I opened the door and took the cage from the groom, who had brought it up from the stable and stood waiting with it some distance away.
“This test is very simple, Doctor Putnam,” continued Craig, as I placed the cage on the table and Kennedy unwrapped the sterilised test-tubes. “A rabbit is inoculated with human blood, and after a time the serum that is taken from the rabbit supplies the material for the test.
“I will insert this needle in one of these rabbits which has been so inoculated and will draw off some of the serum, which I place in this test-tube to the right. The other rabbit has not been inoculated. I draw off some of its serum and place that tube here on the left—we will call that our ‘control tube.’ It will check the results of our tests.
“Wrapped up in this paper I have the scrapings of the spot which I found on the floor—just a few grains of dark, dried powder. To show how sensitive the test is, I will take only one of the smallest of these minute scrapings. I dissolve it in this third tube with distilled water. I will even divide it in half, and place the other half in this fourth tube.
“Next I add some of the serum of the uninoculated rabbit to the half in this tube. You observe, nothing happens. I add a little of the serum of the inoculated rabbit to the other half in this other tube. Observe how delicate the test is—”
Kennedy was leaning forward, almost oblivious of the rest of us in the room, talking almost as if to himself. We, too, had riveted our eyes on the tubes.
As he added the serum from the inoculated rabbit, a cloudy milky ring formed almost immediately in the hitherto colourless, very dilute blood-solution.
“That,” concluded Craig, triumphantly holding the tube aloft, “that conclusively proves that the little round spot on the hardwood floor was not paint, was not anything in this wide world but blood.”
No one in the room said a word, but I knew there must have been someone there who thought volumes in the few minutes that elapsed.
“Having found one blood-spot, I began to look about for more, but was able to find only two or three traces where spots seemed to have been. The fact is that the blood spots had been apparently carefully wiped up. That is an easy matter. Hot water and salt, or hot water alone, or even cold water, will make quite short work of fresh blood-spots—at least to all outward appearances. But nothing but a most thorough cleaning can conceal them from the Uhlenhuth test, even when they are apparently wiped out. It is a case of Lady Macbeth over again, crying in the face of modern science, ‘Out, out, damned spot.’
“I was able with sufficient definiteness to trace roughly a course of blood-spots from the fireplace to a point near the door of the living-room. But beyond the door, in the hall, nothing.”
“Still,” interrupted Harrington, “to get back to the facts in the case. They are perfectly in accord either with my theory of the cigar or the Record’s of spontaneous combustion. How do you account for the facts?”
“I suppose you refer to the charred head, the burned neck, the upper chest cavity, while the arms and legs were untouched?”
“Yes, and then the body was found in the midst of combustible furniture that was not touched. It seems to me that even the spontaneous-combustion theory has considerable support in spite of this very interesting circumstantial evidence about blood-spots. Next to my own theory, the combustion theory seems most in harmony with the facts.”
“If you will go over in your mind all the points proved to have been discovered—not the added points in the Record story—I think you will agree with me that mine is a more logical interpretation than spontaneous combustion,” reasoned Craig. “Hear me out and you will see that the facts are more in harmony with my less fanciful explanation. No, someone struck Lewis Langley down either in passion or in cold blood, and then, seeing what he had done, made a desperate effort to destroy the evidence of violence. Consider my next discovery.”
Kennedy placed the five glasses which I had carefully sealed and labelled on the table before us.
“The next step,” he said, “was to find out whether any articles of clothing in the house showed marks that might be suspected of being blood-spots. And here I must beg the pardon of all in the room for intruding in their private wardrobes. But in this crisis it was absolutely necessary, and under such circumstances I never let ceremony stand before justice.
“In these five glasses on the table I have the washings of spots from the clothing worn by Tom, Mr. James Langley, Junior, Harrington Brown, and Doctor Putnam. I am not going to tell you which is which—indeed I merely have them marked, and I do not know them myself. But Mr. Jameson has the marks with the names opposite on a piece of paper in his pocket. I am simply going to proceed with the tests to see if any of the stains on the coats were of blood.”
Just then Doctor Putnam interposed. “One question, Professor Kennedy. It is a comparatively easy thing to recognise a bloodstain, but it is difficult, usually impossible, to tell whether the blood is that of a man or of an animal. I recall that we were all in our hunting-jackets that day, had been all day. Now, in the morning there had been an operation on one of the horses at the stable, and I assisted the veterinary from town. I may have got a spot or two of blood on my coat from that operation. Do I understand that this test would show that?”
“No,” replied Craig, “this test would not show that. Other tests would, but not this. But if the spot of human blood were less than the size of a pin-head, it would show—it would show if the spot contained even so little as one twenty-thousandth of a gram of albumin. Blood from a horse, a deer, a sheep, a pig, a dog, could be obtained, but when the test was applied the liquid in which they were diluted would remain clear. No white precipitin, as it is called, would form. But let human blood, ever so diluted, be added to the serum of the inoculated rabbit, and the test is absolute.”
A death-like silence seemed to pervade the room. Kennedy slowly and deliberately began to test the contents of the glasses. Dropping into each, as he broke the seal, some of the serum of the rabbit, he waited a moment to see if any change occurred.
