The «Canary» Murder Case / Смерть Канарейки. Книга для чтения на английском языке

”

Vance polished his monocle and put it away.

“If you go to work on that basis, Sergeant,” he returned carelessly, “I greatly fear you’ll run aground on a reef. And may kind Heaven bring you safe to shore!”

Chapter IV. The Print of a Hand

(Tuesday, September 11; 9.30 a.m.)

A few minutes after we had returned to the living-room Doctor Doremus, the Chief Medical Examiner, arrived, jaunty and energetic. Immediately in his train came three other men, one of whom carried a bulky camera and a folded tripod.

These were Captain Dubois and Detective Bellamy, finger-print experts, and Peter Quackenbush, the official photographer.

“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Doctor Doremus. “Quite a gathering of the clans. More trouble, eh? … I wish your friends, Inspector, would choose a more respectable hour for their little differences. This early rising upsets my liver.”

He shook hands with everybody in a brisk, businesslike manner.

“Where’s the body?” he demanded breezily, looking about the room.

He caught sight of the girl on the davenport. “Ah! A lady.”

Stepping quickly forward, he made a rapid examination of the dead girl, scrutinizing her neck and fingers, moving her arms and head to determine the condition of rigor mortis[22 - rigor mortis (лат.) – трупное окоченение], and finally unflexing her stiffened limbs and laying her out straight on the long cushions, preparatory to a more detailed necropsy.

The rest of us moved toward the bedroom, and Heath motioned to the finger-print men to follow.

“Go over everything,” he told them. “But take a special look at this jewel-case and the handle of this poker, and give that document-box in the other room a close up-and-down.”

“Right,” assented Captain Dubois. “We’ll begin in here while the doc’s busy in the other room.” And he and Bellamy set to work.

Our interest naturally centred on the Captain’s labors. For fully five minutes we watched him inspecting the twisted steel sides of the jewel-case and the smooth, polished handle of the poker.

He held the objects gingerly by their edges, and, placing a jeweller’s glass in his eye, flashed his pocket-light on every square inch of them. At length he put them down, scowling.

“No finger-prints here,” he announced. “Wiped clean.”

“I mighta known it,” grumbled Heath. “It was a professional job, all right.” He turned to the other expert. “Found anything, Bellamy?”

“Nothing to help,” was the grumpy reply.