I took the glass from him and, examining it with the utmost care, I detected a smutch of yellowish paint upon it, nothing more. “For Heaven’s sake, Maitland!” I said in astonishment, “of what possible use can that formless daub of paint be, or is there something else on the glass that has escaped me?” He laughed at my excitement as he replied:
“There is nothing there but the paint spot. Regarding that, however, you have come to a very natural though erroneous conclusion. It is not formless”; and he passed me a jeweller’s eye-glass to assist me in a closer examination. He was right. The paint lay upon the glass in little irregular furrows which arranged themselves concentrically about a central oval groove somewhat imperfect in shape. “Well,” continued. Maitland, as I returned him the magnifying glass, “what do you make of it?” “If you hadn’t already attached so much importance to the thing,” I said, “I should pronounce it a daub of paint transferred to the glass by somebody’s thumb, but, as such a thing would be clearly useless, I am at a loss to know what it is.”
“Well,” he rejoined, “you’ve hit the nail on the head,—that’s just what it is, but you are entirely wrong in your assumption that the thumb-mark can have no value as evidence. Do you not know that there are no two thumbs in the world which are capable of making indistinguishable marks?” I was not aware of this. “How do you know,” I asked, “that this mark was made by the assassin? It seems to me there can hardly be a doubt that one of the painters, while priming the sill, accidentally pressed his thumb against the glass. His hands would naturally have been painty, and this impression would as naturally have resulted.”
“What you say,” replied Maitland, “is very good, so far as it goes. My reasons for believing this thumb-mark was made by the assassin are easily understood. First: there was another impression of a thumb in the moist paint of the sill directly under that upon the glass. Both marks were made by the same thumb and, in the lower one, the microscope revealed minute traces of gravel dust, not elsewhere discernible upon the sill. The thumb carried the dust there, and was the thumb of the hand pressed into the gravel,—the hand of which I have a cast. You see how this shows how the thumb came to have paint upon it when pressed upon the glass. Second: the two men engaged in priming the house, James Cogan and Charles Rice, were the only persons save the assassin known to have been upon that side of the house the day of the murder. “Here,” he said, carefully removing two strips of glass from a box, “are the thumb-marks of Cogan and Rice made with the same paint. You see that neither of these men could, by any possibility, have made the mark upon the glass. So there you are. But we are missing the question before us. What line of procedure can you suggest, Doc? I’m all at sea.”
“We must find someone,” I said, “who could have had a motive. This someone ought to have a particularly good reason for concealing his footprints, and is evidently lame besides. I can’t for the life of me see anything else we have to go by, unless it be the long nail of the little finger, and I don’t see how that is going to help us find the assassin—unless we can find out why it was worn long. If we knew that it might assist us. As I have already suggested, a Chinaman might have a long nail on the little finger, but he would also have the other nails long, wouldn’t he? Furthermore, he might use the boards to conceal the prints of his telltale foot-gear; but why should he not have put on shoes of the ordinary type? If he had time to prepare the boards,—the whole affair shows premeditation,—clearly he had time to change his boots. The Chinese are usually small, and this might easily account for the smallness of the hand as shown by your cast. These are the pros and cons of the only clue that suggests itself to me. By the way, Maitland, it’s a shame we did not try, before it was too late, to track this fellow down with a dog.”
“Ah,” he replied, “there is another little thing I have not told you. After you had left the house with Miss Darrow on the night of the murder, and all the servants had retired, I locked the parlour securely and quietly slipped out to look about a bit. As you know, the moon was very bright and any object moderately near was plainly visible. I went around to the eastern side of the house where the prints of the hand and boards were found, and examined them with extreme care. What I particularly wished to learn was the direction taken by the assassin as he left the house and the point at which he had removed the boards from his feet. The imprints of the boards were clearly discernible so far as the loose gravel extended, but beyond that nothing could be discovered. I sat down and pondered over the matter. I had about concluded to drive two nails into the heels of my boots to enable me to distinguish my own footprints from any other trail I might intersect, and then, starting with the house as a centre, to describe an involute about it in the hope of being able to detect some one or more points where my course crossed that of the assassin, when I remembered that my friend Burwell, whose Uncle Tom’s Cabin Combination recently stranded at Brockton was at home. As you are perhaps aware an Uncle Tom Company consists of a ‘Legree,’ one or two ‘Markses,’ one or two ‘Topsies,’ ‘Uncle Tom,’ a ‘Little Eva,’ who should not be over fifty years old,—or at least should not appear to be,—two bloodhounds, and anybody else that happens to be available. It really doesn’t make the least difference how many or how few people are in the cast. I have heard that an Uncle Tom manager on a Western circuit, most of whose company deserted him because the ‘ghost’ never walked, succeeded in cutting and rewriting the piece so as to double ‘George Harris’ and ‘Legree,’ ‘Marks’ and ‘Topsy,’ ‘Uncle Tom’ and ‘Little Eva.’ As for the rest he had it so arranged that he could himself ‘get off the door’ in time to ‘do,’ with the aid of the dogs, all the other characters. You see the dogs held the stage while he changed, say, from ‘Eliza’ to Eva’s father. ‘George Harris’ would look off left second entrance and say that ‘Legree’ was after him. Then he would discharge a revolver, rush off right first entrance, where he would pass his weapon to ‘Eva’ and ‘Uncle Tom,’ and this bisexual individual would discharge it in the wings at the imaginary pursuer, while ‘Harris’ would put on a wire beard, slouch hat, black melodramatic cape, and, rushing behind the flat, enter left as ‘Legree.’
