The Gloved Hand by Burton Egbert Stevenson (ebook reader web txt) 📖

This may be the handkerchief."

Again a little shiver ran through the crowd, and Goldberger's eyes were gleaming.

"You notice that two corners of the handkerchief are free from stain," he said, "and are crumpled as though they had been tied in a knot. The handkerchief Miss Vaughan used would probably be in that condition, would it not?"

"Yes," Swain answered, his voice still low.

"You heard Dr. Hinman testify that he found the handkerchief beside the chair in which Mr. Vaughan was murdered?"

"Yes."

"Can you explain its presence there?"

"I cannot, unless it dropped from my wrist when I stooped to raise Miss Vaughan."

Goldberger looked at the witness for a moment, then he glanced at Sylvester, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

"That is all for the present, Mr. Swain," the coroner said, and Swain sat down again beside me, very pale, but holding himself well in hand.

Then Simmonds took the stand. His story developed nothing new, but he told of the finding of the body and of its appearance and manner of death in a way which brought back the scene to me very vividly. I suspected that he made his story deliberately impressive in order to efface the good impression made by the previous witness.

Finally, the coroner dipped once more into the suit-case, brought out another bundle and unrolled it. It proved to be a white robe with red stains about the top. He handed it to Simmonds.

"Can you identify this?" he asked.

"Yes," said Simmonds; "it is the garment worn by Mr. Vaughan at the time of his murder."

"How do you identify it?"

"By my initials in indelible ink, on the right sleeve, where I placed them."

"There are stains on the collar of the robe. What are they?"

"Blood-stains."

"Human blood?"

"Yes, sir."

"How do you know?"

"I have had them tested."

"Did any blood come from the corpse?"

"No, sir; the skin of the neck was not broken."

"Where, then, in your opinion, did this blood come from?"

"From the murderer," answered Simmonds, quietly.

There was a sudden gasp from the reporters, as they saw whither this testimony was tending. I glanced at Swain. He was a little paler, but was smiling confidently.

Goldberger, his face hawklike, stooped again to the suit-case, produced a third bundle, and, unrolling it, disclosed another robe, also of white silk. This, too, he handed to Simmonds.

"Can you identify that?" he asked.

"Yes," said Simmonds. "It is the robe worn by Miss Vaughan on the night of the tragedy. My initials are on the left sleeve."

"That also has blood-marks on it, I believe?"

"Yes, sir;" and, indeed, we could all perceive the marks.

"Human blood?"

"Yes, sir. I had it tested, too."

"That is all," said Goldberger, quickly, and placed on the stand the head of the Identification Bureau.

"Mr. Sylvester," he began, "you have examined the marks on these garments?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you make of them?"

"They are all unquestionably finger-marks, but most of them are mere smudges. However, the fabric of which these robes are made is a very hard and finely-meshed silk, with an unusually smooth surface, and I succeeded in discovering a few marks on which the lines were sufficiently distinct for purposes of identification. These I have photographed. The lines are much plainer in the photographs than on the cloth."

"Have you the photographs with you?"

"I have," and Sylvester produced them from a pocket. "These are the prints on the robe belonging to the murdered man," he added, passing four cards to the coroner. "You will notice that two of them show the right thumb, though one is not very distinct; another shows the right fore-finger, and the fourth the right middle-finger."

"You consider these plain enough for purposes of identification?"

"Undoubtedly. Any one of them would be enough."

Goldberger passed the photographs to the foreman of the jury, who looked at them vacantly.

"And the other photographs?" he asked.

"I got only two prints from the other robe," said Sylvester. "All but these were hopelessly smudged, as though the hand had moved while touching the garment."

"You mean they were all made by one hand?" asked Goldberger.

"Yes, sir; by the right hand. Again I have a print of the thumb and one of the third finger."

He passed the photographs over, and again Goldberger handed them on to the jury.

"Mr. Sylvester," said the coroner, "you consider the finger-print method of identification a positive one, do you not?"

"Absolutely so."

"Even with a single finger?"

"Perhaps with a single finger there may be some doubt, if there is no other evidence. Somebody has computed that the chance of two prints being exactly the same is one in sixty-four millions."

"And where there is other evidence?"

"I should say that a single finger was enough."

"Suppose you have two fingers?"

"Then it is absolutely certain."

"And three fingers?"

Sylvester shrugged his shoulders to indicate that proof could go no further. Goldberger took back the photographs from the foreman of the jury and ranged them before him on the table.

"Now, Mr. Sylvester," he said, "did you notice any correspondence between these prints?"

"Yes," answered the witness, in a low voice; "the thumb-prints on both robes were made by the same hand."

The audience sat spell-bound, staring, scarce breathing. I dared not glance at Swain. I could not take my eyes from that pale-faced man on the witness-stand, who knew that with every word he was riveting an awful crime to a living fellow-being.

"One question more," said Goldberger. "Have you any way of telling by whom these prints were made?"

"Yes," said Sylvester again, and his voice was so low I could scarcely hear it. "They were made by Frederic Swain. The prints he made just now correspond with them in every detail!"

CHAPTER XV THE CHAIN TIGHTENS

An instant's silence followed Sylvester's words, and then a little murmur of interest and excitement, as the reporters bent closer above their work. I heard a quick, deep intaking of the breath from the man who sat beside me, and then I was on my feet.

"Your Honour," I said to Goldberger, "it seems that an effort is to be made to incriminate Mr. Swain in this affair, and he should therefore be represented by counsel. I myself intend to represent him, and I ask for an hour's adjournment in order to consult with my client."

