‘Is that what he thinks?’ asked Dart.
‘’Deed he do, mistuh, and it don’t sweeten his temper. He’s eviler than he would be if he really had killed the man.’
‘There is evidence that he did kill the man,’ Dart reminded him.
‘Must be sump’m wrong with that evidence. Jinx wouldn’t kill nobody.’
‘I thought you didn’t know him so well?’
Bubber was too much concerned for his friend to attempt further subterfuge. ‘I know that much about him,’ he said. ‘That Negro ain’t bad sho’ ’nough. He’s jes’ bad-lookin’.’
‘You yourself identified his handkerchief. It had been stuffed down the victim’s throat, you’ll remember.’
‘Well—I knowed he didn’t do it befo’. But, far as I see, that proved he didn’t do it.’
‘How?’
‘Listen, mistuh. Jinx might ’a’ hit somebody with that club jes’ sorter thoughtless like. But stuffin’ a handkerchief down his throat—that wouldn’t even occur to him. He’s too dumb to think up a smart trick like that.’
‘An opinion,’ Dr Archer said, ‘in which I wholly concur. Nothing in Jenkins’ character connects him with this offence, either as author or agent. Someone in that room simply made him the dupe.’
‘Possibly you can explain, then, how his thumb print got on that club,’ Dart said.
‘Possibly I can. In fact I had just that in mind when I asked you to bring it along.’
He reached for the first package which Dart had put on the desk, and unwrapped it carefully.
‘Remember, we don’t know,’ he observed meanwhile, ‘that this club or bone actually delivered the blow. There was no blood on it for the simple reason that it had bounced back from the point of impact before haemorrhage, which was moderate, got under way. But it is permissible to assume that it was used.’
He lifted the club by its two ends, using the tips of his fingers, and slowly rotated it about its own axis. His glanced shuttled back and forth over the ivory-coloured surface. ‘This is the incriminating print?’ he asked, indicating a dark smudge.
‘Yes. That’s what Tynie photographed.’
‘He didn’t dust the bone with powder first, did he?’
‘No. How’d you know?’
‘Because there’s no powder on it elsewhere. This surface has a thick viscous film over it as though it had been oiled or waxed. It isn’t oil or wax. It’s a film which oozes from the pores of the incompletely prepared specimens, due to the presence of undestroyed marrow inside. If Tynie had dusted this bone there’d be particles of powder stuck all over it. Fortunately, he looked first and found preparation unnecessary—his print had been prepared for him. Now let’s have a look.
‘I’ve a magnifying glass hereabouts somewhere—here it is.’ He studied the smudge a moment. Then he put the bone down, looked up at Dart and smiled. ‘Easiest thing in the world,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘Transferring a finger print.’
‘Are you kidding me, doc?’
‘Not at all. Simple statement of fact. The discovery of a finger print is not necessarily any better evidence of its owner’s presence than the discovery of any other object belonging to him. Don’t misunderstand me. I know that as a means of identification, its value is established. But as proof that the owner’s fingers put it where it was found—that’s another matter. That is a belief based on an assumption. And the fact that the assumption is usually correct does not make it any the less an assumption.’
‘But just what is the assumption?’
‘That there is but one way to put finger prints on an object, namely, direct contact between the fingers and the object. That is the unconscious assumption that is always made the moment a finger print is discovered. We say “A-ha, finger print.” We identify it as John Doe’s finger print. Then we say, “A-ha, John Doe was here.”’
‘Of course,’ said Dart. ‘What else would anyone think?’
‘Apparently nothing else. But I assure you that as a matter of demonstrable fact, John Doe may never have been near the place. He may have been ten miles away when his finger print was put on the object.’
‘You’ll have to produce plenty evidence to convince me of that, doc.’
‘Look. You were perfectly willing to believe that Jinx Jenkins’ handkerchief might have been taken by somebody else and put where we found it, weren’t you? So willing that you did not arrest him on that evidence alone. But when his thumb print was found on the club—that settled it: Jinx must have had a hand in it. Now, I believe I can show you that, aside from a lot of minor assumptions there, your major assumption could have been wrong. Jinx Jenkins didn’t have to be anywhere near this club. His finger print could have been deliberately put on it to incriminate him, just as his handkerchief could have been used as it was for the same purpose.’
