Mason walked slowly forward, picked up the sheaf of fingerprint photographs from the clerk, said to Borge, “And do you have photographs of the fingerprints of Carl Moar, deceased, with you?”
Borge slipped a perspiring hand in a voluminous pocket and pulled out an envelope of photographs. “They’re all marked,” he said, grinning at Mason. “Help yourself.”
Mason studied the photographs for a minute, shuffled them around in his hands. Abruptly, he picked out one and said, “Now, the fingerprint shown in this photograph, Mr. Borge, what is that?”
“That,” Borge said, “represents the fingerprint of Morgan Eves. It’s evidently the fingerprint of the man who leased the apartment. I found lots of those fingerprints over various articles, bottles, glasses, on the wash stand in the bathroom, on shaving things, on suitcases, mirrors... The one which you have reference to was one of several taken from a pane of window glass. I found virtually a complete set of fingerprints there, where a man’s hand had pressed against the glass, in raising the window.”
Mason slipped the print to one side. “And these?” he asked. “Those are the fingerprints of Carl Moar, the ones taken from the corpse.”
“These?” Mason asked.
“Those are fingerprints of the woman I assume was acting as nurse for Roger P. Cartman.”
“And these?”
“Those are the fingerprints taken from the wheel chair. I assume they are Roger P. Cartman’s prints.”
Mason said suddenly, “Look here, you’re basing your testimony, not upon what these fingerprints really are, but on memoranda which you’ve written on the bottoms of the prints.”