It was thrilling. I think no one could have gone through that fifteen minutes without having it indelibly impressed on his memory. I recall thinking as Kennedy took each glass, “Which is it to be, guilt or innocence, life or death?” Could it be possible that a man’s life might hang on such a slender thread? I knew Kennedy was too accurate and serious to deceive us. It was not only possible, it was actually a fact.
The first glass showed no reaction. Someone had been vindicated.
The second was neutral likewise—another person in the room had been proved innocent.
The third—no change. Science had released a third.
The fourth—
Almost it seemed as if the record in my pocket burned—spontaneously—so intense was my feeling. There in the glass was that fatal, telltale white precipitate.
“My God, it’s the milk ring!” whispered Tom close to my ear.
Hastily Kennedy dropped the serum into the fifth. It remained as clear as crystal.
My hand trembled as it touched the envelope containing my record of the names.
“The person who wore the coat with that blood-stain on it,” declared Kennedy solemnly, “was the person who struck Lewis Langley down, who choked him and then dragged his scarcely dead body across the floor and obliterated the marks of violence in the blazing log fire. Jameson, whose name is opposite the sign on this glass?”
I could scarcely tear the seal to look at the paper in the envelope. At last I unfolded it, and my eye fell on the name opposite the fatal sign. But my mouth was dry, and my tongue refused to move. It was too much like reading a death-sentence. With my finger on the name I faltered an instant.
Tom leaned over my shoulder and read it to himself. “For Heaven’ sake, Jameson,” he cried, “let the ladies retire before you read the name.”
“It’s not necessary,” said a thick voice. “We quarrelled over the estate. My share’s mortgaged up to the limi
t, and Lewis refused to lend me more even until I could get Isabelle happily married. Now Lewis’s goes to an outsider—Harrington, boy, take care of Isabelle, fortune or no fortune. Good—”
Someone seized James Langley’s arm as he pressed an automatic revolver to his temple. He reeled like a drunken man and dropped the gun on the floor with an oath.
“Beaten again,” he muttered. “Forgot to move the ratchet from ‘safety’ to ‘fire.’”
Like a madman he wrenched himself loose from us, sprang through the door, and darted upstairs. “I’ll show you some combustion!” he shouted back fiercely.
Kennedy was after him like a flash. “The will!” he cried.
We literally tore the door off its hinges and burst into James Langley’s room. He was bending eagerly over the fireplace. Kennedy made a flying leap at him. Just enough of the will was left unburned to be admitted to probate.
The Case of the Scientific Murderer
Jacques Futrelle
If the detectives could use scientific techniques to identify the criminals, then the criminals could use new and baffling techniques to commit their crimes. Jacques Futrelle (1875–1912) was the first great master of the baffling or “impossible” crime story. A journalist on the Boston American, Futrelle became an overnight success with that paper’s serialisation of his short story “The Problem of Cell 13” in 1905. This introduced the character of Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, known as the Thinking Machine, a man of intense intellect who uses his remarkable brainpower to solve bizarre mysteries. That first story was not a crime story, as such, but an exercise in logic. Van Dusen proved how he could escape from a high-security cell which was under constant watch, purely by using his brain and powers of observation. That story has long been regarded as one of the very best mystery stories of the twentieth century. Futrelle went on to write another fifty Thinking Machine stories in the remaining seven years of his life. He went down with the Titanic in April 1912 just days after celebrating his thirty-seventh birthday. He made sure his wife, May, was safe in a lifeboat and said he would follow in another, but there was no such opportunity. He was last seen on deck smoking a cigar and chatting with John Jacob Astor. The following is one of the last stories that he wrote.
CERTAINLY no problem that ever came to the attention of The Thinking Machine required in a greater degree subtlety of mind, exquisite analytical sense, and precise knowledge of the marvels of science than did that singular series of events which began with the death of the Honorable Violet Danbury, only daughter and sole heir of the late Sir Duval Danbury, of Leamington, England. In this case The Thinking Machine—more properly, Professor Augustus S. F. X. Van Dusen, Ph. D., M. D., F. R. S., et cetera, et cetera—brought to bear upon an extraordinary mystery of crime that intangible genius of logic which had made him the court of last appeal in his profession. “Logic is inexorable,” he has said; and no greater proof of his assertion was possible than in this instance where literally he seemed to pluck a solution of the riddle from the void.
Shortly after eleven o’clock on the morning of Thursday, May 4, Miss Danbury was found dead, sitting in the drawing-room of apartments she was temporarily occupying in a big family hotel on Beacon Street. She was richly gowned, just as she had come from the opera the night before; her marble-white bosom and arms aglitter with jewels. On her face, dark in death as are the faces of those who die of strangulation, was an expression of unspeakable terror. Her parted lips were slightly bruised, as if from a light blow; in her left cheek was an insignificant, bloodless wound. On the floor at her feet was a shattered goblet. There was nothing else unusual, no disorder, no sign of a struggle. Obviously she had been dead for several hours.
