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<h2>CHAPTER XIV</h2> <h2>THE FINGER-PRINTS</h2> A shiver ran through the crowd, like a gust of wind across a field of wheat. The words, "Mahbub is Thuggee," seemed to rend the veil which obscured the tragedy. Surely it was clear enough, now: here was a man killed by Thuggee's peculiar method, and here was the Thug. It was as simple as two and two! Every eye was on the bare-legged Hindu, impassive as ever, staring straight before him. The camera-men hastily pushed in fresh plates and trained their machines upon him. Two policemen edged close to his side. But Francisco Silva looked about him with scornful eyes, and presently he opened his lips as though to speak, and then he closed them. Goldberger seemed perplexed. He looked as though, while rolling smoothly along the road toward a well-understood goal, he had suddenly struck an unforeseen obstacle. The possibility of Mahbub's guilt seemed to interfere with some theory of his own. He called Simmonds and the district attorney to him, and they exchanged a few low words. Then he turned back to the witness. "I should like to question your attendant," he said. "Will you translate for me? I have not been able to find a Hindu interpreter." Silva bowed his consent. "Ask him, please, where he spent Thursday night." There was a brief interchange between Silva and Mahbub, then the former turned to Goldberger. "It was as I thought," he said. "He spent the night in the worship of the attributes of Kali." The coroner opened an envelope which lay on the table at his elbow and took out a piece of knotted cord. "Ask him if he ever saw this before," he said, and passed it to the witness. "I notice that it is stained," said Silva, looking at it. "Is it with blood?" "Yes." "Then Mahbub will not touch it. For him to do so, would be to defile himself." "He doesn't need to touch it. Show it to him." Silva spoke to his servant, holding up the cord. The latter glanced at it and shook his head. Without a word, Silva handed the cord back to the coroner. "Are there any further questions?" he asked. Goldberger pulled at his moustache impatiently. "There are a lot of questions I'd like to ask," he said, "but I feel a good deal as though I were questioning the Sphinx. Isn't it a little queer that a Thug should be so particular about a few blood-stains?" "I fear that you are doing Mahbub an injustice in your thoughts," Silva said, gravely. "You have heard certain tales of the Thugs, perhaps—tales distorted and magnified and untrue. In the old days, as worshippers of Kali, they did, sometimes, offer her a human sacrifice; but that was long ago. To say a man is a Thug is not to say he is also a murderer." "It will take more than that to convict him, anyway," assented Goldberger, quickly. "That is all for the present, professor." I bit back a smile at the title which came so unconsciously from Goldberger's lips. Silva bowed and walked slowly away toward the house, Mahbub following close behind. At a look from Simmonds, two of his men strolled after the strange couple. Goldberger stared musingly after them for a moment, then shook his head impatiently, and turned back to the business in hand. "Will Mr. Swain please take the stand?" he said; and Swain took the chair. "Now, Mr. Swain," Goldberger began, after swearing him, "please tell us, in your own way, of what part you had in the incidents of Thursday night." Swain told his story much as he had told it to Godfrey and me, and I noticed how closely both Goldberger and the district attorney followed it. When he had finished, Goldberger asked the same question that Godfrey had asked. "While you were having the altercation with Mr. Vaughan, did you grasp hold of him?" "No, sir; I did not touch him." "You are quite sure?" "Yes, sir." "You didn't touch him at any time, then or afterwards?" "No, sir. I didn't see him afterwards." "What were your feelings when he took his daughter away?" "I was profoundly grieved." "And angry?" "Yes, I suppose I was angry. He was most unjust to me." "He had used very violent language to you, had he not?" "Yes." "He had threatened your life if you tried to see his daughter again?" "Yes." "Now, Mr. Swain, as you stood there, angry and humiliated, didn't you make up your mind to follow him to the house and have it out with him?" Swain smiled. "I'm lawyer enough to know," he said, "that a question like that isn't permissible. But I'll answer it. I may have had such an impulse—I don't know; but the sight of the cobra there in the arbour put it effectually out of my head." "You still think there was a cobra?" "I am sure of it." "And you ran out of the arbour so fast you bumped your head?" "I suppose that's what happened. It's mighty sore, anyway," and Swain put his hand to it ruefully. "Mr. Swain," went on the coroner, slowly, "are you prepared to swear that, after you hurt your head, you might not, in a confused and half-dazed condition, have followed your previous