“I did.”
“Will you please clarify your findings for the jury as regards these arbitrary classifications of the two sets of prints on the knife as A and B?”
“The prints I have designated as A are the prints of your Exhibit 10.”
“In other words, A’s prints were Joseph Kent Gimball’s prints?”
“That is so.”
“Would you care to explain in greater detail?”
“There is this to say. On both haft and blade of the knife appear prints of the fingers of both Gimball’s hands.”
Pollinger paused. Then he said: “I now show you, Mr. Orléans, State’s Exhibit 11. Will you follow the same procedure as regards this exhibit?”
Orléans said evenly: “The prints I have designated as B are identical with those recorded in State’s Exhibit 11.”
“Any clarification?”
“Yes. B’s prints on the blade come from the left hand. B’s prints on the haft come from the right hand.”
“May I ask you to read for the benefit of the jury the caption on State’s Exhibit 11?”
Orléans took the little folder from Pollinger’s hand. He read quietly: “State’s Exhibit 11. Fingerprint recording. Lucy Wilson.”
Pollinger walked away, saying between his teeth, “You may examine, Counsel.”
Ellery sat unmoving as Bill Angell placed his palms on the surface of the round table, pushed in a tired way, and rose. He looked like a dead man. Before he left the table he turned and smiled down at his sister, who seemed turned to stone. The smile was so grotesque, so courageous, so mechanical, that Ellery averted his eyes. Then Bill walked to the witness box and said, “Mr. Orléans, there is no reservation in the minds of the defense regarding your authority as a fingerprint expert. We appreciate your unselfish services in the interests of truth. For that reason—”
“I object,” said Pollinger coldly, “to Counsel’s making a speech.”
Judge Menander cleared his throat. “I suggest that you proceed with your cross-examination, Counsel.”
“I mean to do so at once, Your Honor. Mr. Orléans, you have testified that Lucy Wilson’s fingerprints appear on the knife with which Joseph Kent Wilson was murdered. You have also testified that on the knife there were many indications of smudged prints which were unreadable, have you not?”
“That is not quite what I said, sir,” replied Orléans courteously. “I said there were many indications of smudges.”
“Not smudges such as might have been made by fingers?”
“The smudges were unreadable. They could not have been made by naked fingers.”
“But they could have been made by fingers encased in some manufactured substance?”
“Conceivably.”
“Such as fingers encased in gloves?”
“It is possible.”
Pollinger looked angry; a little color seeped back into Bill’s cheeks. “You also testified, Mr. Orléans, that most of these smudges were on the haft?”
“Yes.”
“It is by the haft that a person wishing to wield a knife in the normal manner will grasp it?”
“Yes.”
“And there were smudges of this peculiar nature over the fingerprints of Lucy Wilson on the haft?”
“Yes.” The expert stirred. “But I must refuse to go on record, sir, as specifying the nature of those smudges. I cannot tell what made them. I do not believe science can tell. The best we can do is hazard a guess.”
“Were these smudges on the haft in the shape of fingertips?”
“They were not. They were blurring marks in irregular shapes.”
“Such as might have occurred if a gloved hand grasped the haft?”
“I say again: It is possible.”
“And these smudges are over Lucy Wilson’s prints?”
“Yes.”
“Indicating that someone handled that haft after she did?”
The Frenchman showed his teeth again. “I cannot say that, sir. The smudges may have been caused by no human agency. If the knife had been wrapped loosely in tissue, for example, and placed in a box, and the box had received a shaking, the smudges may have so occurred.”
Bill paced up and down. “You have also testified, Mr. Orléans, that Lucy Wilson’s prints on the haft were so grouped as to suggest she grasped the knife for a blow. Don’t you believe that pushes forward an unwarrantable conclusion?”
Orléans frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Might not a person pick up a knife merely to examine it and still leave such prints grouped as you found them?”
“Oh, naturally. I was merely exemplifying the nature of the grouping.”
“Then you cannot as an expert certainly say that Lucy Wilson used that knife for lethal purposes?”
“But of course I cannot. My concern is with the fact, sir. The fact you cannot change. The interpretation—” He shrugged.
As Bill walked away Pollinger leaped to his feet. “Mr. Orléans, you found Lucy Wilson’s prints on this knife?”
“Yes.”
“You have sat in this courtroom and heard it testified that the knife was purchased only the day before the crime by the victim himself, that it was found not in his Philadelphia home but in the shack in which he was murdered, in its original wrappings, with a gift card made out in the hand not of Lucy Wilson but of the victim, with—?”
“Object!” stormed Bill. “Object! This is not proper—”
“That’s all,” said Pollinger with a quiet smile. “Thank you, Mr. Orléans. Your Honor,” he paused and drew a deep breath, “the State rests.”
Bill whirled and demanded a dismissal of the charges. But the testimony of the French fingerprint expert had completely changed the complexion of the case. Judge Menander refused. Bill was flushed; he was very angry and breathing hard. “Your Honor, the defense requests an adjournment. The testimony of the last witness comes as a complete surprise. We have not had an opportunity to examine into the subject-matter of the testimony, and ask for one.”
“Granted.” The Judge rose. “Adjourned until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”
When Lucy had been taken away and the jury had filed out, the press-box exploded. With feverish haste the newspaper people scrambled out of the courtroom.
Bill looked limply at Ellery; then his eyes flashed across the room. Andrea Gimball was staring at him with a cloudy, tight-lipped anguish. He looked away. “Bombshell. Lucy didn’t say—”
Ellery took his arm gently. “Come on, Bill. There’s work to do.”
The red-haired woman found Ellery smoking thoughtfully on a bench behind the Old State House overlooking the placid river. Bill Angell patrolled the walk before the bench with a ceaseless and inhuman energy. The night sky was smoky with heat.
“So there you are,” she said cheerfully, dropping beside Ellery. “Bill Angell, you’ll wear your soles away. In this swelter, too! And I don’t mind telling you that every news hawk in the world is looking for you. Eve of the defense, and what not... I suppose,” she said suddenly, “I ought to shut up.”
There was a gaunt and indrawn look imprinted on the yellowed skin of Bill’s face. His eyes were two sullen lights at the bottom of red-rimmed wells. All afternoon and evening he had been calling in experts, sending out investigators, rounding up witnesses, conferring with colleagues, making innumerable telephone calls. He should have been reeling with fatigue.
“You’re not doing yourself or Lucy any good, going on this way, Bill,” said Ella in a subdued voice. “First thing you know you’ll wake up in a hospital, and then where will the poor thing be?”
Bill’s legs continued to pump. The red-haired woman sighed and crossed her long legs. From the river came a girl’s empty shout and the deep laughter of a man. The State House behind them was quiet, squatting on the dark lawns like an old bullfrog. Bill flung his hands up suddenly and waved them at the smoky sky. “If only she had told me!”