Halfway House (17 page)

Q. This was a coupé, was it not, with a rumble-seat in the rear?
A. Sure.

Q. Was the rumble-seat open?
A. No. It was shut tight.

Q. It was shut tight. Then it was possible for someone to have been hiding in the closed rumble-seat compartment without your suspecting it? You can
’
t swear the woman was all alone in the car?
A. Well——

Mr. P
OLLINGER
. I object to both the form and substance of the question, Your Honor. Counsel is trying——

Mr. A
NGELL
. Now, now, let’s not argue about it, Mr. Pollinger. I’m satisfied. That’s all, Collins.

Witness excused.

“It’s coming,” muttered Bill to Ellery the next morning in court.

The man himself was an enigma. Pollinger was a slight dyspeptic fellow with shrewd eyes and the ageless air of the professional gambler. He was the coolest person in the jammed courtroom, thin and small and immaculate, as alert and harmless-looking as a sparrow.

Jessica Borden Gimball sat on the leather-upholstered witness bench behind the prosecutor’s table, her gloved hands folded. She was dressed in widow’s black, unadorned by any ornaments. With her sallow pinched face, unrelieved by cosmetics, her hollow eye-sockets and dry skin, she almost gave the illusion of a woman aged by a hard and uncertain lower-class existence. Andrea sat beside her, pale as death.

Bill’s lips were grim as he regarded mother and daughter across the room. Under cover of the table-top he patted his sister’s hand. But Lucy’s expression of hypnotic intensity did not change; and she did not take her eyes from the face of the older woman on the bench.

“Philip Orléans to the stand.”

The murmur that rose stilled like a subsiding wave. Every face was taut; even Judge Menander looked graver than usual. A tall thin man with the bony head and brilliant eyes of an ascetic took the stand quietly after being sworn in. Bill leaned forward, cupping his chin on one hand; he was as pale as Andrea. Behind him, on the witness bench, Ellery stirred a little and sank lower into the cushions. His eyes were on Pollinger, the keystone. Pollinger was superb. There was no hint of anything unusual in his manner. If anything, he was cooler and calmer than ever. “Mr. Orléans, you are a citizen of the Republic of France?”

“I am.” The tall thin man spoke nasally, with the suggestion of a Gallic accent. But his voice was cultured and assured.

“What is your official capacity in your own country?”

“I am of the Parisian
Sûreté
. I hold what corresponds to your portfolio of Chief of the Bureau of Criminal Identification in this country.”

Ellery saw Bill stiffen with horrified recognition. He found himself sitting straighter on the bench. He had not for a moment connected the name with the man. But now it came back to him. Orléans was one of the most famous names in the annals of modern criminological history—a man of international reputation, of unimpeachable honesty, with decorations for services rendered, from a dozen governments.

“You qualify, then, as an expert in criminal identification?”

The Frenchman smiled a little. “I shall be honored to relate to your court my credentials,
Monsieur.
”

“If you will be so kind.”

Ellery saw Bill licking his lips nervously; it was evident that the summoning of this distinguished witness had caught him completely off guard.

“I have made the science of criminal identification,” said Orléans easily, “my life work. For twenty-five years I have done nothing else. I studied under Alphonse Bertillon. I have the honor to be a personal friend and colleague of your Inspector Faurot. The cases in which I have lent my professional assistance—”

Bill was on his feet, pale but steady. “The defense grants the qualifications of the expert. We shall not challenge.”

The corner of Pollinger’s mouth lifted to the height of a millimeter. It was the only sign of triumph he made. He walked over to the exhibit table and picked up the paper-cutter found on the scene of the crime. A tag was attached to the haft, and its blade still showed dark streaky traces of Gimball’s blood. It was wonderful how cautious Pollinger was in handling the thing. He held it by its very tip, apparently undisturbed by the fact that his fingertips grasped a surface stained by human blood. And he waved it gently before him, like a conductor’s baton. Every eye in the room was fixed on the knife, as if the courtroom were indeed a concert hall and the audience a dutiful orchestra. “By the way, Mr. Orléans,” murmured Pollinger, “will you please explain for the benefit of defense counsel and the jury how you came to be a witness in this case?”