impulse to go to the house and see Mr. Vaughan?" "Yes," answered Swain, emphatically, "I am. Although I was somewhat dazed, I have a distinct recollection of going straight to the wall and climbing back over it." "You cut your wrist as you were crossing the wall the first time?" <center> <ANTIMG src='images/gs360.jpg' width-obs='479' height-obs='350' alt='"I'm lawyer enough to know," he said, "that a question like that is not permissible"' title='"I'm lawyer enough to know," he said, "that a question like that is not permissible"'> <h4>"I'm lawyer enough to know," he said, "that a question like that is not permissible"</h4> </center> "Yes," and Swain held up his hand and showed the strip of plaster across the wound. "Your right wrist?" "Yes." "It bled freely, did it not?" "Very freely." "What became of the clothes you took off when you changed into those brought by Mr. Godfrey?" "I don't know. Mr. Lester told me they were left here. I intended to inquire for them." At a sign from Goldberger, Simmonds opened a suit-case and placed a bundle on the table. Goldberger unrolled it and handed it to Swain. "Are these the clothes?" he asked. "Yes," said Swain, after a moment's examination. "Will you hold the shirt up so the jury can see it?" Swain held the garment up, and everybody's eyes were fixed upon the blood-soaked sleeve. "There seems to have been a good deal of blood," remarked Goldberger. "It must have run down over your hand." "It did. It was all over my fingers." "So that it would probably stain anything you touched?" "Yes, very probably." "Did you think of that when you were in the arbour with Miss Vaughan?" Swain's face suddenly crimsoned and he hung his head. "I'm afraid not," he said. "How was she dressed?" "In a white robe of some silk-like material." "A robe that would show a blood-stain?" "Undoubtedly." Goldberger paused for an instant, and then produced a pad, such as one uses for inking rubber stamps, opened it and placed it on the table before him. "Have you any objection to giving me a set of your finger-prints?" he asked. "None whatever," and Swain stepped toward the table and placed the tips of his fingers on the pad. Then he pressed each one carefully upon the pad of paper which the coroner placed before him. Goldberger watched him curiously, until all ten impressions had been made. "You did that as though you had done it before," he remarked. "I made a set once for Mr. Vaughan," said Swain, sitting down again. "He had a most interesting collection." Goldberger passed the prints over to the head of the Bureau of Identification, then he turned back to the witness. "Mr. Swain," he said, "have you ever seen this cord before?" and he handed him the knotted cord. Swain took it and examined it curiously, without hesitation or repugnance. "No," he answered, finally, "I never saw it before." "Do you know what it is?" and Goldberger watched him closely. "I infer that it is the cord with which Mr. Vaughan was strangled." "That is so. You did not see it around his neck?" "I have no recollection of having done so." "Please look at the cord again, Mr. Swain," said Goldberger, still watching him. "You will see that it is knotted. Can you describe those knots for me?" Swain looked at the knots, and I was glad to see that his hands were absolutely steady and his face free from fear. No murderer could handle so unconcernedly the instrument of his crime! Surely the jury would see that! "The knots," said Swain, at last, "seem to be an ordinary square knot with which the cord was made into a noose, and then a double bowline to secure it." "A double bowline? Can you tie such a knot?" "Certainly. Anyone who has ever owned a boat can do so. It is the best knot for this purpose." The coroner reached out for the cord and replaced it in the envelope. Then he produced the handkerchief. "Can you identify this?" he asked, and handed it to the witness. Swain changed colour a little as he took it. "I cannot identify it," he said, in a low voice; "but I will say this: when Miss Vaughan found that my wrist was bleeding, she insisted upon tying her handkerchief around it. This may be the handkerchief." Again a little shiver ran through the crowd, and Goldberger's eyes were gleaming. "You notice that two corners of the handkerchief are free from stain," he said, "and are crumpled as though they had been tied in a knot. The handkerchief Miss Vaughan used would probably be in that condition, would it not?" "Yes," Swain answered, his voice still low. "You heard Dr. Hinman testify that he found the handkerchief beside the chair in which Mr. Vaughan was murdered?" "Yes." "Can you explain its presence there?" "I cannot, unless it dropped from my wrist when I stooped to raise Miss Vaughan." Goldberger looked at the witness for a moment, then he glanced at Sylvester, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "That is all for the present, Mr. Swain," the coroner said, and Swain sat down again beside me, very