ago and went away to Dannemora. He died there while Abner was being a hero in the Battle of the Bulge. Linton’s evidence helped send the elder Ellison up. That’s the reason Phil took pity on the motherless child and adopted him. Another thing, you and I and everybody who knew Phil Linton and his family realize that Abner Ellison’s been in love with Pat ever since she was a little girl in pigtails.”
“Yes,” said Dab. “I’ve always hoped she’d marry him. I’m very fond of Ab. And I love Pat as if she were my daughter.”
“But she wasn’t going to marry him,” said Romano. “She was going to marry Walters. More motive.”
“For killing Philip Linton?”
Romano nodded. “The police have reason to believe Phil Linton knew something very bad indeed about Abner Ellison. He moved out of Phil’s house a couple of months ago, remember, took a room in a hotel. Maybe Phil influenced his grand-daughter’s decision.”
“Have the police questioned Ab?”
“The police can’t find Ab,” replied Romano.” They haven’t yet, anyway. He’s not at his hotel. But when we started checking his license-plate number, a bright young cop remembered something that happened during the afternoon. About five o’clock Abner Ellison called to say his car had been stolen. The police got a lot of phone calls in the last few hours.”
Dab said, “Do you mean to imply that you suspect a man of murder because he reported a stolen car?”
“No,” said Romano. “I don’t mean that at all, honey boy. But look at it this way. If your car happens to be seen at the scene of a murder or kidnapping, it would be mighty convenient to have it on record that the car’d been stolen from you quite some time before.”
Dab gave Romano a look so witheringly contemptuous that it was worthy of Cyrano at his most arrogant. “There is not a shred of real evidence against Ab,” he said. “I’ve never heard such moonshine. I’m surprised that competent police officers would put any credence whatsoever in any of it.”
“Let’s be getting up to the Linton place,” replied Romano, “and you’ll see the evidence. The real evidence, I mean. We’ve got what amounts to a deathbed statement. Like the fortuneteller says, it’s all in the cards.”
4
FOR THE MOST PART Dab and Romano were silent as the Departmental car carried them uptown. But as they sped along the West Side Highway, Dab said, “Lieutenant, I’ve been thinking about the timetable. The same man couldn’t have done the murder and the kidnapping could he?”
“It’s possible, just possible,” replied Romano. “The murderer might have had as long as forty-five minutes to reach the hamburger stand where Walters’ gas was siphoned. A fast driver, with any luck, could have made it in twenty-five or thirty. But how on earth would the man know he’d find Walters and Pat at a certain roadside stand at that exact moment? Answer is he couldn’t have, not possibly. Whoever snatched Pat had been following Walters’ car all evening. That seems certain. Theory is the murderer had confederates who pulled the snatch while he was taking care of the kill. We’ve got reason to believe Abner Ellison knew plenty of muggs who wouldn’t shy at a snatch.”
“That’s a lot of damned nonsense,” said Dab shortly. After that there was no more conversation.
It was after three when they reached Linton’s little house. In sharp contrast to the grim, dark bulk of the castle across the street, the small dwelling blazed with lights. The mortal remains of Philip Linton had been carried out in a basket some time before. The body reposed now at that great clearing house of violent death on East Twenty-ninth Street—the City Mortuary. Dark stains on the carpet and chalk marks showed where the body had been found. The house was still filled with police officers, some in plain clothes, some in uniform. Most were there on official business. Some had been friends of the murdered man and had come when they heard the news. Among them was a huge, red-faced old man with hamlike hands, Detective-Inspector Sansone, long past retirement age. He had once walked a beat with Linton. Dab recognized Sansone and Captain Haas, the Identification Bureau’s fingerprint expert since Linton’s retirement, and a Homicide aide of Romano’s named Grierson. He had played poker with these men in this same house.
Every man in the room looked grim. A cop had been killed. Murder is mostly routine business to hard-bitten veterans of the force. But when a cop-killer is on the loose, it’s a very different matter.
And Phil Linton had been a great cop. One of the best the Department had ever known.
Dab saw young Allan Walters standing miserably in a corner. The old actor’s heart went out to the boy. He was shocked by Walters’ appearance. The large, usually ruddy young man was corpse-white. He was shaking like a drunkard. Even his lips were trembling. Dab had always liked Walters, although he had felt much closer to Pat’s other suitor, Abner Ellison. Ab had a spark of sheer brilliance, a kind of incandescent charm that was lacking in the simple, sober Walters. Dab walked over to the young detective, put his hands on his shoulders.
“Allan, my boy,” he said. “This is a terrible thing, I know. But you have to pull yourself together. You must help us find Pat.”
Walters sobbed, broke down completely. “Oh, God, Mr. Dab, why did I leave her alone in the car like that?”
“It wasn’t your fault, boy. Nobody blames you.”
Captain Haas spoke. “Mr. Dab,” he said, “if you’ll be good enough, please take a look at those cards that are spread on the floor. Linton must have arranged them while he was dying. He seemed to want to direct your attention to them especially. We have a pretty good idea of what they mean, but we’d like to know what they convey to you.”
Somewhat hesitantly Dab crossed the room. He stood looking down at the cards. It took only a few seconds for their meaning to stab into him like a knife. He knew now what Romano had meant when he had said “It’s in the cards.” But Dab didn’t want to admit that this could be the only meaning. He stalled. He tried desperately to make his devious mind bring forth another answer.
“Well, Mr. Dab,” said Captain Haas. “What do you see?”
“Not much I’m afraid, not right off,” Dab replied. “I know what the cards are, of course. The fingerprint symbols Phil used to illustrate his talks.”
“Just tell us what you see,” the captain prompted.
Dab resorted to a little ad-libbing and wished he might depend upon an off-stage prompter. “Well,” he said, “Phil taught me the rudiments of fingerprinting from time to time. I know the names of these symbols, I think. The first is a simple arch. The second’s rather odd. It’s a loop shape, all right, but it’s not inclined or marked in any way, so it can’t be called either ulnar or radial. It just goes straight up and down, and loops don’t do that on the fingertips. They have to be one thing or the other. Loops are the patterns most frequently encountered in fingerprinting, I believe.”
Dab paused.
“Go on,” urged Haas.
“Well, after the space . . .”
“After the space,” snorted Inspector Sansone. “The space is the only important thing, sir. Keep that space in mind.”
Dab groaned inwardly. There could be no doubt that they had seen it, too.
Dab named the cards that appeared after the space—the whorl, the accidental, the lateral pocket, the tented arch, the exceptional arch. He paused when he came to the eighth card, said, “The next to last is another loop, but this time the way the markings are inclined show plainly it’s a radial type loop, one that points toward the thumb, since it’s the eighth card and would be on the left hand. The final card is very strange indeed. It’s not a symbol for a pattern. It’s a symbol for one of the five characteristics of fingerprints. It’s called a ridge fragment, isn’t it?”
“You pass one hundred per cent,” commented