Bill’s eyes, like all others, were rooted on the knife; his skin had turned from gray to yellow. Lucy was staring at the blade with parted lips.

“Since May twentieth,” replied the Frenchman, “I have been touring your police departments. On June second I chanced to be in Philadelphia. I was visited by Chief De Jong of your city and asked for my opinion, as an expert, concerning certain evidence in this case. I was given several objects to examine. I am here to testify.”

“You were completely unaware, were you not, Mr. Orléans, of the prior findings of the Trenton police?”

“Completely.”

“You are receiving no fee for your services, sir?”

“A fee was offered.” The famous expert shrugged. “I declined. I do not accept emoluments while my duty lies elsewhere.”

“You are unacquainted with any of the persons—defendant, counsel, prosecution—in this case?”

“That is so.”

“You are testifying purely in the interests of truth and justice?”

“Precisely.”

Pollinger paused. Suddenly he brandished the paper-cutter before the expert. “Mr. Orléans, I show you State’s Exhibit 5. Is this one of the objects which you examined?”

“It is.”

“May I ask the exact nature of your examination?”

Orléans smiled faintly, his teeth gleamed. “I tested for fingerprints.”

“And you found?”

The man had a flair for drama. He did not reply at once. His brilliant eyes coolly surveyed the courtroom. Under the chandelier the skin of his bony forehead shone. The room was very still. “I found,” he said at last in a clear, emotionless voice, “the fingerprints of two persons. Let me designate them momentarily as A and B. There were more of A’s prints than of B’s. The exact number is as follows.” He consulted a memorandum. “Of A on the blade of the knife: One print of the pollex, two of the index, two of the medius, two of the annularis, one of the auricularis. Of A on the haft: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the blade: One pollex, one index, one medius. Of B on the haft: One index, one medius, one annularis, one auricularis.”

“Let us confine ourselves to B, Mr. Orléans,” said Pollinger. “In what position did you find B’s prints on the haft of the knife? Were the prints scattered, or were they in any order?”

“Will you hold the knife up, please?” Pollinger did so, in such a way that the weapon was vertical to the floor, the haft uppermost. “B’s prints on the haft ranged from top to bottom in the order I have given: index highest, medius directly below index, annularis below medius, auricularis below annularis. They were all grouped very closely.”

“Suppose we translate the technical terms into their more familiar forms, Mr. Orléans. Is it correct to say that on the haft of this weapon, reading from top to bottom as I now hold it, you found the imprints of four fingers—forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, and little finger?”

“That is correct.”

“You have said these four were closely grouped. What is your interpretation, as an expert on fingerprints, of this grouping?”

“I should say there is no question but that B grasped the haft of this weapon in the usual manner in which a person would grasp it for a blow. The thumb-print would not show, since the thumb in this position normally overlaps the other fingers.”

“Were these all clear fingerprints? There is no possibility of their having been misread, so to speak?”

The Frenchman frowned. “The specific prints I have designated were clear enough. However, there were many indications of smudges which were unreadable.”

“Not on the haft?” asked the prosecutor hastily.

“Chiefly on the haft.”

“However, there is no possible doubt concerning the clear prints you have named belonging to B?”

“None whatever.”

“There are no other prints overlapping those prints of B’s on the haft?”

“No. There is a slight smudge here and there. But the prints are not covered with other prints.”

Pollinger’s eyes were narrow. He went to the exhibit table and picked up two little folders. “I show you now State’s Exhibit 10, the fingerprints taken from the dead hands of Joseph Kent Gimball, otherwise known as Joseph Wilson. Did you employ this set of fingerprints for comparison purposes in analyzing the prints on the weapon?”

“I did.”

“Will you please clarify your findings for the jury as regards these arbitrary classifications of the two sets of prints on the knife as A and B?”

“The prints I have designated as A are the prints of your Exhibit 10.”

“In other words, A’s prints were Joseph Kent Gimball’s prints?”

“That is so.”

“Would you care to explain in greater detail?”

“There is this to say. On both haft and blade of the knife appear prints of the fingers of both Gimball’s hands.”

Pollinger paused. Then he said: “I now show you, Mr. Orléans, State’s Exhibit 11. Will you follow the same procedure as regards this exhibit?”