‘I’m looking, doc. Go ahead.’
‘All right. Let us suppose that I want to rob that safe in the corner. I’d be an awful ass, because I wouldn’t get a dime’s worth of anything. But I don’t know that. I want to rob it and I want the circumstances to incriminate you. I decide that since people think as they do, it would incriminate you if right after the robbery your finger prints—even a lone thumb print—could be demonstrated on that safe door.
‘Here is a box of fine grade talcum powder. It’s a professional sample, otherwise it wouldn’t be so fine. I’ll put a little on the arm of your chair—smooth, polished wooden surface. Now grasp the arms of your chair with your hands, as you might if you didn’t think I was putting something over on you. Good. Incidentally, look at your thumb—has a fair film of powder, hasn’t it? All right. Change seats with me … Now again grasp the arms of your chair naturally. Take your hands away. Look at the right arm of your chair. See anything?’
‘Sure. A perfect thumb print in white powder! But—’
‘Too early for buts. Get up now and stand behind the chair. You are now ten miles away. All right. Here is a rubber glove, such as I rarely nowadays have the opportunity to use. I put it on my hand thus. The rubber is of course perfectly smooth, and if I wish I can increase the coefficient of adhesion—’
‘Wait a minute, doc.’
‘My error. I can make it just a very little bit sticky by rubbing into the palm of it thus, a bit of vaseline, cold cream or what have you. This is not strictly necessary, but tends to improve the clearness of the transfer. Now, with proper stealth, I approach the talcum-powder thumb print which you have so obligingly left on the arm of your chair. I lean over the chair thus and carefully, as if it were a curved blotter, I roll the heel of my hand once, only once, over our powder print. And you see, I have the powder tracing on my glove.
‘Of course this is not your thumb print. It is the negative of your thumb print, or rather, the mirror-image of it. If now I go to the safe and smear a tiny bit of vaseline on the safe door thus, it is a simple matter to roll your thumb print off my glove onto the black surface of the door. And there it is. Doesn’t even have to be dusted. Photograph it, bring it up on the high contrast paper, and you, my friend, are under arrest for robbing my safe. Yet you have never been near my safe and you were ten miles away when the crime was committed.’
Perry Dart silently went over to the safe and gazed upon the smudge of powder. He came back to the desk, picked up the doctor’s hand glass, returned to the safe door and studied the transferred print. It was not the crisp image of the original, but the fine granules of powder, primarily arranged in a definite pattern by the tiny grooves of his own skin, had not been sufficiently disarranged by the transposition to obliterate that pattern.
‘If you wish,’ said Dr Archer, ‘I can improve on that beautifully by using the same technique with printer’s ink. It comes up astonishingly when dusted with finger-print powder afterwards. But this is sufficient to indicate the possibilities.’
‘You’re going to get yourself in trouble thinking up things like that,’ muttered the dete
ctive.
‘I didn’t think it up,’ was the answer. ‘Our unknown murderer—if any—thought it up and used it. Only, since he had a light-coloured and fairly gummy object to work toward, he used a black substance instead of a white. I remember getting some of it on my hand from that chair Brady brought me; possibly the same chair Jenkins used—or maybe several chair-arms had been so treated. Lamp-black would do nicely, plain or in a paste like shoe polish. If you examine that print on the bone as you did the one on the safe, you will note a general similarity. Both look as though they might have been put on by a somewhat dirty finger, that’s all. Both, however, were actually put on by a smooth-surfaced applicator, which spread the lines just a little, but not too much.’
‘You know, I thought it was funny Tynes’ saying he didn’t even have to prepare the thing.’
‘Still,’ the physician said, ‘this only indicates that Jenkins didn’t have to touch the club or deliver the blow. It doesn’t indicate that he did not actually do so. But something else does.’
‘What?’
