfortunately, that is all. Except for the beginning of the letter.”
“You mean the name of the person to whom it was sent?”
“It was only ‘Dear Pal.’ ”
“Unfortunate,” exclaimed Manton Kent, and gave his attention to the woman’s shoe. The inspector eyed him closely; Kent’s demeanor was that of enthusiastic interest, and nothing more. Jessup turned.
“Suppose we see what experiments are being made with the gloves,” he suggested, and led the way with a pawlike hand on the suspect’s shoulders. Again he sought to break through possible armor. “Perhaps I shouldn’t dismiss that letter so lightly, because it really did aid us to some extent. It showed us the motive was a quarrel over blackmail. Tilliver had sent it to an old friend, apparently. That person evidently became wild with anger, rushed to Tilliver’s house, stealing the shoe and gloves on the way. There was a fight, or quarrel, at least a struggle—”
“I suppose you found chairs overturned and things like that?”
“No, nothing of the sort,” the officer answered blandly and explained no further. “As I say, there was a struggle, and the murderer drew a pistol, killed Tilliver, remembered that the letter might be incriminating evidence, threw it in the fireplace, ran from the house, dropped the shoe at the curb and threw away the gloves.”
“And after that?” asked Kent.
Jessup shrugged.
“You know as much about that as I do,” he answered with a grin. “Oh, here we are.” He nodded to another besmocked man, who was busily dousing a pair of kid gloves in a laboratory tray filled with slightly discolored water. Jessup asked, in routine fashion: “This is an experiment with Tilliver evidence, Mr. Graves?”
The scientist, tall, freckled, sandy-haired, turned quietly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind explaining it?”
“Not at all, sir. The object is to determine whether the murderer left his fingerprints on these gloves.” He raised one from the tray with a rubber-shielded hand. “As you see, I have immersed the evidence in a solution of three per cent nitrate of silver. I now place it upon this large blotter and put it under this lamp—”
“Which is?”
“Ultraviolet rays, sir.”
“And if there are fingerprints?”
“They will appear in a very few moments, of a brownish color, but perfectly detectable. Oh, by the way, a messenger asked me to give you this memorandum.”
The inspector took it, cupping it in his hand.
“Thank you,” came briefly. Then as the ultraviolet ray poured its weird light upon the saturated leather, Jessup glanced again at the memorandum:
To Inspector Jessup these numbers became ridges and lines and whorls and deltas, assembling themselves into a mental picture of the fingerprints of this dapper, coldly calm man beside him. If once, during this well-planned murder, there had been a slip, if, for instance, there had been no protective covering for Manton Kent’s fingers when these gloves were stolen, then the story would now be told.
Second after second the inspector waited. Twice he leaned forward as something brownish began to appear upon the white texture, only to draw back again.
“Only smudges,” said the scientist, “from grease or a like substance.”
“Yes, I see,” answered Jessup. “And that was our big chance to nail him.”
Kent turned swiftly.
“Him?” he asked. “Then you don’t think it was a woman?”
“Suppose we go over to the comparison microscope,” replied the inspector. “I’ll show you something interesting.”
Again a besmocked man awaited them. Jessup asked for the murder gun. It was forthcoming; an automatic, blue-steeled, ugly, with the serial number filed off, to prevent tracing. The inspector held it out to Kent, who looked at it intently.
“This was found in a trash can some ten blocks from the murder scene,” said Jessup. “You will note that it is a forty-five caliber. That is an extremely heavy gun for a woman to handle.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But how do you know it is the murder gun?”
“If you’ll come this way.” He moved a few feet to what appeared to be a double-barreled microscope, fitted with a single eyepiece. “The comparison microscope,” he said. “If you will remember, my theory is that there was a quarrel. Then Tilliver was shot. After the gun was found, a bullet was fired from it into a box of cotton, so that it might be recovered. Then the lethal bullet was extracted from the body of the murdered man.
“These two bullets were put on those prongs you see projecting beneath the lenses of the comparison microscope. Now, if you will look down through that eyepiece, you will see that the rifling of the gun barrel made distinctive marks on each of those bullets so that they exactly match.” Kent bent forward. “You can see better if you’ll take off your hat,” added the inspector.
Manton Kent obeyed.
“I don’t believe I quite get what you mean,” he said, staring through the eyepiece.
“Perhaps the bullets are not in alignment. Just move that thumb set either forward or backward until the bullets come together—”
“Oh, this little gadget here?”
“Yes.”
“Of course! I see the bullets begin to move, coming closer together—” Suddenly, with an ejaculation, he straightened, looking about him in surprised fashion. A hand went to the top of his head. “No bees around here?” he asked queerly.
“Bees? Why?”
“The queerest little jabbing pain hit me for an instant in the top of the head.” He rubbed his scalp. “It’s gone now.”
“Neuralgia?”
“Probably, although I never had it before.” Kent bent again to the microscope, moving the adjustment knobs until at last the two bullets seemed as one. “Remarkable!” he exclaimed.
Inspector Jessup touched him on an arm.
“Not half as remarkable as this final experiment,” he said. “You will remember that I mentioned one piece of evidence as pointing to a struggle. Let’s see how it is turning out in the hands of science.”
With a hand on Manton Kent’s arm, he led the way to another of the be-smocked clan that peopled this big room. This time the scientist was a squat, pale man with a flat voice. He was surrounded by test tubes, and chemical vials; a microscope stood before him.
Inspector Jessup went through his usual preliminary:
“May I inquire, Mr. Caruth, what experiment you are conducting, and if it is the Tilliver case?”
“It is in the Tilliver case,” came the toneless, precise voice, as the scientist raised a cellophane container. “I have here two human hairs, each alike in size, color, thickness, texture, chemical analyses and other characteristics both as to the fiber itself and to the follicles and adhering epithelia. One of these was found in the clutched hand of the murdered man, indicating that it had been torn from the head of the killer during a struggle. The other” — he looked up — “was, as you know, Inspector, just taken from the head of your guest as he bent over the comparison microscope.”
Manton Kent gasped. He whirled, hands outstretched. Wildly his eyes sought the doorway — but two special agents stood there. Then Inspector Jessup’s voice sounded, chilling in its cold courtesy:
“Will you please complete Mr. Kent’s tour — by showing him to the detention quarters?”
According to the Evidence
by Hugh Pendexter