Richardson's First Case by Basil Thomson Read Free Book Online Page B

Foster said on unlocking the door, “perhaps you’d like me to lead the way and I can show you exactly where we found the body.” He led them into the dingy little office at the back, overturned one of the chairs, threw open a drawer in the writing table, and showed them chalk marks on the floor which indicated the position of the body. Kennedy listened attentively and moved towards the window. “You’ll be careful not to touch anything, sir,” said Foster. “We want to leave everything just as we found it until after the inquest.”
    â€œKeep your hair on, Inspector, I’m not going to splash my fingerprints all over the place. By the way, I suppose you’ve been over the room with a microscope looking for fingerprints? They always do that in the books.”
    Inspector Foster smiled indulgently. “That has all been attended to, sir, but you wouldn’t find fingerprints on anything in this room. You see, there’s no glossy surface anywhere.”
    â€œWhat about the window?”
    â€œYes, sir, there might have been a fingerprint on the glass if a man had entered by the window, but he didn’t. That desk isn’t smooth enough for a print and, in any case, the prints you get on furniture are very seldom of any use.”
    â€œWhy not? I thought that if you found a fingerprint you found your man.”
    Foster chuckled. “They do that in the books, sir, but in real life you find most of the fingerprints left on furniture or glasses are blurred or smudged, without any core or any delta, and so they are useless for identification purposes.” The Scottish itch for educating had taken hold of him. “You see, sir, what we want for identification is a rolled fingerprint like this, and a criminal does not roll his fingerprints when he touches an object.”
    â€œNo, but when he grips a woman by the throat and strangles her, then you’ve got something to work upon.”
    Foster smiled with the patience practised in the kindergarten. “The human fingers leave no impression on the flesh except a bruise. You see, sir, the impression left on a smooth surface is due to the perspiration ducts—”
    â€œWe’ll have to put you through the instruction class, Guy,” interrupted Morden. “You’ll learn a lot of things there that will put you off detective shockers for the rest of your life.” He looked at his watch. “Now we mustn’t keep Mr. Foster any longer. He’s got his work to do; and I am devilish hungry.”
    Kennedy’s expression registered disappointment as he allowed himself to be piloted back through the shop. “What a lot of worthless junk these blighters collect. I suppose you’ve turned them all over for evidence? Hallo! How the devil did that get here?” He was staring at a canvas begrimed with varnish and dirt.
    â€œIt is clever of you to recognize it,” said Morden. “I can’t even see what it’s supposed to represent.”
    â€œNor could I until my wife gave me an art lesson. Under that black patch there there’s a Dutch village. I had to take that on trust, and so must you. You see these blighters in the foreground: you wouldn’t think it, but they are licentious Spanish soldiers come to knock hell out of the virtuous Dutchmen in the village. You see that dull red: that’s flames from a burning house, and there in the corner you notice a lady of opulent charms with her clothes half torn off her by the licentious soldiery.”
    â€œDoes the picture belong to you?”
    â€œNo, it belongs to a friend of ours, Lady Turnham. By Gad! It’s an extraordinary coincidence. I meant to speak to you about this picture this very morning, only the murder put it out of my head.”
    â€œYou mean it’s been stolen, sir?” asked Foster, pricking up his ears.
    â€œWell, yes, I suppose you’d call it stolen. My wife knew a lame dog in the