Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 7, No. 9, September 1962

I’m not easily shocked, but this shocked me, this invitation for some hoodlum or narcotics addict to rob and kill a hated and rich stepfather. It was as clever as it was cowardly and mean, and the boy was legally in the clear.

“You want me,” he said, “I’ll be at the Pelican Motel on the beach.”

Rynold reported there were no fingerprints on the safe. It had been wiped clean. But we found the murder weapon a short while later, in a storm drain two dozen yards from the house where the murderer had tossed it.

It was a .32 caliber revolver, one shot fired, loaded with jacketed slugs. Our later checkup showed the gun was unregistered, bought in a pawn shop or back booth of a dingy bar somewhere. Which made it untraceable.

Sims and I stayed close to Rynold as he went over the gun for fingerprints. As on the Langborn safe — none. Wiped clean.

Then Rynold, rating A-plus, carefully ejected the unfired bullets. On one of them we found a single print, put there when the gun had been loaded, perhaps days before the opportunity came to use it.

Rynold methodically ran a ballistics, and clinched it. The gun had killed Carson Langborn.

While I attempted a fingerprint identification, Sims and a small crew of men fine-combed the Langborn neighborhood.

Our first findings were negative. I was unable to match the print with any on file here, in Tampa, Miami, or Tallahassee.

Sims was unable to find any evidence of strangers or suspicious characters in the neighborhood the day of the murder. His search extended to the bars and joints on the beach, to the questioning of every known hoodlum he laid hands on. He got nowhere. No thug was spending beyond his means. No hoodlum had boasted drunkenly in his cups. Stool pigeons were all as helpful as blank paper.

Meanwhile, the youth drank beer and swam at the Pelican’s private strip of Gulf beach.

And I, as officer in charge of the investigation, was faced by the absolute paradox. For when I sent that print to Washington, it was readily identified.

It belonged to a man named Clement J. Smith.

He lived in Napa, Idaho.

During World War. II he had worked at White Sands, New Mexico where the FBI had fingerprinted him and given him top clearance.

He was a leading citizen in his community.

He had never heard of Carson Langborn. He had never been in West Virginia or in Florida.

He was beyond suspicion. Everything about him was known and could be proven. He’d been busy conducting his own affairs at the moment Langborn, a stranger among millions, was murdered.

In short, a fingerprint (which doesn’t lie) had turned up in an utterly impossible time and place.

Surely, someone had made a mistake. I accused Rynold, and in our frustration, we almost argued. Then I double-checked with Washington.

The possibility of mistake was eliminated. The final conference between Rynold, Sims, and myself lasted nearly two hours in my office. We dredged up every explanation our minds could devise.

Finally, Sims said haggardly, “We’re losing sight on the case. I think we better back out of this hole and take a fresh start on solving Langborn’s murder.”

“How about the fingerprint?” Rynold persisted.

“Relegate it to the Fortian heap of facts science can’t explain,” Sims said.

“Science can explain any material fact with sufficient data,” Rynold said. “If an explanation fails, it’s because the data...”

“Trouble with you microscope-lookers,” Sims said, “is that you trot out your good guesses, then cover your ignorance with excuses.”

I cut in: “You’ve given me an idea, Marty, and a good one, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, both of you. You with your talk about getting on with the Langborn case, and Rynold with his talk of data.”

Both of them gave me their attention.

“That boy killed his stepfather,” I said. “Everything so far makes it more glaringly apparent. If it had been simple robbery and murder, we’d have heard some whisper, however faint, as thoroughly as we’ve covered this thing.

“We know what happened. He scattered the tale of the secret hoard in the old man’s safe to give him the subtlest of alibis. He slipped unseen to the house, killed the old man, ripped the safe open — wearing gloves — and slipped back to the beach. Later, he returned, supposedly discovered Langborn, and called us. He probably destroyed the money in the safe. The amount was of no moment, compared to what he would inherit.

“And here we were, helpless. He’s as cunning as any man we’ve ever faced. If he’d tried to set up an alibi for the exact time of the old man’s death, all we’d have to do is crack it and we’d have him cold. As it is, he’s dependent on nothing and no one but himself. No alibi witnesses for us to work on, no secrets about his relations between him and Langborn for us to turn up. He swims and enjoys his beer while we beat ourselves to a frazzle trying to find proof that’ll stand up in court.”

I started toward the door. “Come on, Marty. Let’s see if we can’t crack this young tiger.”

“How about the fingerprint?” Rynold said, unable to get it off his mind.