“Can’t see them?”
“Sweat. Our skin exudes all manner of liquids, and those liquids leave a residue.”
“But if we can’t see them-”
“Watch.”
Kingsley leaned in over the top of the basin and opened his hand. He exhaled quickly, blowing charcoal powder over the razor. The bone-white surface of the handle turned grey. He grabbed the razor, holding it with his fingertips near the end where the handle tapered, and tipped it up, shaking loose dust off it. He set it on the countertop and blew on it, scattering more of the excess charcoal dust. He turned around and smiled at his daughter.
“You see?” he said.
Fiona nodded, but Hammersmith didn’t see anything unusual about the dirty razor. He leaned in closer and almost bumped heads with Day, who was leaning in at the same time.
“There are black smudges now,” Day said.
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “But they’re more complete than the blood smears were. Look at them closely.”
Blacker, who stood back from the others, cleared his throat.
“I think I understand,” he said. “If we catch the man who did this, we can compare the size of his fingertips to these smudges and prove that he held the murder weapon in his hand.”
“I should think a great many people would have the same size fingertips,” Day said. “I appreciate your diligence, Doctor, but I fail to see-”
“You didn’t look closely enough,” Kingsley said. “Here.”
He drew a magnifying lens from his vest pocket and handed it to Day. Day looked at the glass for a moment before using it to examine the razor’s handle. His expression made it clear to everyone that he was humoring the doctor, but his voice, when he bent over the basin, was an astonished whisper.
“Oh,” he said. “I see a pattern in the dust.”
“Yes,” Kingsley said. “Now look at your own fingertips. You don’t even need the glass to do it. Hold them up to the light.”
“Of course,” Hammersmith said. “Skin isn’t smooth.”
“That’s right, Constable. But what’s fascinating is that the minute patterns of the skin on your fingertips are different from those of our friend Inspector Day. Or from those of anyone else in this city. Quite possibly the entire world, although I don’t know how we would verify that.”
“Impossible,” Blacker said.
“I know,” Kingsley said. “It seems hard to reconcile, particularly when one takes into account how very small a fingertip is. But Faulds has done extensive research and experimentation on the subject and his findings are quite exciting. I have heard that authorities in India are considering the use of these fingertip patterns in identifying criminals. And there are other jurisdictions that may follow suit.”
“Excuse me,” Day said. “Please forgive me, but as interesting as this is, I fail to see how it helps us find the murderer.”
“Oh, it doesn’t, of course. But once found, his fingers might be compared to the smudges on this weapon. You could prove that he held the razor and that he used it.”
“He might only have shaved with it,” Hammersmith said.
Hammersmith tried to keep his manner casual, but he thought his voice sounded higher than normal.
“True,” Kingsley said. “I don’t think this would hold up in a court of law. But you might use it to coerce a confession, might you not?”
Day nodded and looked at Hammersmith.
“A demonstration much like this, perhaps dramatized a bit more colorfully so as to seem scientifically conclusive, might convince a suspect that there’s no hope for him.”
“Unless he’s got any sense,” Blacker said. “If he’s got a brain in his head, he’ll simply laugh at us.”
Kingsley appeared put out by the lack of enthusiasm. “It’s worth keeping in mind,” he said.
“Yes,” Day said. “Perhaps we should ensure that nobody else touches this razor until we have someone in custody and can compare their fingertips with these marks.”
“I agree,” Hammersmith said.
“Splendid,” Kingsley said. “I’ll wrap it in paper. Meanwhile, let’s have everyone who might have touched this come in here later today so I can eliminate their prints on the handle. I’ll wipe my own off of it and those of anyone else who might have come into contact with it, including the victim himself. Those prints remaining will have to belong to the killer.”
“Unless the killer has the same pattern of skin as his victim,” Blacker said. “Or as any one of us. I still say this is ridiculous.”
“Be that as it may,” Kingsley said.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Day said. “This may help us catch Inspector Little’s killer. And, even if it doesn’t, it’s been a fascinating exercise in itself.”
“Catch Little’s killer?” Kingsley said.
“Yes. We’re operating, for the moment, on the notion that this case may be related to that of the inspector’s death.”
“Oh, no,” Kingsley said. “I had no idea you thought that. There’s absolutely no chance of it. This killer and that killer are quite obviously different people.”
Blacker snorted, turned on his heel, and left the room.
“What’s got him upset?” Hammersmith said.
“He’s tired, is all,” Day said. “And he had such high hopes that we were on the right track.”
32
Message here aboutcher father.”
Sergeant Kett was waiting for them when they returned to the Yard.
“Whose father?” Day said.
“Him.”
Kett pointed at Hammersmith.
Blacker went to his desk, but Day waited with Hammersmith.
“Doctor at St Thomas’, Dr Brindle, wants you up there when you can, Constable,” Kett said.
Kett was usually businesslike, getting through the day on the back of his paperwork and sending the men where they needed to be as soon as they needed to be there. Day hadn’t known the sergeant long, but he was surprised to see pity on his long face.
“If you need the time today, that’d be all right with me, lad,” Kett said. “You look a fright.”
“Thank you, Mr Kett,” Hammersmith said. “Really, I think there’s too much for me to do here today. I can’t leave.”
Day held up a hand. He almost touched Hammersmith’s arm, but drew back. The constable radiated intensity.
“We can use your help, Hammersmith,” Day said, “but see to your father. We’ll still be here.”
“With all due respect, sir, I’d rather see this through before I deal with a personal issue.”
Kett frowned and handed over the telegram he was holding.
“Suitcherself,” he said. “I’m notcher mama. But don’t be gettin’ messages here if yer not gonna do anything about ’em.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And another thing-”
“Mr Hammersmith.”
The three men turned at the sound of Sir Edward’s voice. The police commissioner was standing across the room, outside his office door, looking their way.
“A moment of your time, please, Constable.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammersmith looked at Day, who shrugged. It was unusual for Sir Edward to speak directly to a bobby, but not entirely unheard of. Hammersmith pulled on the cuffs of his sleeves. He crossed through the partition and between the desks to the other side of the room. He preceded Sir Edward into the office and the door closed behind them.
“Huh,” Kett said.
“What does he want with Hammersmith?” Day said.
“Not a clue, lad,” Kett said. “But when you see the constable again, tell ’im I want a word. His mate Pringle’s late for his shift again.”
“That’s hardly Hammersmith’s responsibility.”
“Didn’t say it was and didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“Of course.”
Blacker was standing on the other side of Day’s desk when he got to it. It seemed to Day as if the stacks of files had grown again. He couldn’t see the surface of the desk at all.