Goldberger glanced at his watch.

"I intended to adjourn for lunch," he said, "as soon as I had finished with Mr. Sylvester. We will adjourn now, if you wish—until one-thirty," he added.

The battery of cameras was clicking at Swain, and two or three artists were making sketches of his head; there was a great bustle as the reporters gathered up their papers and hurried to their cars to search for the nearest telephone; the jury walked heavily away in charge of an officer to get their lunch at some near-by road-house; Sylvester was gathering up his prints and photographs and putting them carefully in his pocket; Simmonds was replacing the blood-stained clothing in the suit-case, to be held as evidence for the trial; but Swain sat there, with arms folded, staring straight before him, apparently unconscious of all this.

Goldberger looked at him closely, as he came down to speak to me, but Swain did not glance up.

"I can parole him in your custody, I suppose, Mr. Lester?" the coroner asked.

"Yes; certainly," I assented.

"Sylvester's evidence makes it look bad for him."

"Will you introduce me to Sylvester? I should like to go over the prints with him."

"Certainly;" and, a moment later, with the prints spread out before us, Sylvester was showing me their points of similarity.

Godfrey came forward while he was talking and stood looking over his shoulder.

I had heard of finger-print identification, of course, many times, but had made no study of the subject, and, I confess, the blurred photographs which Sylvester offered for my inspection seemed to me mighty poor evidence upon which to accuse a man of murder. The photographs showed the prints considerably larger than life-size, but this enlargement had also exaggerated the threads of the cloth, so that the prints seemed half-concealed by a heavy mesh. To the naked eye, the lines were almost indistinguishable, but under Sylvester's powerful glass they came out more clearly.

"The thumb," said Sylvester, following the lines first to the right and then to the left with the point of a pencil, "is what we call a double whorl. It consists of fourteen lines, or ridges. With the micrometer," and he raised the lid of a little leather box which stood on the table, took out an instrument of polished steel and applied it to one of the photographs, "we get the angle of these ridges. See how I adjust it," and I watched him, as, with a delicate thumbscrew, he made the needle-like points of the finder coincide with the outside lines of the whorl. "Now here is a photograph from the other robe, also showing the thumb," and he applied the machine carefully to it. "It also is a double whorl of fourteen lines, and you see the angles are the same. And here is the print of the right thumb which your client made for me." He applied the micrometer and drew back that I might see for myself.

"But these photographs are enlarged," I objected.

"That makes no difference. Enlargement does not alter the angles. Here are the other prints."

He compared them one by one, in the same manner. When he had finished, there was no escaping the conviction that they had been made by the same hand—that is, unless one denied the theory of finger-print identification altogether, and that, I knew, would be absurd. As he finished his demonstration, Sylvester glanced over my shoulder with a little deprecating smile, as of a man apologising for doing an unpleasant duty, and I turned to find Swain standing there, his face lined with perplexity.

"You heard?" I asked.

"Yes; and I believe Mr. Sylvester is right. I can't understand it."

"Well," I said, "suppose we go and have some lunch, and then we can talk it over," and thanking Sylvester for his courtesy, I led Swain away. Godfrey fell into step beside us, and for some moments we walked on in silence.

"There is only one explanation that I can see," said Godfrey, at last. "Swain, you remember, got to the library about a minute ahead of us, and when we reached the door he was lifting Miss Vaughan to the couch. In that minute, he must have touched the dead man."

Swain shook his head doubtfully.

"I don't see why I should have done that," he said.

"It isn't a question of why you did it," Godfrey pointed out. "It's a question of whether you did it. Go over the scene in your mind, recalling as many details as you can, and then we'll go over it together, step by step, after lunch."

It was a silent meal, and when it was over, Godfrey led the way into his study.

"Now," he began, when we were seated, "where was Miss Vaughan at the moment you sprang through the door?"

"She was lying on the floor by the table, in front of her father's chair," Swain replied.

"You are sure of that?"

"Yes; I didn't see her until I ran around the table."

"I was hoping," said Godfrey, "that she had fainted with her arms clasped about her father's neck, and that, in freeing them, you made those marks on his robe."

But Swain shook his head.

"No," he said; "I'm positive I didn't touch him."

"Then how did the marks get there?"

"I don't know," said Swain helplessly.

"Now, see here, Swain," said Godfrey, a little sternly, "there is only one way in which those finger-prints could have got on that garment, and that is from your fingers. If you didn't put them there consciously, you must have done so unconsciously. If they aren't explained in some way, the jury will very probably hold you responsible for the crime."

"I understand that," Swain answered thickly; "but how can they be explained? I don't see why I should put my hands on Mr. Vaughan's throat, even unconsciously. And then there's the fact that at no time during the evening was I really unconscious—I was only confused and dazed."

"Goldberger's theory is plain enough," said Godfrey, turning to me; "and I must say that it's a good one. He realises that there wasn't provocation enough to cause a man like Swain to commit murder, with all his senses about him; but his presumption is that the crime was committed while Swain was in a dazed condition and not wholly self-controlled. Such a thing is possible."

"No, it isn't!" cried Swain, his face livid. "It isn't possible! I'm not a murderer. I remember everything else—do you think I wouldn't remember a thing like that!"

"I don't know what to think," Godfrey admitted, a straight line between his brows. "Besides, there's the handkerchief."

"I don't see any mystery about that," said Swain. "There's only one way that could have come there. It dropped from