‘The position of the print. Even if the transferability of a finger print couldn’t be demonstrated, still this print would not prove that Jenkins delivered a blow with this club. On the contrary, it proves that he could not have delivered an effective blow with his thumb in that spot. Look. To deliver an effective blow he would grasp the club in his hand like this—no danger, I’m using my gloved hand and I’ve wiped off the remains of your thumb print—like this, near the smaller end, so that the condyles—those big bumps which help form the knee part of the bone—would land on the victim’s head. Grasping it so, his fingers would surround the shaft thus, completely, and his thumb, you see, would rest on the outside of his fingers; it couldn’t possibly produce a print on the surface of the bone because it wouldn’t even touch the surface of the bone. But beyond that, the position of the print is near the big end—the clubbing-end here. Notice that the print is close to this condyle and directed obliquely toward it. If your hand grasped this bone so that your thumb fell in that position, your fingers would have to be around the club end like this, and the shaft of the bone, you see, would then fall along your forearm, so that you could not possibly deliver a blow. Any attempt to do so would only endanger your own fingers.’
‘Gee, doc, you ought to be a lawyer.’
‘I am. I’m Jenkins’ lawyer right now. And I contend, your honour, that if the handkerchief was insufficient basis for indictment, so is the thumb print. Only more so.’
‘Hot damn!’ came an unexpected cry from the admiring Bubber. ‘Go to it, doc! You’re the best!’
Bubber’s ensuing expressions of appreciation literally carried him away. He backed and sidled out through the doctor’s several doors on a transporting flood of gratitude, much like a large rubber ball twisting this way and that on the surface of a flowing stream.
The physician turned again to the detective and smiled. ‘What does your honour say about Jenkins?’
‘Sort of lost my enthusiasm for Jenkins,’ grinned Dart.
‘Well, then, since we’re beginning to eliminate, let’s attempt a diagnosis.’
‘O.K. doc. Take ’em one by one. That’ll bring up some things I’ve found out that I haven’t told you. I was too interested in Frimbo’s servant when I came in.’
‘Jinx Jenkins.’
‘Hardly, after your defence.’
‘Thanks. Doty Hicks.’
‘Oh, yes. Well, here’s the dope on Hicks. Remember, he said that to break Frimbo’s spell on his brother it was necessary to put a counter-spell equally fatal on Frimbo. But he had to have somebody’s help. The immediate possibility was, of course, that Jenkins was that somebody. But your argument practically eliminates Jenkins on the one hand; and on the other we’ve found out by further questioning just who he meant. He was talking about a hoodoo artist named Bolus in 132nd Street, who gave him some kind of goofer dust to sprinkle on Frimbo’s floor. That’s the grey powder we found under the table.’
‘You found this Bolus?’
‘Had no trouble getting a check-up out of him. I told him he was under suspicion for murder, having deliberately conjured and killed a professional competitor. Well, sir, he nearly died himself trying to convince me that his goofer dust was just ordinary coal ashes. Of course, I knew that already. Got the report last night. So then I promised to come back and take him for fraud.’
‘Doty Hicks, then, is no longer a suspect?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Ironic business all around, Dart. Hicks, in all good faith, put his goofer dust at the feet of a man who may even then have been dead. And he and Jenkins, the only two you could reasonably have held, are probably the least likely suspects of the lot. Well—the two women.’
‘They’re out. We know from checked testimony that they didn’t enter the death room till after the thing was done.’
‘All right by me. Nice girl, Martha Crouch. Easley Jones, the railroad man?’
‘Excellent record on his job. Long, faithful service. Hasn’t been out of his rooming-house but twice since Saturday night, both times for food.’
‘Also decidedly untutored—same sort of man that Aramintha Snead is of woman. By no means the character of mind who would think up this particular scheme to incriminate someone else.’
‘Who’s next?’
‘Spider Webb.’
‘Yes, Webb. Well, Webb told a straight story. And Frimbo tried to dispose of the servant’s remains. The only way to connect Webb with the crime now is to assume that he and Frimbo were conspiring. But why they’d be conspiring to kill Frimbo’s servant—that’s beyond me.’
‘You’re sure Webb told a straight story?’
‘About the feud, yes. We’ve gone into it thoroughly. That killing yesterday morning means all I told you it meant. Further, Brandon, Spencer’s rival policy king, has disappeared. He always does when somebody has to take the rap.’
