“You didn’t think it came from this house?”
“Well, no — that is, I didn’t think very much about it.”
“You got your husband to get up and investigate things here in this house?”
“Yes.”
Tragg remained silent for several seconds, letting the significance of those questions and replies soak into Mrs. Gentrie’s mind; then he went on smoothly, “Your son went downstairs in the dark. He groped for the garage door, opened it, and went into the garage. Then he opened the other door and went across to Hocksley’s flat. In groping for the garage door in the dark, he got paint on the fingers of his left hand. After he got over to Hocksley’s flat, he struck matches to light his way. Your husband is left-handed. Your son, however, is right-handed. He was taking matches from his pocket with his right hand and striking them with his right hand. So he didn’t touch anything with the fingers of his left hand until he picked up the telephone over in Hocksley’s flat. The paint on his fingers was still wet. It’s obvious that must have been within a very few minutes of the time he got his fingers in the paint on the garage door. When he came back, he...”
Rebecca suddenly sucked in her breath as though she had been about to make some exclamatory statement.
Tragg turned to her. “Well?” he asked after a moment as she failed to speak.
Rebecca said, “I was just wondering if...”
“I don’t think Lieutenant Tragg is interested in any of your wild theories, Rebecca,” Mrs. Gentrie cautioned.
Tragg kept smiling affably. “What were you thinking, Miss Gentrie?”