Scudder arose as soon as court had been convened, cleared his throat and said with the distinct articulation of one who is carefully weighing his words, “Your Honor, it has reached my knowledge within the last few hours that there is another eyewitness to the murder who was within a few feet of the defendant when she fired the first shot. I have endeavored to locate this eyewitness and have failed. While I can make no promises, I sincerely hope to be able to have this witness in court within forty-eight hours. I can assure your Honor that the circumstances necessitating the making of this motion are most unusual. I therefore ask that the case be continued for two days.”

  Judge Romley shifted his eyes toward Perry Mason.

  Mason was on his feet, his manner indignant, his voice booming through the courtroom. “Your Honor, not only do I oppose the motion and object to it, but I characterize the making of it as prejudicial misconduct. I characterize the statements made in regard to that witness as pure propaganda intended for newspaper consumption and comparable in every way with the statement released to the press yesterday that the body of Carl Moar had been recovered!”

  Scudder took a deep breath, stood very erect, and said, “Your Honor, the only reason I cannot produce this witness now is that Perry Mason has concealed him. I even have reason to believe that the witness is being concealed against his will.”

  Mason jumped to his feet. “Your Honor,” he shouted, “that is the most dastardly accusation which can be made against a practicing attorney. The deputy prosecutor …”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Mason,” Judge Romley interrupted, his voice crisp and businesslike. “I wish to ask Mr. Scudder a few questions. Mr. Deputy District Attorney, are you aware of the grave implications attending your statement?”

  “I am, your Honor.”

  “Are you prepared to substantiate those statements?”

  “I am not only prepared to do so, your Honor, but I would welcome the opportunity of doing so. At this time, I cannot produce the evidence which my office hopes to produce at a later date, when criminal action will be taken against the attorney for the defendant, but I can at least produce sufficient evidence to justify your Honor in granting this continuance.”

  “And I demand that such proof be produced!” Mason shouted.

  Judge Romley said, “Very well, the Court will at this time entertain proof in support of a motion made by the Prosecution that the case of The People versus Anna Moar be continued for forty-eight hours. Proceed with your proof, Mr. Deputy District Attorney.”

  “Call Mabel Foss to the stand,” Scudder said.

  The woman who had waited on Perry Mason and delivered the photographs to him, came forward and was sworn.

  “You reside and have a place of business in a little storeroom at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.

  “I do.”

  “Are you acquainted with Perry Mason, the attorney sitting here?”

  “I have seen him, yes.”

  “When?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “Did you have any business transactions with him?”

  “I did.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Mason asked for some pictures which had been left to be developed by a Mrs. Morgan Eves. He said that he was a neighbor and friend.”

  “And who is Morgan Eves?”

  “He resides in the flat on the third floor.”

  “Of the house in which you have your shop and place of business?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known Morgan Eves?”

  “Some two months.”

  “I will show you a photograph and ask you if that is a photograph of Morgan Eves.”

  Scudder produced a printed placard showing a man’s face, both front view and profile. A prison number was printed across the man’s chest. Below appeared a series of fingerprints.

  Mason said, “I object to this. There is no need to introduce a man’s criminal record in this indirect manner.”

  “The objection is overrulled,” Judge Romley said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Counselor.”

  “Do you know the man whose picture is shown here?” Scudder asked.

  “Why, yes, that’s Mr. Eves. I had no idea he was a—”

  “That’s the man you know as Morgan Eves, the man who lives in the flat on the third floor of the house at 3618 Stockton Boulevard?” Scudder asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And Mr. Mason called and secured pictures which had been left to be developed by Mr. Eves’ wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, do you know a Roger P. Cartman?”

  “I have seen him,” she said. “He came over from Honolulu with Mrs. Eves. She’s a nurse. He was suffering from a broken neck.”

  “And was removed from an ambulance and taken up to the flat rented by Mr. Eves?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all,” Scudder said.

  “No questions,” Mason announced.

  “My next witness,” Scudder announced, “is Christopher G. Borge.”

  Borge, looking decidedly bored, raised his huge frame from his chair, walked to the clerk, was sworn, eased himself into the witness chair, crossed his knees and looked at the deputy district attorney.

  “Your name is Christopher Borge, and you are now, and for several years have been, a criminologist connected with the homicide detail of the police force in this city?”

  “I am.”

  “And what has been your training for your position?” the deputy district attorney inquired.

  Mason raised his eyebrows in surprise, inquired, “May I ask if you’re endeavoring to qualify this man as an expert?”

  “Yes!” snapped the deputy, without turning his head.

  Borge paid no attention whatever to the comments of Counsel. He glanced indifferently down at the reporter’s desk, where the shorthand reporter was making his pen fly across the paper, and said, “I studied chemistry, fingerprinting, forensic medicine, and toxicology, ballistics, handwriting, photomicrography and several other allied subjects.”

  “When you say that you studied fingerprinting, what do you mean?” the deputy district attorney asked.

