The Cleveland Moffett Mystery by Cleveland Moffett

Author:Cleveland Moffett [Moffett, Cleveland]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Crime, True Crime, Detective, Murder
Published: 2018-02-19T16:00:00+00:00

“Perfectly sure. I’ll swear to it.”

“Good. Now stand still. Come here, Groener. Reach out your arms as if you were going to choke this young man. Don’t be afraid, he won’t hurt you. No, no, the other arm! I want you to put your left hand, on his neck with the nails of your thumb and fingers exactly on these marks. I said exactly. There is the thumb—right! Now the first finger—good! Now the third! And now the little finger! Don’t cramp it up, reach it out. Ah!”

With breathless interest Coquenil watched the test, and, as the long little finger slowly extended to its full length, he felt a sudden mad desire to shout or leap in the pure joy of victory, for the nails of the prisoner’s left hand corresponded exactly with the nail marks on the shrimp photographer’s neck!

CHAPTER XXIV

THIRTY IMPORTANT WORDS

“Now, Groener,” resumed the magistrate after the shrimp had withdrawn, “why were you walking along this hotel balcony on the night of July 4th?”

“I wasn’t,” answered the prisoner coolly.

“The photographer positively identifies you.”

“He’s mistaken, I wasn’t there.”

“Ah,” smiled Hauteville, with irritating affability. “You’ll need a better defense than that.”

“Whatever I need I shall have,” came the sharp retort.

“Have you anything to say about those finger-nail marks?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s a peculiarity about those marks, Groener. The little finger of the hand that made them is abnormally, extraordinarily long. Experts say that in a hundred thousand hands you will not find one with so long a little finger, perhaps not one in a million. It happens that you have such a hand and such a little finger. Strange, is it not?”

“Call it strange, if you like,” shrugged the prisoner.

“Well, isn’t it strange? Just think, if all the men in Paris should try to fit their fingers in those finger marks, there would be only two or three who could reach the extraordinary span of that little finger.”

“Nonsense! There might be fifty, there might be five hundred.”

“Even so, only one of those fifty or five hundred would be positively identified as the man who choked the photographer and that one is yourself. There is the point; we have against you the evidence of Godin who saw you that night and remembers you, and the evidence of your own hand.”

So clearly was the charge made that, for the first time, the prisoner dropped his scoffing manner and listened seriously.

“Admit, for the sake of argument, that I was on the balcony,” he said. “Mind, I don’t admit it, but suppose I was? What of it?”

“Nothing much,” replied the judge grimly; “it would simply establish a strong probability that you killed Martinez.”

“How so?”

“The photographer saw you stealing toward Kittredge’s room carrying a pair of boots.”

“I don’t admit it, but—what if I were?”

“A pair of Kittredge’s boots are missing. They were worn by the murderer to throw suspicion on an innocent man. They were stolen when the pistol was stolen, and the murderer tried to return them so that they might be discovered in Kittredge’s room and found to match the alleyway footprints and damn Kittredge.

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