The Sporting House Killing G. Powell (best free novels .TXT) 📖

Comparisons followed. Expressions of whispered wonder passed among them.

Miss Peach sketched her own whorls and arches on her notepad.

“Let’s have order,” the judge finally called.

Blair cleared his throat. “Detective, how did you employ this science to identify the murderer?”

“First, I made a careful drawing of the bloody print on a piece of cardboard. Then, using a pantograph”—he pulled the metal instrument from his pocket and expanded it—“I enlarged it ten times, so it would be more visible to the naked eye.”

“What did you do then?”

“I got a drinking glass and filled it with water. Then I went to the jail and paid a call on the defendant.”

“What did you do?”

“I said, ‘Here, young man, I’ve brought you some water,’ and then I handed it to him.”

“Did he take it?”

“Yes.”

“With which hand?”

Palmer held up his own. “His right.”

“Which side of the gun was the bloody finger mark on?”

“The right.”

“What did you do then?”

“I waited until he finished drinking, and then I took the glass back, careful to hold it by the bottom. I took it to my office whereupon I examined it under a magnifying glass.”

“Were there finger markings on the glass?”

“There were.”

“How many?”

“Several. Enough to make my comparison.”

“What did you do then?”

“I took another piece of cardboard and carefully drew the markings as I examined them under the magnifying glass. Then just as I had done with the drawing of the bloody finger mark, I enlarged them ten times using a pantograph. Finally, I laid the drawing of the bloody impression side by side with each of the six impressions from the drinking glass.”

Mr. Calloway began to rise.

“Detective Palmer,” Captain Blair continued, “tell the jury the result of your scientific investigation.”

Mr. Calloway’s hand flew up in a stopping motion. “Objection! This is hocus-pocus, not science. I’ve been practicing law for almost thirty years, and I’ve never seen any court allow finger smudge evidence like this nonsense. It’s not evidence at all. He might as well just pull a rabbit out of a hat and call it science.”

He wiggled both sets of fingers in front of him as if he were performing a magic trick.

Blair looked cool as a cucumber. “I have law, Your Honor.”

“Let’s have it,” the judge said.

Captain Blair took a law book to the bench and pointed to the relevant text.

Miss Peach exercised her cramping wrist. Finger marks. How interesting. Was this methodology a product of the progress of human knowledge, or was it no better than superstition?

While the judge read the case, Mr. Calloway spoke sarcastically. “I’ve never seen any case that permits a palm reader to testify, Judge. This is claptrap.”

“Well, Detective Palmer is a man of science,” countered Blair, his voice cracking, “and maybe you haven’t opened a law book in a while, Catfish.”

Mr. Calloway bowed up. “If our law books permit trial by soothsayer, then I haven’t missed a thing.”

“He can mock science if he wants—”

“Hang on, gentlemen,” the judge said, sliding the book across the bench to Mr. Calloway. “Have you read Clark against State of Texas?”

Mr. Calloway quickly scanned the case, flipped to the next page, and shook his head. “This is a case about footprints in the dirt that matched a defendant’s boot.” He slammed the book shut and gave it to Blair. “Doesn’t have anything to do with whorls and ridges on fingers.”

Blair’s back was to her but his arms waved with animation. “That opinion, and those cited in it, permitted comparisons of footprints, and fingerprints shouldn’t be any different. Except a finger leaves better prints because it’s got patterns on it, while a boot sole doesn’t.”

The judge was already nodding. “All right. I’ve never heard of such, but I can’t see why a footprint would be admissible yet a fingerprint wouldn’t. I’ll allow it.”

Mr. Calloway turned but shot a glare at the judge. “Note our exception.”

“You have your exception, counselor. Now sit down, and let’s get on with it.”

“And a running objection?” Mr. Calloway added.

“That too,” the judge said, scowling.

Blair resumed. “Detective Palmer, let me repeat my question to you. What was the result of your scientific investigation?”

Palmer fussed with his four-in-hand knotted tie so that it was perfectly aligned with the stripes in his silk vest. He lifted his chin toward the jury. “On the barrel of that gun stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of the helpless whore. There is only one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign: the defendant, Cicero Sweet.”

Cicero shook his head furiously.

Mr. Calloway sat stoically with his chin resting on steepled hands, lost in thought. He had to do something quickly, though. Blair was finished, and the judge and the jury were watching him expectantly. Detective Palmer had an infuriatingly smug expression.

Finally, Mr. Calloway rose. “Your Honor, this is the first we’ve heard of this finger smudge business. I request a recess.”

“Very well, court will be in recess for fifteen minutes.”

“Maybe until this afternoon, Judge?”

“No, sir. I’ll give you an hour. Gentlemen of the jury, be back in the deliberation room in one hour sharp.”

As soon as the judge and jury exited the courtroom, Mr. Calloway took off like a shot.

“Where are you going?” Harley shouted after him.

“To get something from the Growlery. Be back.”

“Can I help?” Harley asked, but he was already out the door.

Miss Peach gathered her things, perplexed. Mr. Calloway’s library was crammed with reading material. He was a voracious reader, even more so since Mrs. Calloway died, according to Harley. He had hundreds of books and stacks of magazines going back years. He read every issue of Harper’s, Munsey’s, and The Century cover to cover. He even subscribed to the British periodical The Strand. She’d enjoyed their discussions about that British detective Sherlock Holmes.

What could he possibly need from the Growlery?

She and Harley went next door to the Blackwell Hotel, where Harley brooded over a cup of coffee. Forty-five minutes later, they found Mr. Calloway already back in court at the counsel table, hunkered over some magazines.

“What are you reading?”