“I did. Moar was bonded by a bonding company when he worked for a bank fifteen years ago. The bonding company required that fingerprints be filed with the application for a bond.”
“Oh,” Mason said, as though the information had knocked the props from under him.
“Any further cross-examination?” the Court asked.
Mason walked slowly forward, picked up the sheaf of fingerprint photographs from the clerk, said to Borge, “And do you have photographs of the fingerprints of Carl Moar, deceased, with you?”
Borge slipped a perspiring hand in a voluminous pocket and pulled out an envelope of photographs. “They’re all marked,” he said, grinning at Mason. “Help yourself.”
Mason studied the photographs for a minute, shuffled them around in his hands. Abruptly, he picked out one and said, “Now, the fingerprint shown in this photograph, Mr. Borge, what is that?”
“That,” Borge said, “represents the fingerprint of Morgan Eves. It’s evidently the fingerprint of the man who leased the apartment. I found lots of those fingerprints over various articles, bottles, glasses, on the wash stand in the bathroom, on shaving things, on suitcases, mirrors... The one which you have reference to was one of several taken from a pane of window glass. I found virtually a complete set of fingerprints there, where a man’s hand had pressed against the glass, in raising the window.”
Mason slipped the print to one side. “And these?” he asked. “Those are the fingerprints of Carl Moar, the ones taken from the corpse.”
“These?” Mason asked.
“Those are fingerprints of the woman I assume was acting as nurse for Roger P. Cartman.”
“And these?”
“Those are the fingerprints taken from the wheel chair. I assume they are Roger P. Cartman’s prints.”
Mason said suddenly, “Look here, you’re basing your testimony, not upon what these fingerprints really are, but on memoranda which you’ve written on the bottoms of the prints.”
“Well, of course,” Borge said, “I had to find, some way of keeping the photographs all straight. But I could take a magnifying glass and identify any of those fingerprints.”
“Could you,” Mason asked, “do that here in court?”
“Of course.”
Mason took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore a hole in it, and placed it over one of the photographs, so that only the portion showing the fingerprint was visible.
“Now then,” he said triumphantly, “let’s take that photograph, covered so that you can’t see the printing on it, and this photograph,” and Mason tore another hole in another piece of paper, covered another photograph, “and this one,” taking a third, “and see if you can identify those three fingerprints.”
“It would take a little time,” Borge objected.
“Take all the time you want,” Mason announced triumphantly.
Borge took a magnifying glass from his pocket, leaned over to study the fingerprints.
“And I’d have to consult certain data which I have in my notebook,” he said at length. “Two of these fingerprints are the same. I think they’re the fingerprints of Roger P. Cartman, I’m not certain.”
“Go right ahead,” Mason said.
The witness consulted his notebook, took a finely marked scale from his pocket, then looked up at the judge and nodded. “These two,” he said, indicating two photographs, “are both photographs of prints made by the right index finger of the man I assume was Roger P. Cartman, since I found his fingerprints on the wheel chair.”
Mason said, “Will you mark these right on the photographs, so there can be no mistake, with a cross in pen and ink?”
The witness, looking bored and contemptuous, took a pen from his pocket, made a cross on each of the photographs.
Mason triumphantly removed the paper and said, “Now, then, Mr. Borge, since you’ve qualified as an expert, and since you’ve said that any high school pupil knows that it’s impossible to confuse the fingerprints of two different people, will you kindly tell me how it happens that you have just identified a fingerprint made from the right index finger of Carl Moar, deceased, as being identical with a print of the right index finger of the man whom you have stated was Roger P. Cartman?”
Borge stared with incredulous eyes at the annotations on the two photographs. Scudder, jumping to his feet, hurried to the side of the witness.
Judge Romley regarded Mason with a puzzled frown. “Do I understand, Mr. Mason, that it is your contention the witness has confused two photographs?”
“No,” Mason said with a grin, “what your Honor should understand is that when my learned friend, the deputy district attorney, discovers the true significance of the testimony of this witness, the case against Anna Moar will be dismissed. Otherwise, the Prosecution will find itself confronted with the necessity of explaining to a jury in this case just how it happens the man the witnesses have sworn this defendant murdered on the night of the sixth instantly left fingerprints in a San Francisco flat on the afternoon of the seventh.”
“There’s trickery here someplace, your Honor,” Scudder said.
Mason smiled. “If Counsel is interested in discovering just where the trickery lies, I can give him two clues. One is that when Della Street stepped out on deck on the evening of the sixth, she inadvertently took a position almost exactly where Aileen Fell had been standing before she ran up to the boat deck. The second one is that at the time when the decedent, Moar, was about to sail from Honolulu, someone opened Moar’s locked suitcase and substituted a picture of Winnie Joyce, whom Miss Newberry greatly resembles, for a photograph of Belle Newberry. As for the rest, Counsel will have to figure it out for himself.”
Scudder bent forward to engage in a whispered conversation with Borge. Then, in a voice which showed all too plainly his bewilderment, said, “May I ask the Court for a brief recess? I wish to correlate certain facts.”
Judge Romley said, “Under the circumstances, I am quite certain there will be no objection to a brief continuance, Mr. Mason?”
Mason said, “I will not object to a continuance on only one condition, your Honor. The deputy district attorney has accused me of concealing witnesses. However, I have reason to believe that the deputy district attorney may have in custody a witness who has heretofore been subpoenaed by me as a witness for the Defense. I refer to an Evelyn Whiting, who acted as nurse for Roger Cartman.”
Judge Romley glanced at Scudder. “Do you have such a witness in custody?” he asked.
Scudder was visibly embarrassed.
“Why, your Honor,” he said, “I have been searching for Miss Whiting. She was apprehended by officers something over an hour ago. She is in my office. I have been interrogating her, but so far have had little success. I had no idea that she was a witness for Mr. Mason.”
“You will find that she has been regularly served with a subpoena,” Mason said, “and a return of service has been made and is on file with the clerk of this court. Under the circumstances, I demand an opportunity to examine her before this case is continued.”
“Is there any objection?” Judge Romley asked Scudder.
“Why, no, your Honor. I can only repeat I had no idea this woman was a witness.”
“How long will it take to get her here?” Judge Romley asked.
“Just a moment or two. She is at present held in the witness room. I think the bailiff can bring her here almost at once.”
While the bailiff was summoning Evelyn Whiting, Judge Romley regarded Perry Mason in puzzled scrutiny.
“Do I understand, Mr. Mason,” he asked, “that it is your contention that the body which I understand was found yesterday, and which has been identified as Carl Moar is not really the body of Carl Moar?”
“No, your Honor,” Mason said. “I gave an interview to the press last night in which I asserted that the body could not be that of Carl Moar. I did this solely because I wanted to force the Prosecution to use every means possible to get Moar’s fingerprints.”