Bill’s lips were grim as he regarded mother and daughter across the room. Under cover of the table-top he patted his sister’s hand. But Lucy’s expression of hypnotic intensity did not change; and she did not take her eyes from the face of the older woman on the bench.
“Philip Orléans to the stand.”
The murmur that rose stilled like a subsiding wave. Every face was taut; even Judge Menander looked graver than usual. A tall thin man with the bony head and brilliant eyes of an ascetic took the stand quietly after being sworn in. Bill leaned forward, cupping his chin on one hand; he was as pale as Andrea. Behind him, on the witness bench, Ellery stirred a little and sank lower into the cushions. His eyes were on Pollinger, the keystone. Pollinger was superb. There was no hint of anything unusual in his manner. If anything, he was cooler and calmer than ever. “Mr. Orléans, you are a citizen of the Republic of France?”
“I am.” The tall thin man spoke nasally, with the suggestion of a Gallic accent. But his voice was cultured and assured.
“What is your official capacity in your own country?”
“I am of the Parisian Sûreté. I hold what corresponds to your portfolio of Chief of the Bureau of Criminal Identification in this country.”
Ellery saw Bill stiffen with horrified recognition. He found himself sitting straighter on the bench. He had not for a moment connected the name with the man. But now it came back to him. Orléans was one of the most famous names in the annals of modern criminological history — a man of international reputation, of unimpeachable honesty, with decorations for services rendered, from a dozen governments.
“You qualify, then, as an expert in criminal identification?”
The Frenchman smiled a little. “I shall be honored to relate to your court my credentials, Monsieur.”
“If you will be so kind.”
Ellery saw Bill licking his lips nervously; it was evident that the summoning of this distinguished witness had caught him completely off guard.
“I have made the science of criminal identification,” said Orléans easily, “my life work. For twenty-five years I have done nothing else. I studied under Alphonse Bertillon. I have the honor to be a personal friend and colleague of your Inspector Faurot. The cases in which I have lent my professional assistance—”
Bill was on his feet, pale but steady. “The defense grants the qualifications of the expert. We shall not challenge.”
The corner of Pollinger’s mouth lifted to the height of a millimeter. It was the only sign of triumph he made. He walked over to the exhibit table and picked up the paper-cutter found on the scene of the crime. A tag was attached to the haft, and its blade still showed dark streaky traces of Gimball’s blood. It was wonderful how cautious Pollinger was in handling the thing. He held it by its very tip, apparently undisturbed by the fact that his fingertips grasped a surface stained by human blood. And he waved it gently before him, like a conductor’s baton. Every eye in the room was fixed on the knife, as if the courtroom were indeed a concert hall and the audience a dutiful orchestra. “By the way, Mr. Orléans,” murmured Pollinger, “will you please explain for the benefit of defense counsel and the jury how you came to be a witness in this case?”
Bill’s eyes, like all others, were rooted on the knife; his skin had turned from gray to yellow. Lucy was staring at the blade with parted lips.
“Since May twentieth,” replied the Frenchman, “I have been touring your police departments. On June second I chanced to be in Philadelphia. I was visited by Chief De Jong of your city and asked for my opinion, as an expert, concerning certain evidence in this case. I was given several objects to examine. I am here to testify.”
“You were completely unaware, were you not, Mr. Orléans, of the prior findings of the Trenton police?”
“Completely.”
“You are receiving no fee for your services, sir?”
“A fee was offered.” The famous expert shrugged. “I declined. I do not accept emoluments while my duty lies elsewhere.”
“You are unacquainted with any of the persons — defendant, counsel, prosecution — in this case?”
“That is so.”
“You are testifying purely in the interests of truth and justice?”
“Precisely.”
Pollinger paused. Suddenly he brandished the paper-cutter before the expert. “Mr. Orléans, I show you State’s Exhibit 5. Is this one of the objects which you examined?”
“It is.”
“May I ask the exact nature of your examination?”
Orléans smiled faintly, his teeth gleamed. “I tested for fingerprints.”
“And you found?”
The man had a flair for drama. He did not reply at once. His brilliant eyes coolly surveyed the courtroom. Under the chandelier the skin of his bony forehead shone. The room was very still. “I found,” he said at last in a clear, emotionless voice, “the fingerprints of two persons. Let me designate them momentarily as A and B. There were more of A’s prints than of B’s. The exact number is as follows.” He consulted a memorandum. “Of A on the blade of the knife: One print of the pollex, two of the index, two of the medius, two of the annularis, one of the auricularis. Of A on the haft: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the blade: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the haft: One index, one medius, one annularis, one auricularis.”
“Let us confine ourselves to B, Mr. Orléans,” said Pollinger. “In what position did you find B’s prints on the haft of the knife? Were the prints scattered, or were they in any order?”
“Will you hold the knife up, please?” Pollinger did so, in such a way that the weapon was vertical to the floor, the haft uppermost. “B’s prints on the haft ranged from top to bottom in the order I have given: index highest, medius directly below index, annularis below medius, auricularis below annularis. They were all grouped very closely.”
“Suppose we translate the technical terms into their more familiar forms, Mr. Orléans. Is it correct to say that on the haft of this weapon, reading from top to bottom as I now hold it, you found the imprints of four fingers — forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, and little finger?”
“That is correct.”
“You have said these four were closely grouped. What is your interpretation, as an expert on fingerprints, of this grouping?”
“I should say there is no question but that B grasped the haft of this weapon in the usual manner in which a person would grasp it for a blow. The thumb-print would not show, since the thumb in this position normally overlaps the other fingers.”
“Were these all clear fingerprints? There is no possibility of their having been misread, so to speak?”
The Frenchman frowned. “The specific prints I have designated were clear enough. However, there were many indications of smudges which were unreadable.”
“Not on the haft?” asked the prosecutor hastily.
“Chiefly on the haft.”
“However, there is no possible doubt concerning the clear prints you have named belonging to B?”
“None whatever.”
“There are no other prints overlapping those prints of B’s on the haft?”
“No. There is a slight smudge here and there. But the prints are not covered with other prints.”
Pollinger’s eyes were narrow. He went to the exhibit table and picked up two little folders. “I show you now State’s Exhibit 10, the fingerprints taken from the dead hands of Joseph Kent Gimball, otherwise known as Joseph Wilson. Did you employ this set of fingerprints for comparison purposes in analyzing the prints on the weapon?”