by E.
“That leaves us only the cork as a possible medium for traces,” commented Manson. “We had better have Burns in on this. We will have to have access to a photographic dark-room.”
The superintendent, the possibilities explained to him, was sceptical. “We could use a dark-room in Dawson’s, the chemist, here,” he agreed. “He does most of the developing roundabouts.”
“And he will understand, to some extent, the process, then,” said Manson. “I would like someone familiar with photographic reactions as an independent witness.”
Mr. Dawson expressed his eagerness to place himself at the service of the scientist. He was considerably intrigued by the suggestions put forward. “So I understand, sir, that you think you can photograph unseen prints on a cork handle?” he asked. “I had always understood that only smooth surfaces would take impressions of the skin.”
“That is the generally accepted idea,” Manson replied. “I have, however, been experimenting on the lines of Aubert and Forgeot.”
“Aubert?” Superintendent Burns looked inquiry.
“A French surgeon in 1878. He made investigations into the products of the sweat glands. His experiments demonstrated that perspiration products reacted to silver nitrate. That, mark you, was some years before finger-prints became recognised as a means of identification. Three years later, Forgeot, another Frenchman, demonstrated that finger-prints could be developed with silver nitrate. Curiously enough, it was not until quite recently that the works seem to have been remembered by medical jurisprudists, and now the silver nitrate process is hailed as a recently devised method of finger-print development!”
The chemist was displaying considerable interest in the discussion. He now ventured an opinion. “I take it,” he said, “that the principle is that the nitrate, reacting on the sodium chloride present in the perspiration, throws it up black. That would be the natural reaction of the two substances.”
“Exactly,” said Manson. “You are familiar with the subject?” he asked.
“Moderately,” was the reply. “I took a science degree at London.”
“Excellent. Then you will, I think, be able to follow the experiment I am about to attempt. You said, just now, that you doubted the possibility of developing such prints on a rough surface, such as cork?”
“That is so, Doctor Manson. On a smooth, level surface, I can understand. It would take impressions in the way that a surfaced paper would.”
“That is true. But my suggestion is that the sweat ducts must, perforce, deposit the same sodium chloride on uneven surfaces. Now I see no reason why they should not be developed up to a degree that should give a reasonable chance of identification.”
“In that case, they could be developed on cloth, or fabric, or inside a pair of gloves,” the chemist suggested.
“I think they could be,” was the reply. “Shall we go into the dark-room?” he suggested.
“Now, if you, Mr. Dawson, will prepare me a 5 p.c. aqueous solution of silver nitrate, I will fix an orange light over the window. And I shall want a camel hair brush.”
“Brush?” asked the chemist.
“Unless you have a three feet long developing tank, which would be better, Mr. Dawson,” the scientist replied. “It would be impossible to submerge the rod handle in an ordinary dish, of course. We shall have to paint on the silver nitrate.”
The requirements placed handy on the developing board, Doctor Manson began his test. Dipping the brush into the silver nitrate solution, he applied the liquid delicately to the rounded surface of the cork, turning it slowly round and making certain that every minute portion of the area received a coating. Not until both the chemist and himself were satisfied on this point did the scientist cease handling the brush, and lay the rod gently across the edges of the sink.
“How long do you suggest the rod should be left, Mr. Dawson,” he asked.
“I should say with the amount given, that five minutes should be sufficient to coat any sodium chloride there may be with silver chloride,” was the reply.
“That corresponds with my own opinion,” Manson agreed. “I think that the most difficult part of the operation will be the washing. It has to be very thorough, and yet without force enough to sweep away the chloride.”
“I suggest, sir, that the handle be held upright in the sink filled with water, and the tap left running slowly enough to keep the water moving,” said the chemist.
“Excellent.” Manson nodded delightedly.
Superintendent Burns bent forward eagerly as the rod was lifted from the sink some minutes later. It revealed to his eyes “no difference in appearance from before. Nothing,” he said.
Manson smiled. “You’re in too big a hurry, Burns,” he chided. “We haven’t finished yet. You cannot hurry science or chemistry, you know. If there are any prints on the handle, they are still invisible to us, but they will be coated with silver chloride. It remains now, to reduce the silver chloride, when the pattern will appear black.”
“That, sir, is where my knowledge ends,” the chemist said, with a smile. “How do you propose to achieve that?”
Manson considered the question. “There are two methods. I could expose the handle to the daylight, and when any prints have obtained sufficient intensity, treat them with sodium thiosulphate. That is, however, a little rough-and-ready to my mind. I think a better way would be to develop them with ordinary H.Q. photographic developer. It will be slower, and we can obtain a more level intensity and development. We shall have to paint on the developer in a way similar to that in which we applied the silver nitrate.”
The first application of the brush produced results which heightened the hopes of the four watching men. A number of black smudges sprang up on the light-coloured cork. With each touch of liquid, as the rod was slowly turned, the smudges increased in number and density. Manson and the chemist watched the intensity of the markings.
“I don’t want them too far advanced,” the scientist explained. “There is a jumble of prints, as might be expected. Over intensified, they will be difficult to separate.”