pale, but holding himself well in hand. Then Simmonds took the stand. His story developed nothing new, but he told of the finding of the body and of its appearance and manner of death in a way which brought back the scene to me very vividly. I suspected that he made his story deliberately impressive in order to efface the good impression made by the previous witness. Finally, the coroner dipped once more into the suit-case, brought out another bundle and unrolled it. It proved to be a white robe with red stains about the top. He handed it to Simmonds. "Can you identify this?" he asked. "Yes," said Simmonds; "it is the garment worn by Mr. Vaughan at the time of his murder." "How do you identify it?" "By my initials in indelible ink, on the right sleeve, where I placed them." "There are stains on the collar of the robe. What are they?" "Blood-stains." "Human blood?" "Yes, sir." "How do you know?" "I have had them tested." "Did any blood come from the corpse?" "No, sir; the skin of the neck was not broken." "Where, then, in your opinion, did this blood come from?" "From the murderer," answered Simmonds, quietly. There was a sudden gasp from the reporters, as they saw whither this testimony was tending. I glanced at Swain. He was a little paler, but was smiling confidently. Goldberger, his face hawklike, stooped again to the suit-case, produced a third bundle, and, unrolling it, disclosed another robe, also of white silk. This, too, he handed to Simmonds. "Can you identify that?" he asked. "Yes," said Simmonds. "It is the robe worn by Miss Vaughan on the night of the tragedy. My initials are on the left sleeve." "That also has blood-marks on it, I believe?" "Yes, sir;" and, indeed, we could all perceive the marks. "Human blood?" "Yes, sir. I had it tested, too." "That is all," said Goldberger, quickly, and placed on the stand the head of the Identification Bureau. "Mr. Sylvester," he began, "you have examined the marks on these garments?" "Yes, sir." "What did you make of them?" "They are all unquestionably finger-marks, but most of them are mere smudges. However, the fabric of which these robes are made is a very hard and finely-meshed silk, with an unusually smooth surface, and I succeeded in discovering a few marks on which the lines were sufficiently distinct for purposes of identification. These I have photographed. The lines are much plainer in the photographs than on the cloth." "Have you the photographs with you?" "I have," and Sylvester produced them from a pocket. "These are the prints on the robe belonging to the murdered man," he added, passing four cards to the coroner. "You will notice that two of them show the right thumb, though one is not very distinct; another shows the right fore-finger, and the fourth the right middle-finger." "You consider these plain enough for purposes of identification?" "Undoubtedly. Any one of them would be enough." Goldberger passed the photographs to the foreman of the jury, who looked at them vacantly. "And the other photographs?" he asked. "I got only two prints from the other robe," said Sylvester. "All but these were hopelessly smudged, as though the hand had moved while touching the garment." "You mean they were all made by one hand?" asked Goldberger. "Yes, sir; by the right hand. Again I have a print of the thumb and one of the third finger." He passed the photographs over, and again Goldberger handed them on to the jury. "Mr. Sylvester," said the coroner, "you consider the finger-print method of identification a positive one, do you not?" "Absolutely so." "Even with a single finger?" "Perhaps with a single finger there may be some doubt, if there is no other evidence. Somebody has computed that the chance of two prints being exactly the same is one in sixty-four millions." "And where there is other evidence?" "I should say that a single finger was enough." "Suppose you have two fingers?" "Then it is absolutely certain." "And three fingers?" Sylvester shrugged his shoulders to indicate that proof could go no further. Goldberger took back the photographs from the foreman of the jury and ranged them before him on the table. "Now, Mr. Sylvester," he said, "did you notice any correspondence between these prints?" "Yes," answered the witness, in a low voice; "the thumb-prints on both robes were made by the same hand." The audience sat spell-bound, staring, scarce breathing. I dared not glance at Swain. I could not take my eyes from that pale-faced man on the witness-stand, who knew that with every word he was riveting an awful crime to a living fellow-being. "One question more," said Goldberger. "Have you any way of telling by whom these prints were made?" "Yes," said Sylvester again, and his voice was so low I could scarcely hear it. "They were made by Frederic Swain. The prints he made just now correspond with them in every detail!" <hr style='width: 65%;' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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