The Deep Lake Mystery

“Well put, old chap. Clearly and succinctly, I’ll say. He would, indeed, have to be all those things. And he was about five feet eight inches tall, and not a heavy weight, and he wore white flannels and tennis shoes and carried in his hand something painted red.”

“Marvellous, Holmes, marvellous!” I managed to ejaculate, though I was nearly struck dumb at his speech. “Now, I won’t be your Watson, unless you tell me how you picked up, or made up, all that.”

“Of course, I’ll tell you. You well know I’m not the sort of mutt that likes to be mysterious. And, too, I want your corroboration. First, you see the print on the white painted window sill of what can only be the rubber sole of a tennis shoe. You see there’s by no means a full foot-print, but there is enough to show the nubbly sole.”

He was right. I could discern clearly, though faintly, a few of the imprints undeniably made by a sole of a tennis shoe.

“Not enough to tell whether the wearer of the shoe had his foot turned in toward the room or outward,” I offered.

“No,” he returned, eying me sharply, “but the law of probabilities makes me believe it is turned outward. It is hard to think of the murderer poising himself on the sill and diving into that black water, but far harder to visualize him coming in by such an entrance!”

“Go on,” I said, a bit crossly, for I didn’t at all like it.

“Our friend, the murderer, was about five feet eight, because I am five feet ten and a half, and here at the sides of the window frame, we see two sets of fingerprints, faint again, but there, and they are at a height of two and a half inches below where mine would strike if I took hold to pull myself up to the window sill.”

“You can’t get anything from those prints,” I told him. “They’re too faint. A mere hint only.”

“I only need a mere hint. And anyway, I’m only proving the exit of our criminal by this window, and so down into the lake.”

“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.”

The men were gone now, so we stepped into the bedroom.

Save that the master was absent, the room was much as we had already seen it. The flowers, now withered, still lay on the pillows, and the crackers and orange were on the floor where Doctor Rogers had flung them.

The feather duster seemed not to interest Kee, but he scrutinized the window sill with care.

“No signs here, you see. And, too, there’s a balcony. It would be easier to dive from the sitting-room window. So that’s what our friend did. See, here’s the lady’s scarf. Now learn, my boy, to distinguish between important and non-important clues. Without doubt, the sentimental Sampson kept that scarf by him as a reminder and souvenir of his bride to be. Most likely, he went to bed, carrying it with him. Perhaps wrapped it about him, or held it to his cheek.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“Not silly at all. I see you know nothing of fetish worship, remnants of which survive among us moderns in the form of just such souvenirs. So, I deduce the murderer had no hand in providing the scarf. But the flowers had to be brought from their vases, the crackers and fruit from the table, the duster from its proper abiding place, all these things were achieved by our tennis-soled friend.”

“And the nail?” I snapped at him.

“Yes,” he said, “and the nail.”

CHAPTER IX

CLUES

“And what was the nail driven home with?” I pursued, looking about.

“That’s a queer thing, too,” he returned. “Some heavy mallet or hammer must have been used. True, it could have been driven by some other hard or heavy object, but I see nothing indicative about. No bronze book-ends or iron doorstop.”

We scanned the room, but saw no implement that would act as a hammer.

“I think I may say,” Keeley went on, “that never have I seen a case with so many bizarre points. To be sure they may be all faked in an attempt to bewilder and mislead the investigators, but even so, such a number of clues, whether real or spurious, ought to lead somewhere.”

“They will,” I assured him. “Where are you going to begin?”

“I don’t know where I shall begin, but I shall end up with the watch in the water pitcher. That, you will find, will be the bright star in this galaxy of clues.”

“Just as a favour, Kee, do tell me why you stress that so. Why is that silly act more illuminating than the other queernesses?”

“No, Gray, I won’t tell you that now. Not that I want to be mysterious, but that may be my trump card, and I don’t want to expose it prematurely. You’d know yourself if you’d ever studied medical works.”

“Medical works! I can’t see any therapeutic value in the incident. Is it voodoo, or a medicine-man stunt?”

Griscom came into the room just then, and Moore asked him again as to the watch.

But we gained no new knowledge. The watch had been lying on a small jewel tray on the dresser. The water pitcher had been on a near-by table. It seemed, like all the rest of the inexplicable circumstances, a mere bit of wanton mischief.

“Why do you look so worried, Griscom?” Kee said, eying the man closely.

“I am worried, sir. About them weskits.”

“Oh, pshaw, they’re of small consequence compared to the graver questions we have to face.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s queer. Now, I know those two weskits were in their right place Wednesday morning. And Miss Alma said the master gave ’em to her of a Tuesday afternoon.”

“Oh, she just mistook the day,” I said, hastily, anxious to keep her name out of the discussion.

But Moore was interested at once.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Perfectly sure,” the man replied. “Miss Alma was here Tuesday afternoon and the master may have given her the weskits then, but she didn’t carry them home, for they were here Wednesday morning.”

“One of you must be mistaken as to the day,” I repeated. “And it doesn’t matter, anyway.”