‘That leaves us Frimbo himself.’
‘Nobody else but.’
‘Hm—the house is open for suggestions.’
‘You know, I’m beginning to see daylight in this thing.’ An idea was growing on Dart. ‘By Judas! I do see daylight!’
‘Show me, O master.’
‘Look. Suppose Brandon did find out that Frimbo was the cause of his downfall. It’s not hard to believe you know. Dumber people than Frimbo are remarkably clever at this number-playing game. They hit on some system and it works. They get so good that bankers actually turn down their bets. Well, Frimbo could have doped out such a system. Suppose he did, and suppose that through it, Spencer was playing heavily with Brandon and winning. Brandon couldn’t wipe out Spencer—that would be open confession. But nothing in the world would stop him from trying to wipe out Frimbo. Nothing except that Frimbo isn’t easy to get at alone, except at night in a private interview. To take Frimbo, therefore, Brandon’s got to finesse. You see?’
‘So far.’
‘So what does he do? He finds somebody who is close to Frimbo, who has access to him, and who is not likely to be suspected. In short, he finds the servant. The servant, who no doubt is already envious of his master’s success—the way black servants are with black masters—is offered a big handful of change to put his boss out—any way he can. All right. He agrees. But he’s not going to jam himself by doing it during the day when he is known to be in the place alone with Frimbo! He’s going to wait till night when the office is full. And he’s going to bring the whole thing off in a way that will incriminate somebody else who happens to be present. Wouldn’t you? Wait a minute—I know what you’re going to say. The answer is that the servant was on the point of carrying the scheme through. He had snatched Jenkins’ handkerchief in the scramble there when Doty Hicks fainted. He had already by some scheme such as you just demonstrated got Jenkins’ finger print on the club. But Frimbo’s smart. Frimbo reads his mind or gets a hunch or anything you want to call it. Frimbo discovers what’s up just in time to turn the t
ables—frustrates the attack and gives the servant his own medicine, club, handkerchief, and all!’
Dart paused to emphasize this twist of interpretation; then went on:
‘But Frimbo hasn’t got time to dispose of the body then and there. So he exchanges the servant’s yellow turban and sash for his own, props the body up in his own chair, hides in the dark and goes on telling visitors their fates, intending to get them all out without arousing any suspicions. But our crusty friend Jenkins discovers the fact that the man talking to him is a corpse—and that changes his plans. See?’
The physician meditated upon this. ‘You have lapsed into brilliance, Dart,’ he commented finally. ‘Brilliance is likely to be blinding … Wasn’t it the servant who ushered each visitor to Frimbo’s door?’
‘Hell, no. That was Frimbo, himself. He took each one to the door, then, while they were going in, blinded by that light, he’d run around, enter the hall door, hide behind the corpse, and talk to ’em.’
‘All coons look alike, to be sure. But I’ve seen no sign of external strabismus in either of Frimbo’s eyes.’
‘What?’
‘The servant in general resembled Frimbo. But he was cock-eyed. Frimbo isn’t. The people who testified all saw the servant and all agreed that he was cock-eyed. Somehow, Dart, I dislike that term—extremely misleading isn’t it? But strabismus, now—there’s a word! External strabismus—internal strabismus—see how they roll off your tongue.’
‘I’m particular what rolls off my tongue.’
‘Nevertheless, external strabismus is not an easily assumed disguise. I have never heard of anyone who could render himself cock-eyed at will.’
‘You haven’t?’ grinned Dart. ‘Ever try cooked whiskey?’
‘The phenomenon you have in mind is an illusion—an optical illusion, if you like. The victim enjoys diplopia—the impression of seeing the world double, an impression which he believes cock-eyed people must have at all times. Thus the illusion is twofold: cock-eyed people really don’t see double; and the happy inebriate actually has no external strabismus, he has only a transitory internal strabismus. I insist therefore, that, remarkable as Frimbo is, voluntary external strabismus is an accomplishment which we must not grant him lightly. But all this is not the prime objection to your startling vision. The prime objection is that Frimbo would surely not leave thwarted his own plan. Would he?’
The Conjure-Man Dies Page 22