As Herrick clambered back to his feet, he saw Sperling standing in the doorway with the cardboard box under his arm and an amused smile on his lips. “That man’s foot is too small, Chief. I could’ve told you without measuring.”
Herrick gave the Sergeant an annoyed look and retreated behind his desk. “You can go,” he told Braun wearily.
“Does that mean I won’t be bothered any more?” the agent demanded.
“It means you can go now,” the Chief said snappishly. He was annoyed with himself at discovering that his nerves were on edge.
When Braun had gone, Sperling advanced into the office and placed the boxed plaster cast on the desk. “I drew a blank myself, Chief. John Shanken’s shoes weren’t the right size either. I went to his store and he made no fuss while I matched his shoe. His foot is too big by at least a size, so I didn’t bother going to his house to look at his other shoes.”
Herrick studied his fingernails. “You know more about these scientific methods than I do, Ray. How much confidence have you that footprint means anything?”
Sperling hesitated before answering. “If the murderer made that footprint, then Shanken is out.”
“If!” Herrick echoed. “That’s the trouble. You may be able to show that that footprint was made after the murder and not before. But you can’t prove to a jury’s satisfaction that it’s the murderer’s.”
“Well, Chief—” Sperling obviously did not want to put himself out on a limb. “If Shanken had made that footprint, it would at least prove that he had gone to the back door with Miss Lahey.”
“But it doesn’t prove that he didn’t,” Herrick muttered. He stood up in sudden decision. “Come with me, Ray. And bring that cast.”
They drove to 37 Oak Lane. Rose Engleberry was home alone. Evidently she had not dressed all day, for she still wore her nightgown and a robe and slippers. In ten hours she seemed to have aged ten years.
“When do you expect your husband home?” Herrick asked her.
“Usually he gets home a little after six, unless he works overtime,” she replied listlessly. “Do you want to wait for him?”
“You’ll do just as well. I’d like to get the events of last night clearer in my mind. You say you went to bed at about eleven?”
Her plump shoulders shrugged. “Around then. I’m not certain of the time, except that it was right after Dwight Braun left.”
“And your husband went to bed with you?”
She sat back in the corner of the couch and looked curiously at the Chief. “Why do you ask that question?”
“I’m anxious to pin down the time of the murder. I imagine it was after Mr. Engleberry went to bed or he would have heard something.”
“As a matter of fact, George stayed up a little while longer. He wanted to finish reading his paper.”
“Did you hear him go to bed?”
“No. I fell asleep practically at once. And as we have twin beds—” She stopped. A shadow crossed her face. “Why don’t you ask George?”
“I will,” Herrick said dryly. “Now, Mrs. Engleberry, I have a favor to ask. We found a footprint outside in the snow. If it belongs to Mr. Engleberry, whose footprints would naturally be all around the house, then we can eliminate it from consideration. May we see your husband’s shoes?”
She took some time to consider the request, then said doubtfully, “George, of course, is wearing a pair of his shoes. Hadn’t you better wait till he comes home?”
“We’re in a hurry. All we want to do is measure any of his shoes for size.”
“Well, all right.” She rose slowly. Herrick and Sperling followed her up the stairs.
In the bedroom, she rummaged in a closet and came out with a pair of heavy brogues. “Will these do?”
Sperling placed his box on the floor, untied the string and opened the lid. He scowled at the heavy shoes and solid leather heels and tried one for size. It seemed too wide.
He looked at Herrick and shrugged and then said to Mrs. Engleberry, “Are those the only extra shoes he has? What I need are a pair of dress oxfords with rubber heels.”
“He has only one good pair and he wears them to work. But there’s an old pair somewhere. Just a minute.” She dug into the closet again and this time came out empty-handed. “They’re not here. George may have thrown them out or perhaps they’re at the shoemaker’s.”
“When was the last time you saw them?” the Chief inquired.
Again the shadow crossed her face. She chewed on her lower lip. “Why don’t you ask George those questions? Anyway, it seems to me that all this bother about shoes is ridiculous.”
Sperling tied up his box. Herrick thanked Mrs. Engleberry for her cooperation and the two men left the house.
“Well Chief?” Sperling said when they were in the car. “He seems to wear the same size, but you can’t tell exactly from those heavy shoes. And we need more than size. We need positive identification. That wouldn’t be legal evidence even then, but it would be a lead. Should we drive over to the print shop where he works?”
The Chief closed his eyes in frustration. He had the thought that all day he had been running in circles.
“We might as well try it,” he said almost indifferently.
When they reached the Marvin Center Press on Division Street, they learned that George Engleberry had left five minutes before. Sperling said, “We must have passed him on the way. Should we go back to his house?”
“Why not?”
More lights were on in Number 37 than there had been ten minutes before. A cream-colored sedan was parked in the driveway. The door was again opened by Mrs. Engleberry. She started at the sight of the two policemen.
“Why are you back?”
Herrick said placatingly, “We still want to ask your husband those questions and we noticed his car outside.”
His manner seemed to reassure her. “He’s down in the cellar tending the furnace.” She raised her voice. “George, come up here.”
“Who is it?” a voice came hollowly.
“Please come up.”
“Just a minute.”
As Herrick waited in the hall with Sperling and Mrs. Engleberry, an urgent feeling that he should be doing something came over him. Almost without thought, he started down the hall toward the kitchen.
He was in the kitchen when Engleberry appeared through the cellar door. The man drew back as if from a blow. His deep-set eyes were wild, his cheeks pinched.
“What do you want?” he asked hoarsely.
Herrick’s gaze was drawn down to Engleberry’s feet — to the worn, split shoes. They didn’t go with the clean neatness of the rest of his clothes, and his wife said he wore good shoes to work.
“Are those the shoes you wore all day?” the Chief demanded.
“I—” Engleberry’s eyes dropped to his feet. He started to shake. “Sure, I wore those shoes to work. They’re comfortable.” His voice rose stridently. “What’s the matter — can’t I wear any shoes I want?”
Herrick snapped, “Keep your eyes on him, Ray,” and pushed past Engleberry and rushed down the cellar steps. Behind him he heard Mrs. Engleberry utter a choked cry.
When the Chief reached the cellar, he paused in indecision. Engleberry’s manner had been that of a man very badly frightened, but how much did that mean? And if it did mean anything, how sure could he be that there was anything to be found here in the cellar?
His eyes fell on the coal furnace. He was hardly breathing as he pulled the door open. A little sigh escaped him at what he saw on the glowing coals. Quickly he snatched up a shovel and a poker.