All these things considered, the snap judgement of the police—specifically, the snap judgement of Detective Mallory, of the bureau of criminal investigation—was suicide by poison. Miss Danbury had poured some deadly drug into a goblet, sat down, drained it off, and died. Simple and obvious enough. But the darkness in her face? Oh, that! Probably some effect of a poison he didn’t happen to be acquainted with. But it looked as if she might have been strangled! Pooh! Pooh! There were no marks on her neck, of fingers or anything else. Suicide, that’s what it was—the autopsy would disclose the nature of the poison.
Cursory questions of the usual nature were asked and answered. Had Miss Danbury lived alone? No; she had a companion upon whom, too, devolved the duties of chaperon—a Mrs. Cecelia Montgomery. Where was she? She’d left the city the day before to visit friends in Concord; the manager of the hotel had telegraphed the facts to her. No servants? No. She had availed herself of the service in the hotel. Who had last seen Miss Danbury alive? The elevator attendant the night before, when she had returned form the opera, about half past eleven o’clock. Had she gone alone? No. She had been accompanied by Professor Charles Meredith, of the university. He had returned with her, and left her at the elevator.
“How did she come to know Professor Meredith?” Mallory inquired. “Friend, relative—”
“I don’t know,” said the hotel manager. “She knew a great many people here. She’d only been in the city two months this time, but once, three years ago, she spent six months here.”
“Any particular reason for her coming over? Business, for instance, or merely a visit?”
“Merely a visit, I imagine.”
The front door swung open, and there entered at the moment a middle-aged man, sharp-featured, rather spare, brisk in his movements, and distinctly well groomed. He went straight to the inquiry desk.
“Will you please phone to Miss Danbury, and ask her if she will join Mr. Herbert Willing for luncheon at the country club?” he requested. “Tell her I am below with my motor.”
At mention of Miss Danbury’s name both Mallory and the house manager turned. The boy behind the inquiry desk glanced at the detective blankly. Mr. Willing rapped upon the desk sharply.
“Well, well?” he demanded impatiently. “Are you asleep?”
“Good morning, Mr. Willing,” Mallory greeted him.
“Hello, Mallory,” and Mr. Willing turned to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t know that Miss Danbury is”—the detective paused a little—“is dead?”
“Dead!” Mr. Willing gasped. “Dead!” he repeated incredulously. “What are you talking about?” He seized Mallory by the arm, and shook him. “Miss Danbury is—”
“Dead,” the detective assured him again. “She probably committed suicide. She was found in her apartments two hours ago.”
For half a minute Mr. Willing continued to stare at him as if without comprehension, then he dropped weakly into a chair, with his head in his hands. When he glanced up again there was deep grief in his keen face.
“It’s my fault,” he said simply. “I feel like a murderer. I gave her some bad news yesterday, but I didn’t dream she would—” He stopped.
“Bad news?” Mallory urged.
“I’ve been doing some legal work for her,” Mr. Willing explained. “She’s been trying to sell a huge estate in England, and just at the moment the deal seemed assured it fell through. I—I suppose it was a mistake to tell her. This morning I received another offer from an unexpected quarter, and I came by to inform her of it.” He stared tensely into Mallory’s face for a moment without speaking. “I feel like her murderer!” he said again.
“But I don’t understand why the failure of the deal—” the detective began; then: “She was rich, wasn’t she? What did it matter particularly if the deal did fail?”
“Rich, yes; but land poor,” the lawyer elucidated. “The estates to which she held title were frightfully involved. She had jewels and all those things, but see how simply she lived. She was actually in need of money. It would take me an hour to make you understand. How did she die? When? What was the manner of her death?”
Detective Mallory placed before him those facts he had, and finally went away with him in his motor car to see Professor Meredit
h at the university. Nothing bearing on the case developed as the result of that interview. Mr. Meredith seemed greatly shocked, and explained that his acquaintance with Miss Danbury dated some weeks back, and friendship had grown out of it through a mutual love of music. He had accompanied her to the opera half a dozen times.
“Suicide!” the detective declared, as he came away. “Obviously suicide by poison.”
On the following day he discovered for the first time that the obvious is not necessarily true. The autopsy revealed absolutely no trace of poison, either in the body or clinging to the shattered goblet, carefully gathered up and examined. The heart was normal, showing neither constriction nor dilation, as would have been the case had poison been swallowed, or even inhaled.
“It’s the small wound in her cheek, then,” Mallory asserted. “Maybe she didn’t swallow or inhale poison—she injected it directly into her blood through that wound.”
“No,” one of the examining physicians pointed out. “Even that way the heart would have shown constriction or dilation.”
“Oh, maybe not,” Mallory argued hopefully.
“Besides,” the physician went on, “that wound was made after death. That is proven by the fact that it did not bleed.” His brow clouded in perplexity. “There doesn’t seem to be the slightest reason for that wound, anyway. It’s really a hole, you know. It goes straight through her cheek. It looks as if it might have been made with a large hatpin.”
The detective was staring at him. If that wound had been made after death, certainly Miss Danbury didn’t make it—she had been murdered! And not murdered for robbery, since her jewels had been undisturbed.
“Straight through her cheek!” he repeated blankly. “By George! Say, if it wasn’t poison, what killed her?”
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