Craig Kennedy laid down his evening paper and filled his pipe with my tobacco. In college we had roomed together, had shared everything, even poverty, and now that Craig was a professor of chemistry and I was on the staff of the Star, we had continued the arrangement. Prosperity found us in a rather neat bachelor apartment on the Heights, not far from the University.
“Why should there be a chair in criminal science?” I remarked argumentatively, settling back in my chair. “I’ve done my turn at police headquarters reporting, and I can tell you, Craig, it’s no place for a college professor. Crime is just crime. And as for dealing with it, the good detective is born and bred to it. College professors for the sociology of the thing, yes; for the detection of it, give me a Byrnes.”
“On the contrary,” replied Kennedy, his clean-cut features betraying an earnestness which I knew indicated that he was leading up to something important, “there is a distinct place for science in the detection of crime. On the Continent they are far in advance of us in that respect. We are mere children beside a dozen crime-specialists in Paris, whom I could name.”
“Yes, but where does the college professor come in?” I asked, rather doubtfully.
“You must remember, Walter,” he pursued, warming up to his subject, “that it’s only within the last ten years or so that we have had the really practical college professor who could do it. The silk-stockinged variety is out of date now. Today it is the college professor who is the third arbitrator in labour disputes, who reforms our currency, who heads our tariff commissions, and conserves our farms and forests. We have professors of everything—why not professors of crime?”
Still, as I shook my head dubiously, he hurried on to clinch his point. “Colleges have gone a long way from the old ideal of pure culture. They have got down to solving the hard facts of life—pretty nearly all, except one. They still treat crime in the old way, study its statistics and pore over its causes and the theories of how it can be prevented. But as for running the criminal himself down, scientifically, relentlessly—bah! we haven’t made an inch of progress since the hammer and tongs method of your Byrnes.”
“Doubtless you will write a thesis on this most interesting subject,” I suggested, “and let it go at that.”
“No, I am serious,” he replied, determined for some reason or other to make a convert of me. “I mean exactly what I say. I am going to apply science to the detection of crime, the same sort of methods by which you trace out the presence of a chemical, or run an unknown germ to earth. And before I have gone far, I am going to enlist Walter Jameson as an aide. I think I shall need you in my business.”
“How do I come in?”
“Well, for one thing, you will get a scoop, a beat,—whatever you call it in that newspaper jargon of yours.”
I smiled in a skeptical way, such as newspapermen are wont to affect toward a thing until it is done—after which we make a wild scramble to exploit it.
Nothing more on the subject passed between us for several days.
I. THE SILENT BULLET
“Detectives in fiction nearly always make a great mistake,” said Kennedy one evening after our first conversation on crime and science. “They almost invariably antagonize the regular detective force. Now in real life that’s impossible—it’s fatal.”
“Yes,” I agreed, looking up from reading an account of the failure of a large Wall Street brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the peculiar suicide of Kerr Parker. “Yes, it’s impossible, just as it is impossible for the regular detectives to antagonize the newspapers. Scotland Yard found that out in the Crippen case.”
“My idea of the thing, Jameson,” continued Kennedy, “is that the professor of criminal science ought to work with, not against, the regular detectives. They’re all right. They’re indispensable, of course. Half the secret of success nowadays is organisation. The professor of criminal science should be merely what the professor in a technical school often is—a sort of consulting engineer. For instance, I believe that organisation plus science would go far toward clearing up that Wall Street case I see you are reading.”
I expressed some doubt as to whether the regular police were enlightened enough to take that view of it.
“Some of them are,” he replied. “Yesterday the chief of police in a Western city sent a man East to see me about the Price murder: you know the case?”
Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town had been murdered on the road to the golf club, no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had proved fruitless, and the list of suspects was itself so long and so impossible as to seem most discouraging.
“He sent me a piece of a torn handkerchief with a deep blood-stain on it,” pursued Kennedy. “He said it clearly didn’t belong to the murdered man, that it indicated that the murderer had himself been wounded in the tussle, but as yet it had proved utterly valueless as a clue. Would I see what I could make of it?
“After his man had told me the story I had a feeling that the murder was committed by either a Sicilian labourer on the links or a negro waiter at the club. Well, to make a short story shorter, I decided to test the blood-stain. Probably you didn’t know it, but the Carnegie Institution has just published a minute, careful, and dry study of the blood of human beings and of animals.
“In fact, they have been able to reclassify the whole animal kingdom on this basis, and have made some most surprising additions to our knowledge of evolution. Now I don’t propose to bore you with the details of the tests, but one of the things they showed was that the blood of a certain branch of the human race gives a reaction much like the blood of a certain group of monkeys, the chimpanzees, while the blood of another branch gives a reaction like that of the gorilla. Of course there’s lots more to it, but this is all that need concern us now.
“I tried the tests. The blood on the handkerchief conformed strictly to the latter test. Now the gorilla was, of course, out of the question—this was no Rue Morgue murder. Therefore it was the negro waiter.”
“But,” I interrupted, “the negro offered a perfect alibi at the start, and—”
“No buts, Walter. Here’s a telegram I received at dinner: ‘Congratulations. Confronted Jackson your evidence as wired. Confessed.’”
“Well, Craig, I take off my hat to you,” I exclaimed. “Next you’ll be solving this Kerr Parker case for sure.”
“I would take a hand in it if they’d let me,” said he simply.
That night, without saying anything, I sauntered down to the imposing new police building amid the squalor of Center Street. They were very busy at headquarters, but, having once had that assignment for the Star, I had no trouble in getting in. Inspector Barney O’Connor of the Central Office carefully shifted a cigar from corner to corner of his mouth as I poured forth my suggestion to him.
“Well, Jameson,” he said at length, “do you think this professor fellow is the goods?”
I didn’t mince matters in my opinion of Kennedy. I told him of the Price case and showed him a copy of the telegram. That settled it.
“Can you bring him down here tonight?” he asked quickly.
I reached for the telephone, found Craig in his laboratory finally, and in less than an hour he was in the office.
“This is a most bating case, Professor Kennedy, this case of Kerr Parker,” said the inspector, launching at once into his subject. “Here is a broker heavily interested in Mexican rubber. It looks like a good thing—plantations right in the same territory as those of the Rubber Trust. Now in addition to that he is branching out into coastwise steamship lines; another man associated with him is heavily engaged in a railway scheme from the United States down into Mexico. Altogether the steamships and railroads are tapping rubber, oil, copper, and I don’t know what other regions.