He waited a few seconds longer. Then, with a “That should do it” he plunged the rod once again into the running water in the sink.
“Now, I think we may let daylight in, and view the results,” he said.
There was, however, to be a further delay. So thickly was the cork handle spread with the prints of fingers that, though the scientist searched it thoroughly with the aid of a powerful magnifying glass, he could reach no decision as to whether the experiment had produced any identifiable pattern. Patterns there were in plenty, superimposed one upon another. Manson turned to Mr. Dawson. “I’m afraid I shall have to encroach further upon your goodness,” he said. “Would it be possible for you to enlarge for me, in that excellent apparatus I see there, a photograph which Sergeant Merry here will take of the handle. If you could enlarge any part he may show you, up to say six or seven magnifications, we could then judge whether any print is sufficient for coding and classification?”
“I shall be delighted,” was the reply. “I have seldom spent a more entertaining half-hour than that I have just experienced.”
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Dawson. Then I will leave Merry with you. We have our miniature copying camera in the hotel.”
The two men shook hands and parted.
Superintendent Burns and Manson, on their return to the hotel, were greeted with Inspector Penryn. “Been looking for you, Doctor. One of the policewomen has reported. There does not seem much in it to interest you, but you’ll probably like to see her.”
He left the room to return a minute later with a neatly attired chambermaid. “Policewoman Mary Trewilliams, Doctor,” he introduced. “She has been told to report to you.”
“Report away, Mary,” invited the scientist.
The woman produced a note-book. “On receipt of certain instructions,” she began—Manson groaned inwardly—“I kept watch on room number 3, and its occupant. I was on d
uty when she came upstairs from lunch. She entered her room, where she remained for some minutes. She then left and, walking down the corridor in the direction of the bedroom in which I was secreted, knocked at the door of number 15. There was no reply. She attempted to open the door, but it was locked. She then returned to her room—at 1.16 p.m. At 1.24 she emerged again and descended the stairs. She returned at 1.31, and again entered her room. At 1.45 she once more left her room carrying an envelope in her hand. She walked to the room number 15, and slipped the envelope underneath the door. She then returned to her own room. We have not seen Mrs. Devereux since.
“At 2.30 the occupant of room 15 returned, and entered the room. Five minutes later, the occupant of number 15 left and walked to the room of Mrs. Devereux, opening the door and entering. Left again at 3 o’clock and returned to number 15. Five minutes later, room 15 occupant left again, locking the door of the room and going downstairs. There has since been no sign of room 15. That is all, sir.”
“Right. Thank you very much. Keep a close watch and if anything else happens let me know at once.”
As the woman left the room, Merry and Mr. Dawson entered. The latter advanced to the table, laid upon it a 16 x 12 inches developing porcelain dish. It held a photographic enlarged bromide print still wet. “Sergeant Merry thinks the chance has come off,” he said, and stood back.
“Then the experiment is successful?” The chemist waited the reply with obvious eagerness.
“It is, Mr. Dawson, thanks to your help, for which I am infinitely obliged.”
(It may be of interest to remark that Doctor Manson’s method of revealing finger-prints on rough or unpolished surfaces was successfully used in America some ten months later, when it produced prints on to a step-ladder. These proved the principle evidence convicting Hauptmann of the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby.)
With the chemist gone, Manson turned sharply to his Sergeant. Rapidly, he acquainted him with the contents of the policewoman’s report. “Now, we must get busy,” he said, the recital concluded. “I am going into room 15 and I shall want about ten minutes there. You had better station yourself at the bottom of the staircase, and should number 15 appear, engage that individual in conversation. It is imperative, as you will realise, that 15 shall be kept away from that room until I appear at the top of the staircase. Is that clear?”
“Quite, Doctor.”
“Right. Off we go. And pick up a master key from Franky.”
As the sergeant took his stand at the bannisters’ foot, Doctor Manson proceeded up the stairs and along the corridor to number 15. A knock at the door produced no reply, and the scientist, inserting the master-key, opened the door and entered, locking it carefully behind him. With his back to the door he surveyed the room. It looked more like an unoccupied chamber than a guest’s sleeping apartment. No toilet articles were on the dressing-table and no articles of clothing lay in the disarray customary in hotel bedrooms. The eyes of Manson, as they roved round the room, closed almost to slits in the deep-set sockets, and his dynamic personality vibrated into action.
A half-filled paper basket was his first objective. Quickly he tipped the contents out on the floor, and then, taking them up one by one, examined each piece before depositing it back into the basket. Only four pieces seemed to call for further attention. Pieced together, they made the form of an envelope, and bore a name written in a woman’s handwriting. “The envelope pushed under the door by Mrs. Devereux, undoubtedly,” Manson said to himself, and slipped it into a pocket. But, though he searched thoroughly, no trace was to be found of the message which had been contained in it.
Next, the scientist crossed to the wardrobe. It was when he opened the door that the state of the room was explained. The cupboard was as bare as that of Old Mother Hubbard. “Getting out, eh?” Manson spoke softly to himself. “It seems that I was only just in time.”