“The hardest thing to manage was the death of ‘Little Eva’ with ‘Uncle Tom’ by the bedside, but managerial genius overcame the difficulty after the style of Mantell’s ‘Corsican Brothers.’ You see it is all easy enough when you know how. ‘Little Eva’ is discovered, sitting up in bed with the curtains drawn back. She says what she has to say to her father and the rest. Then her father has a line in which he informs ‘Eva’ that she is tired and had better try to sleep. She says she will try, just to please him, and he gently lowers her back upon the pillows and draws the curtains in front of the bed. But instead of utilising this seclusion for a refreshing sleep ‘Eva’ rolls out at the back side of the bed. ‘Legree’ snatches off ‘Eva’s’ wig and ‘Topsy’ deftly removes the white nightdress concealing his—‘Eva’s’—‘Uncle Tom’ make-up, while the erstwhile little girl hastily blackens his face and hands, puts on a negro wig, and in less than a minute is changed in colour, race, and sex. He ‘gets round’ left and enters the sick room as ‘Uncle Tom’ with ‘Topsy.’ They are both told that ‘Little Eva’ is asleep, and ‘Topsy’ peeps cautiously between the curtains and remarks that the child’s eyes are open and staring. The father looks in and, overcome by grief, informs the audience that his child is dead. ‘Topsy,’ tearful and grief-stricken, ‘gets off’ right and washes up to ‘do’ ‘Little Eva’ climbing the golden stair in the last tableau. Meanwhile ‘Uncle Tom,’ in a paroxysm of grief, throws himself upon the bed and holds the stage till he smells the red fire for the vision; then he staggers down stage, strikes an attitude; the others do likewise; picture of ‘Little Eva,’ curtain. Talk about doubling ‘Marcellus,’ ‘Polonius,’ ‘Osric,’ and the ‘First Grave Digger’! Why, that’s nothing to these ‘Uncle Tom’ productions. But hold on, where did I get side-tracked? Oh, yes, the dogs.
“Well, as I was saying, as soon as I thought of Burwell I made up my mind at once to borrow one of his hounds. It was late when I got to his house. When I knocked at the door both Pompey and Caesar began sub-bass solos of growls, and Burwell was awake in a minute. I told him I wanted a dog for private business and took Caesar off with me. He found the trail with no difficulty, and followed it in a bee-line down to the water, where he raised his big muzzle and howled in dismal impotency. The assassin had taken to the water. I took the dog up and down the shore to see if he had returned to land, but all I found of interest was a clump of alders from which a pole had been cut. I knew by the dog’s actions that the assassin had been there, for Caesar immediately took a new trail back to the house. Try as I might I could learn nothing further, and I at once returned the dog. There is no doubt that the murderer made his escape in a boat and took with him the pole he had cut, the boards he had worn, and everything else, I dare say, connected with his crime. One thing seems clear, and that is that we are dealing with no ordinary criminal. I would wager a good deal that this fellow, if ever he is caught, will be found to be a man of brains. I don’t place much confidence in the Chinese theory, Doc, but as I have nothing better to offer, let us go see Miss Darrow. If her father has ever had any dealings with Chinamen, we shall probably deem it wise to look the Orientals up a bit.”
We immediately acted upon this suggestion, waiting upon Gwen at my house. She said she and her father had spent a year in San Francisco when she was about seven years of age. While there their household was looked after by two Chinese servants, named Wah Sing and Sam Lee. The latter had been discharged by her father because of his refusal to perform certain minor duties which, through oversight, had not been set down as part of his work when he was engaged. So far as she knew no altercation had taken place and there were no hard feelings on either side. Sam Lee had bade her good-bye and had seemed sorry to leave, notwithstanding which, however, he refused, with true Chinese pertinacity, to assume the new duties. She did not think it likely that either of these Chinamen had been instrumental in her father’s death, yet she agreed with Maitland that it would be a point gained to be assured of this fact. Maitland accordingly determined to depart at once for San Francisco, and the next day he was off.
We received no letters from him during his absence and were, accordingly, unable to tell when he expected to get back. Since his return from India Gwen had given evidence of a reviving interest in life, but now that he was again away, she relapsed into her old listless condition, from which we found it impossible to arouse her. Alice, who did her utmost to please her, was at her wit’s end. She could never tell which of two alternatives Gwen preferred, since that young lady would invariably express herself satisfied with either and did not seem to realise why she should be expected to have any choice in the matter. Alice was quite at a loss to understand this state of affairs, until I told her that Gwen was in a condition of semi-torpor in which even the effort of choice seemed an unwarrantable outlay. She simply did not care what happened. She felt nothing, save a sense of fatigue, and even what she saw was viewed as from afar,—and seemed to her a drama in which she took no other part than that of an idle, tired, and listless spectator. Clearly she was losing her hold on life. I told Alice we must do our utmost to arouse her, to stimulate her will, to awaken her interest, and we tried many things in vain.