  “I mean that I took a regular course in fingerprinting and all of its phases, learned the methods of indexing and filing fingerprints, of identifying men from fingerprints, of developing what are known as latent fingerprints, photographing them, checking and comparing them.”

  “I call your attention to the photograph which has been identified by the witness who preceded you as that of Morgan Eves and ask you if you have ever seen that man.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you recognize him?”

  “I do.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s James Whitly, also known as James Clerke.”

  “Does he have a criminal record?”

  Mason jumped to his feet, his manner that of one who is cornered and fighting desperately.

  “Your Honor, I object. This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

  “It is on a motion only, your Honor, addressed to the discretion of this Court,” Scudder said, “and this is preliminary. I intend to connect it up.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Romley said.

  Borge took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his perspiring forehead and the back of his neck and said in a bored voice, “Yes, he has a criminal record.”

  “What is it?”

  “Twice to San Quentin for burglary. Once to Folsom for assault with a deadly weapon. He’s been arrested three or four times and was tried for murder in—”

  Mason jumped to his feet and said, “Your Honor, I object. Any man may be arrested—”

  “Sustained,” Judge Romley said.

  “Did you,” Scudder went on, “take this man’s fingerprints, Mr. Borge?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “In 1929, in 1934, and in 1935.”

  “You have his fingerprints here?”

  “I have.”

  “Produce them, please.”

  Scudder took the placard which Borge handed him, and said, “I would like to introduce these fingerprints in evidence.”

  “No objection,” Mason said.

  “Now then, Mr. Borge,” the deputy district attorney said, “I will ask you if you went last night to a flat rented by Morgan Eves.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you do there?”

  “Objected to,” Mason said perfunctorily, “incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial.”

  “It is a preliminary merely. I wish to connect it up,” Scudder remarked, without arising from his chair.

  “Overruled,” Judge Romley snapped.

  “I used various powders on various articles for the purpose of developing latent fingerprints which might be found in that apartment.”

  “And did you develop latent fingerprints?”

  “I did.”

  “And photographed them?”

  “I did.”

  “Have you photographs of those latent prints with you?”

  “I have.”

  Borge pulled a thick file of photographs from his pocket.

  Scudder pushed back his chair and got to his feet. He spoke slowly and clearly, so that the audience would have no difficulty in following him or appreciating the significance of his question. “Now, then, Mr. Borge, I will ask you if among those latent fingerprints which you developed and photographed, you found any fingerprints made by the man about whose criminal record you have just testified?”

  “I did.”

  “Where did you find those prints?”

  “I found them in various and sundry places, in the bathroom, on the table, on a mirror, on a doorknob, and on a discarded safety razor blade.”

  “Did you photograph those prints?”

  “I did.”

  “Do you have these photographs with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to introduce them in evidence.”

  “No objection,” Mason said, as Scudder handed the sheaf of photographs across to the clerk.

  “Now then, did you find any other fingerprints in that flat?”

  “I did.”

  “Whose were they?”

  “Objected to,” Mason shouted. “This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial—”

  “Overruled,” Judge Romley said.

  Borge grinned at Mason. “I found fingerprints of Perry Mason,” he said. “I found fingerprints of Paul Drake, a detective employed by Perry Mason. I found a wheel chair, and on the wheel chair I found prints of the man who had evidently occupied that wheel chair. I also found some fingerprints of a woman.”

  “And did you photograph these fingerprints and mark upon each photograph the place where the prints had been found?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m going to ask that these be introduced in evidence.”

  Mason sat back in his chair with the air of having been defeated. After a moment, Judge Romley said, “It appearing that there is no objection, the photographs will be received in evidence.”

  “Now, Mr. Borge,” Scudder went on, “were you present at that apartment last night at the hour of approximately ten-fifty in the evening, at a time when Perry Mason, Paul Drake, a certain Della Street, Inspector Frank Bodfish, and myself were present?”

  “I was.”

  “And at that time and at that place, did you hear me accuse Perry Mason of having spirited away the said Roger P. Cartman, who had temporarily occupied that flat or apartment? And did I then and there accuse the said Perry Mason of having kidnaped and abducted the said Roger P. Cartman and of holding him where he could not be found by the deputy district attorney, and could not be brought into this court to testify as an eyewitness in the case of The People versus Anna Moar, otherwise known as Ann Newberry?”

  “I was there,” Borge said. “I heard you make that accusation.”

  “And at that time and at that place, what statement did the said Perry Mason make in connection with that accusation?”

  Mason jumped to his feet, his manner desperate. “Your Honor, I object! This is incompetent, irrelevant and immaterial. This has nothing whatever to do with …”

  Judge Romley cut him short. “Objection overruled,” he snapped.

  Borge looked at Mason and said, without raising his voice, “He said you could never convict him because his accomplice had been an ex-convict, and no jury would convict him on the testimony of an ex-convict, and anyway you couldn’t convict him because you couldn’t corroborate the testimony of his accomplice.”

  “You may cross-examine,” Scudder snapped.

