There was a moment’s silence. “I do not follow you, Mr. Murphey,” said the chief inspector, then. “It was to be expected that there might be blood drop from the weapon or from the hands of the assassin.”
Juan and Michael shook their heads, and Juan looked at the little man, nodding to him to continue.
“Let me explain, inspector,” said Michael in his wonderful voice. “The dagger was driven in to the hilt between the girl’s shoulders. Just that one blow. It pierced her heart.
“The weapon was not withdrawn. Bleeding at no time was great. It was internal. There was no blood whatever on the handle.
“In addition to that, there was the fact that the apex of the two drops which could be seen accurately — those near the door — were toward the door. You perceive, of course, the significance of that.”
Both inspectors looked as if they wished that they did, and he who was Michael to almost every one who knew him, went on: “I have made a study of blood drops, you may remember. Well, owing to the thickness of blood and the fact that it is warm when it falls and then congeals, we may often learn more from the disposal of a drop of it than we may from many other fluids.
“You see, if the weapon, hand, or person from which or whom the blood comes is moving away from a given point, the apex of the blood drops will be toward that point. The apex of the blood drops in the case in point were toward the door.
“Therefore, we believe that the girl herself opened the door, saw her danger, instinctively turned, was struck and that instant snatched up as she fell and swiftly put into the berth.
“The several drops near the bed had been smeared in the effort to obliterate them, but the drops near the door were intact.”
“She was in her night dress?” said the chief inspector, and they saw that he had instantly made the right deduction.
Chapter XIII
A Flying Bullet
“You see,” said Juan, “that the woman known as Annette Taylor must have known the man whom she admitted with such fatal results, for she was, as Michael Strogoff states — and he is one of the shrewdest judges of human nature of whom I know — a girl of very good moral character, and also a person of real refinement.
“She would have at least partially dressed if the man had not known her very well. As to that, Michael has brought you the sketches which he made of both of these people.”
The inspector looked carefully at the sketches which Michael handed him, and then nodded. “Undoubtedly, some relationship,” he stated.
“Both unknown to you?”
“To me, yes. But, of course—”
His shrug expressively outlined the great network of records and people which made up the vast organization. “We shall have them photographed and Bertilloned and finger-printed — the latter, in fact, has now been done. I expect the reports any moment.”
“Of course, we have taken one thing for granted,” said Juan, “and that is that the man from whom the girl fled in terror was also the man who killed her, but that I think we may consider a foregone conclusion.”
“It would seem so,” said the inspector, and just then there was a tap at the door and a young man walked in with some photographs in his hand.
“Here you are, then, Martin,” said the chief inspector, reaching for the photographs.
The man addressed as Martin placed a number of his prints on the desk, and laconically began describing them.
“Found on handle of dagger in girl’s back — Found on handle of knife in man’s breast — Found on door, inside and out, of girl’s cabin — Found on door of Don Jaime de Ventura’s suite.”
Juan and Michael and the two inspectors leaned over eagerly. The comparisons were easy, which they are not always. Even a person not used to comparing finger-prints would have known that certain prints were, or were not the same.
As they looked, Inspectors Cross and Hand, Juan Murphey, and the man mostly known as Michael Strogoff, all drew back and stared at each other. Then they bent over the photographs again, and at last stood up and shook their heads.
The sets of finger-prints on the kitchen knife, on which the man had fallen and thus killed himself, and the prints found on the handle of the door of Juan’s suite, were the same.
But there were entirely different prints on the dagger found in the body of the girl, and those same prints were on her cabin door.
In short, there was conclusive proof that the man who had attempted the midnight assassination of Don Jaime and probably his valet was not the man who committed the murder of Annette Taylor.
Juan groaned. “Oh, Lord — it’s one of those mixed-up cases. Michael, now we have got our work cut out for us!”
“Er… we are not entirely without interest in the matter, either,” Chief Inspector Cross murmured and, with a wry smile, Juan hastily turned to him to apologize.
“Of course, inspector. Pray, forgive me. That was a figure of speech, anyway. We shall all have to do our best — to assist Scotland Yard.”
The inspector was not devoid of humor, but he was not a laughing man. He just gave Juan a twinkle of his eye, and then said, very seriously: “Now it is a case of whether we can identify either of these dead people. How about the prints?”
“No record,” stated the terse Martin.
“We’ll see what America has to say, too,” said the inspector. “Perhaps one or both of these people may be known as criminals there. I shall be glad when this new international book of criminals is available. It is what the world ought to have.”
“You will see what you can do about Mrs. Batten?” said Juan, standing up to go. “I will, of course, speak of this visit to the Yard. It would be quite an event in the life of the man whom I am impersonating, and he would speak of the impression made on him; I shall do so.
“Please be careful, if any of the I. C. E. men have occasion to speak to me, should this become a real ‘case,’ that they address me wholly as Don Jaime — but I think that I ought to be identified by the Yard — in case I need help or can hand on information?”
“We do not usually work with the outside, as you know, but in the case of such eminent scientists as Mr. Lettner and Miss Smith, the graphologist, we are always interested — and with a detective of such a character as your own, we are glad to cooperate.”
“I appreciate this, for my colleagues and also for myself, inspector,” Juan replied. “I ought to tell you that I had one of my operatives come over on the steerage with me, who will endeavor to get work at the house next door to Mrs. Batten’s, a house where I expect to be a frequent guest.
“It will be quite easy for him to bring word here should I have something for you which ought not to be trusted to the mail. The telephone I will not use, of course; there are too many chances for a slip on that end.
“The man’s description will do you no good, but I will give you two words which he will know and which no one beside our own organization does know. ‘Hoofty goofty.’ ”
“What!”
“A name which originated in San Francisco, in the pioneer days. A famous ‘character’ used it, an irresponsible, shiftless, and yet interesting man, who was a daredevil and a vagabond.
“I gave it to this man because he usually assumes that character, but he is apt to appear as almost anything, and has dozens of dialects which he can use perfectly; so, as I say, his description would do you little good. But the words will identify him.”
“Your country is always full of amazing and amusing matters,” said Inspector Cross. “Some time I shall surely make you a visit.”