Part 25 (1/2)

”Ten,” said Drew, turning it over and studying a penciled number.

”Ten,” repeated the expert. ”That is a print which was flashed on the corner of the little table which was overturned when Stockbridge fell to the floor after being shot.”

”And the same man made it who made my prints in the booth?”

”The same!” declared the expert dryly.

”I don't see where you two are getting,” said Fosd.i.c.k. ”How could a man get into that library, shoot the old millionaire, get out again and go over to a slot-booth?”

”He might have been in the slot-booth first,” suggested Drew with slow smiling. ”From the booth he went to the house and killed Stockbridge.”

”The fact is established,” exclaimed Pope, ”that the man you are after was in the library and in the booth. That's all you can say. There's no way to determine the exact hour these two sets of prints were made.”

Drew lifted a second print. ”No. sixteen,” he said, turning to the expert. ”Where was that made?”

Pope consulted his book. He glanced up at Fosd.i.c.k, who was ill at ease over the development in the case. ”That,” he said, swinging his eyes till they met Drew's, ”that was made on the hardwood floor directly under Stockbridge's body. We found the print, with others of the little finger and middle finger when the coroner moved the corpse!”

The detective stared at Pope. ”You mean,” he said shrewdly, ”that the man who made the prints in the booth and on the little table, also was down on his knees arranging Stockbridge's body, or doing something like that?”

”He made a distinct impression on the floor despite the fact that the body was moved over it. The polish and the varnish helped to hold this impression. I venture to say that it is there yet.”

”Good!” said Drew. ”I may have a look at it. I never went after prints in my investigation. I left that to men who knew their business--like yourself.”

Pope smiled. He glanced at his book for a third time. ”What's the number of that last print?” he asked.

”Forty-four!”

”Taken from the edge of the heavy door which was broken down by Delaney, I guess. Looks like his work.”

”I had a hand in that,” admitted Drew.

”This print was close to the k.n.o.b. There's none like it on the k.n.o.b itself.”

”Umph!” declared Fosd.i.c.k.

Drew glanced at the commissioner. He smiled as he laid his hand on Fosd.i.c.k's shoulder. ”I've got you to thank,” he said, ”for letting me use the brains and facilities of the police department. I think it clears the case in a remarkable manner.”

”How?” asked the commissioner.

”Well for one thing,” Drew said, lifting the third photo. ”For one thing, we know that our man pa.s.sed through the doorway before or after the murder. He was in the library. He was in that booth which is a half mile or more away from the mansion.”

”I'll grant you that, but what does it prove?”

Drew laid the photo on the table and turned toward the doorway. ”It proves,” he said, ”that Stockbridge was murdered by a man who was never arrested in New York.”

”That's a large order!” chuckled the commissioner. ”There are a few good citizens and a number of bad ones we haven't got--yet!”

”I'm satisfied,” said the detective, pulling his hat down over his head. ”I'm going to look for a man who is too clever for his own good.

He's stayed out of your clutches. He's forgotten more about telephones than most men know. He's as slippery as an eel and as clever as the very devil. In one thing only did he err, so far in this chase.”

”What's that?” asked the commissioner.