Two trunks stood on the luggage trestle-stool in a corner of the room. Manson moved one and tried the lid. “Unlocked! That’s lucky!” He opened the lid and ran his hands among the folded contents. “No papers, no . . .” The sentence broke off as he exposed a tweed suiting. With a jerk he pulled out half a dozen or so strands, and taking an envelope from a pocket, tucked them safely inside.
The second and smaller trunk gave him further confirmation of that for which he was seeking. His searching hand brought out a boot—a left boot. Quickly he turned it over. The sole had been patched neatly. Through the patch was driven a hobnail. Diving once more into the trunk he produced the right foot counterpart. In the heel, standing out from a set of three, was one protruding hobnail. The Doctor searched no further. Closing the trunk, he surveyed the room again. Then, satisfied that he had left no trace of his intrusion, he emerged, locked the door again behind him, and hurried to his own room round the corner. Leaving the boots he returned to the staircase and slowly descended.
Merry’s questioning glance received a confirming nod.
“The police station,” Manson said, as the sergeant joined him.
CHAPTER XXIII
ARREST
The gold-rimmed monocle fell from the eye of Sir William Polglaze; the Chief Constable for once let it remain dangling at the end of its cord.
“Who . . . WHOM did you say, Doctor?” he asked.
Manson repeated the name.
There was a stunned silence. Then Superintendent Burns found his voice. “I suppose there isn’t any chance of a mistake, Doctor?” he questioned. “I mean to say, there has never been the slightest suspicion directed against . . .”
“You mean you have had no suspicion, Burns,” the scientist interrupted. “But it has been in my mind for a day or two. You can take it from me that there is no mistake. I never speak until I am perfectly sure. I have the boots, the right foot with the hobnails in, and the left boot with the patch on. They are the evidence for the arrest. Here they are.”
Burns and the Chief Constable examined the upturned soles.
“Yes, Doctor,” the Chief Constable said. “We’ll accept that. But what about the other—the identity?”
“I’ll prove that after you have made the arrest and returned with the prisoner. After all, it is a secondary consideration you know. Besides which, I hope before long to have final evidence.” He took from his pocket the envelope pieces reclaimed from the wastepaper-basket in No. 15.
“We’ll go right away.” Burns took up his hat.
“Oh no, you don’t. Not that way.” Manson was emphatic. “Watch number 15 on the train, and board it. Better have two men with you. Make the arrest at Exeter. I’ve a good reason for wanting this. But you had better come back in an Exeter Squad car.”
The Chief Constable agreed. “How about the arrest, Doctor? Do you want a warrant?”
“Just as you like, Sir William. A warrant is not necessary. You can arrest for murder without it. But I will swear an information if you like.”
The most complete news of the arrest was given in the columns of that popular newspaper, the Daily Examiner, the following morning. It read:
COLONEL IN RIVER: SENSATIONS LIKELY.
From our own Correspondent.
TREMARDEN. Tuesday.
Following the investigation by Chief Detective Inspector Manson, Scotland Yard’s scientific expert, and Superintendent Burns, of the Cornish County Police, into the Tremarden river tragedy, a man was arrested late last night at Exeter, and will appear before the Bench to-day.
He is described as William Braddock, a Canadian, of Calgary, and he has been charged with the murder of Colonel John Donoughmore, retired, late of the Indian Army.
Braddock had been staying at the Tremarden Arms, where the colonel was also a guest. The colonel had failed to return from a day’s fishing in the River Tamar, and though search was made for him during the night, he was not found.
Next morning his body was seen by a farmer in a deep salmon pool. It was at first thought that the colonel had fallen into the water while fishing; but subsequent investi
gations by Doctor Manson, who was in the hotel, also on a fishing holiday, resulted in the distinguished scientist coming to the conclusion that the case was one of murder.
I am able exclusively to state that when the case comes before the court, evidence of a sensational nature will be given.
At the police court the following day, Braddock was remanded. “The accused made a certain statement after his arrest,” Superintendent Burns stated. “I do not propose to put the statement before the court at this stage. I ask for a remand for seven days in order that the Director of Public Prosecutions can be communicated with.”
Two months later Braddock, standing in the dock at the Assize Court at Bodmin, heard the Judge, a square of black velvet perched precariously on his head, pronounce sentence of death.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE JIGSAW COMPLETE
Evening in September. Across the fertile Tamar valley the declining sun played hide and seek amid the shadows of the trees. Leaves, whispering in the zephyr breezes, rustled the prying beams away from the secrets behind their branches; and spoke softly of the peace of darkness so soon to fall, and of the nectar to revive their jaded sap that the night would bring. Over all, Nature, that supreme artist, had painted the yellow and bronze tints from her Autumn palette on to the canvas of landscape, splashing it in masses, and then deftly touching in the magic of sere and yellow, so that the shadows behind seemed to speak of dark days, and the darker deeds of man.
Autumn in Cornwall—where the castle of Tremarden looks across at the weather-worn, granite hills, hard as man’s fight for livelihood on the wind-swept, rugged moors below their peaks; and then down in the deeps beneath, where the Tamar flows swift to the sea, as it has done for a thousand years or more, carrying on its turbulent bosom the fallen leaves whose sands of time have run out for ever.
