“And his clothes!” I jeered. “A straw hat, did you say?”
“I did not. I said white flannels, because here’s a shred of such caught in a splinter of the upright of the window frame.”
“I refuse to believe in ‘shreds of cloth clenched in the victim’s hand.’”
“Not a shred, really, just a thread, a strand, but it’s to the zealous, confirmation strong! And, note that he carried something painted red in his right hand. See the mark, just above his right hand-print, that is indubitably made by a piece of painted wood.”
“The devil it is! I say, Moore, you’re going dotty over this thing. At any rate, don’t give it all to Hart or March, for they’ll make ducks and drakes of it in short order.”
“No, I shall give it to nobody. I shall use it all myself. I only show it to you, because I want you to witness it. This evidence may be removed, and I want you to swear it was here.”
“I can’t swear those are fingerprints,” I complained. “They’re too faint. You can’t swear to that yourself.”
“I’ll get the fingerprint man up here, or get his outfit. It’s a wonder what they can do with the merest smudges. And, I say, Norry, what’s the trouble? Don’t you want me to find clues? Don’t you want me to unearth the villain? You didn’t murder Tracy, did you?”
“No, but do go slowly, Kee. You’re so impulsive, so headstrong. Now, that red streak, a mere blur, may have been here for days—even weeks.”
“Not in this house. Do you see any other smudges or smears on this immaculate white paint? Enamel paint, of the finest sort. Every fingerprint is wiped off within twenty-four hours, I’m sure. That’s why I want to be sure of these.”