  Mason watched Borge wiping his moist forehead with a handkerchief. “How many men have you ever fingerprinted, Mr. Borge?” he asked.

  “I can’t see that this is material,” Scudder objected.

  “It goes to his qualifications,” Mason insisted. “You’ve qualified him as an expert, I certainly am going to cross-examine him, to show his qualifications.”

  “I think the question is perfectly proper,” Judge Romley ruled. “Counsel did not stipulate to the qualifications of this witness, and he has a right to ask any reasonable number of questions touching upon his qualifications as an expert. The objection is overruled.”

  “I couldn’t say,” Borge said. “I’ve fingerprinted thousands.”

  “Who was the first man you ever fingerprinted?”

  Borge smiled and said, “Why, I couldn’t remember.”

  “When was it?”

  “I can’t even tell you that—it was probably fifteen years ago. I can’t remember.”

  “Who was the last man you fingerprinted?”

  An expression of satisfaction animated Borge’s pale green eyes. “The last man I fingerprinted,” he said, and paused dramatically as he flashed a look of triumph at the deputy district attorney, “was Carl Moar. I took his fingerprints at two o’clock this morning in the City Morgue, shortly after you had told the newspapers the body wasn’t that of Moar, but of some other person.”

  Mason hesitated for several awkward seconds, then said, “You’re stating positively that this man was Carl Moar?”

  “Of course I am,” Borge said. “The body had been in the water for a couple of days, but I was able to get his fingerprints without any trouble. A man’s fingerprints never change, not even in death. They’re absolute means of identification.”

  “And can’t the fingerprints of one person possibly be confused with those of another?”

  “No,” Borge said scornfully. “Every high school kid knows that.”

  Judge Romley rapped with his gavel. “The witness will confine himself to answering the questions,” he said. “The witness is being interrogated as to his qualifications as an expert. The Court will not permit the examination to be unduly prolonged, but if Counsel wishes to inquire concerning the qualifications of the witness as an expert, he has a perfect right to do so, and the witness will observe a respectful attitude in answering such questions.”

  “Then you must have had Carl Moar’s fingerprints,” Mason argued. “That is, you must have had something with which to compare the fingerprints of the corpse.”

  “I did. Moar was bonded by a bonding company when he worked for a bank fifteen years go. The bonding company required that fingerprints be filed with the application for a bond.”

  “Oh,” Mason said, as though the information had knocked the props from under him.

  “Any further cross-examination?” the Court asked.

  Mason walked slowly forward, picked up the sheaf of fingerprint photographs which had been filed with the clerk, said to Borge, “And do you have photographs of the fingerprints of Carl Moar, deceased, with you?”

  Borge slipped a perspiring hand in a voluminous pocket and pulled out an envelope of photographs. “They’re all marked,” he said, grinning at Mason. “Help yourself.”

  Mason studied the photographs for a minute, shuffled them around in his hands. Abruptly, he picked out one and said, “Now, the fingerprint shown in this photograph, Mr. Borge, what is that?”

  “That,” Borge said, “represents the fingerprint of Morgan Eves. It’s evidently the fingerprint of the man who leased the apartment. I found lots of those fingerprints over various articles, bottles, glasses, on the wash stand in the bathroom, on shaving things, on suitcases, mirrors. … The one which you have reference to was one of several taken from a pane of window glass. I found virtually a complete set of fingerprints there, where a man’s hand had pressed against the glass, in raising the window.”

  Mason slipped the print to one side. “And these?” he asked.

  “Those are the fingerprints of Carl Moar, the ones taken from the corpse.”

  “These?” Mason asked.

  “Those are fingerprints of the woman I assume was acting as nurse for Roger P. Cartman.”

  “And these?”

  “Those are the fingerprints taken from the wheel chair. I assume they are Roger P. Cartman’s prints.”

  Mason said suddenly, “Look here, you’re basing your testimony, not upon what these fingerprints really are, but on memoranda which you’ve written on the bottoms of the prints.”

  “Well, of course,” Borge said, “I had to find some way of keeping the photographs all straight. But I could take a magnifying glass and identify any of those fingerprints.”

  “Could you,” Mason asked, “do that here in court?”

  “Of course.”

  Mason took a sheet of paper from his pocket, tore a hole in it, and placed it over one of the photographs, so that only the portion showing the fingerprint was visible.

  “Now then,” he said triumphantly, “let’s take that photograph, covered so that you can’t see the printing on it, and this photograph,” and Mason tore another hole in another piece of paper, covered another photograph, “and this one,” taking a third, “and see if you can identify those three fingerprints.”

  “It would take a little time,” Borge objected.

  “Take all the time you want,” Mason announced triumphantly.

  Borge took a magnifying glass from his pocket, leaned over to study the fingerprints.

  “And I’d have to consult certain data which I have in my notebook,” he said at length. “Two of these fingerprints are the same. I think they’re the fingerprints of Roger P. Cartman, I’m not certain.”