Orléans said evenly: “The prints I have designated as B are identical with those recorded in State’s Exhibit 11.”

“Any clarification?”

“Yes. B’s prints on the blade come from the left hand. B’s prints on the haft come from the right hand.”

“May I ask you to read for the benefit of the jury the caption on State’s Exhibit 11?”

Orléans took the little folder from Pollinger’s hand. He read quietly: “State’s Exhibit 11. Fingerprint recording. Lucy Wilson.”

Pollinger walked away, saying between his teeth, “You may examine, Counsel.”

Ellery sat unmoving as Bill Angell placed his palms on the surface of the round table, pushed in a tired way, and rose. He looked like a dead man. Before he left the table he turned and smiled down at his sister, who seemed turned to stone. The smile was so grotesque, so courageous, so mechanical, that Ellery averted his eyes. Then Bill walked to the witness box and said, “Mr. Orléans, there is no reservation in the minds of the defense regarding your authority as a fingerprint expert. We appreciate your unselfish services in the interests of truth. For that reason—”

“I object,” said Pollinger coldly, “to Counsel’s making a speech.”

Judge Menander cleared his throat. “I suggest that you proceed with your cross-examination, Counsel.”

“I mean to do so at once, Your Honor. Mr. Orléans, you have testified that Lucy Wilson’s fingerprints appear on the knife with which Joseph Kent Wilson was murdered. You have also testified that on the knife there were many indications of smudged prints which were unreadable, have you not?”

“That is not quite what I said, sir,” replied Orléans courteously. “I said there were many indications of smudges.”

“Not smudges such as might have been made by fingers?”

“The smudges were unreadable. They could not have been made by naked fingers.”

“But they could have been made by fingers encased in some manufactured substance?”

“Conceivably.”

“Such as fingers encased in gloves?”

“It is possible.”

Pollinger looked angry; a little color seeped back into Bill’s cheeks. “You also testified, Mr. Orléans, that most of these smudges were on the haft?”

“Yes.”

“It is by the haft that a person wishing to wield a knife in the normal manner will grasp it?”

“Yes.”

“And there were smudges of this peculiar nature over the fingerprints of Lucy Wilson on the haft?”

“Yes.” The expert stirred. “But I must refuse to go on record, sir, as specifying the nature of those smudges. I cannot tell what made them. I do not believe science can tell. The best we can do is hazard a guess.”

“Were these smudges on the haft in the shape of fingertips?”

“They were not. They were blurring marks in irregular shapes.”

“Such as might have occurred if a gloved hand grasped the haft?”

“I say again: It is possible.”

“And these smudges are
over
Lucy Wilson’s prints?”

“Yes.”

“Indicating that someone handled that haft after she did?”

The Frenchman showed his teeth again. “I cannot say that, sir. The smudges may have been caused by no human agency. If the knife had been wrapped loosely in tissue, for example, and placed in a box, and the box had received a shaking, the smudges may have so occurred.”

Bill paced up and down. “You have also testified, Mr. Orléans, that Lucy Wilson’s prints on the haft were so grouped as to suggest she grasped the knife for a blow. Don’t you believe that pushes forward an unwarrantable conclusion?”

Orléans frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Might not a person pick up a knife merely to examine it and still leave such prints grouped as you found them?”

“Oh, naturally. I was merely exemplifying the nature of the grouping.”

“Then you cannot as an expert certainly say that Lucy Wilson used that knife for lethal purposes?”

“But of course I cannot. My concern is with the fact, sir. The fact you cannot change. The interpretation—” He shrugged.

As Bill walked away Pollinger leaped to his feet. “Mr. Orléans, you found Lucy Wilson’s prints on this knife?”

“Yes.”

“You have sat in this courtroom and heard it testified that the knife was purchased only the day before the crime by the victim himself, that it was found not in his Philadelphia home but in the shack in which he was murdered, in its original wrappings, with a gift card made out in the hand not of Lucy Wilson but of the victim, with——?”

“Object!” stormed Bill. “Object! This is not proper——”

“That’s all,” said Pollinger with a quiet smile. “Thank you, Mr. Orléans. Your Honor,” he paused and drew a deep breath, “the State rests.”