“I’ve brought everything that seemed worth while,” Armadale explained. “I thought you might care to look at some of the things again, although you’ve seen them already.”
“That’s very good of you, Inspector. I should like to see some of them, as a matter of fact. Now suppose we begin with the fingerprints. They might suggest a few fresh ideas.”
“They seem to suggest more notions than I have room for in my head,” the Inspector confessed ruefully. “It’s a most tangled case, to my mind.”
“Then let’s start with the fingerprints,” the Chief Constable proposed. “At least they’ll settle some points, I hope.”
Armadale unwrapped a large brown-paper parcel.
“I got the lot without any difficulty; and last night we photographed them all and enlarged the pictures. They’re all here.”
“You took Foss’s, I suppose?”
“Yes, and I managed to find some of Maurice Chacewater’s too.”
“That’s pretty sharp work,” Sir Clinton complimented his subordinate. “How did you manage to make sure they were his?”
“I asked for his set of razors, sir, and took them from the blades. He’d left prints here and there of his finger and thumb, either on the blade or on the handle. Of course I couldn’t get anything else very sharp; but there are quite enough for the purpose, as you’ll see.”
He laid out three enlarged photographs on the desk before Sir Clinton; then, below each of the first two, he put down a second print.
“This first print,” he said, pointing to it, “represents the fingerprints we found on the automatic pistol. You can see that it’s the arch pattern on the thumb. Now here”—he indicated the companion print—“is Foss’s thumbprint; and if you look at it, you’ll see almost at a glance that it’s identical with the print on the pistol. They’re identical. I’ve measured them. And there are no other prints except Foss’s on the pistol.”
“Good,” said Sir Clinton. “ ‘And that, said John, is that.’ We know where we are so far as the pistol’s concerned. Pass along, please.”
“I’ve examined the pistol,” the Inspector continued. “It’s fully loaded in the magazine and has an extra cartridge in the barrel; but it hasn’t been fired recently so far as I can see.”
“Now for the next pair of prints,” Sir Clinton suggested.
“This represents the thumbprint from the sword, or whatever you call it,” said the Inspector. “Also prints of the two middle fingers of the right hand, found on the weapon. The second print of the pair shows identical fingerprints from a different source. The thumbprints in the two cases are not exactly alike, because you get only the edge of the thumb marked in the grip of a sword, whereas the other specimen gives a full imprint. But I think you’ll find they’re the same. I’ve measured them, too. You can see that the thumb pattern is a loop type, quite different from Foss’s prints; and there’s a trace of a tiny scar at the edge of the thumb in both these prints. I’d like you to compare them carefully, sir.”
Sir Clinton took up the two prints and scanned them with care, comparing the images point by point.
“There’s no mistake possible,” he said. “The two sets are identical, so far as I can see; and the scar on the thumb is a clinching bit of evidence.”
“You admit they’re from the same hand?” asked the Inspector, with a peculiar look at Sir Clinton.
“Undoubtedly. Now whose are the second set?”
The Inspector continued to look at his superior with something out of the common in his expression.
“The second set of prints came from Maurice Chacewater’s razors,” he said.
The Chief Constable’s lips set tightly and a touch of grimness showed in his face.
“I see we shall have to be quite clear about this, Inspector,” he said, bluntly. “By the look of you, you seemed to think I’d be taken aback by this evidence, because Mr. Chacewater is a friend of mine. I was taken aback—naturally enough. But if you think it’s going to make any difference to the conduct of this case—and I seemed to see something of the sort in your face—you can put that out of your mind once for all. The business of the police is to get hold of the murderer, whoever he may be. Friendship doesn’t come into these affairs, Inspector. So kindly don’t suspect me of anything of that kind in future. You know what I mean; I needn’t put it into words.”
Without giving Armadale time for reply, he picked up the last print.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the set of prints I took from the valet’s fingers,” the Inspector hastened to explain. “It corresponds to nothing I’ve found anywhere else. You can see it’s a whorl type on the thumb.”
Sir Clinton examined the print for a moment or two, then put it down.
“What about the box and the wristwatch?” he asked.
Inspector Armadale’s face showed that here he was puzzled.
“There’s nothing on either of them—not a recent mark of any description. And yet the man who packed them up must have fingered both things.”
“With gloves on, evidently.”
“But why gloves?” the Inspector demanded.
“Why gloves?” Sir Clinton echoed, rather sarcastically. “To avoid leaving fingerprints, of course. That’s obvious.”
“But why avoid leaving fingerprints on a thing that you’re sending to a jeweller for repair?”
“Think it over, Inspector. I won’t insult you by telling you my solution. Let’s take another point. Have you the watch itself here?”
The Inspector produced it and handed it over. Sir Clinton took out a pocketknife and opened the back of the case.
“No use,” he announced, after examining the back cover carefully. “It’s never been repaired. There are no reference marks scratched on the inside of the back as there usually are when a watch has gone back to the watchmakers. If there had been, we might have found out something about Foss in that way, by getting hold of the watchmakers. By the way, have you timed this thing as
