feet from the gentleman’s skull, it was merely necess’ry to extend the straight line of the bullet’s course to the vertical line of explosion in order to ascertain the exact point at which the shot was fired.”
“Theoretically very pretty,” commented Markham; “though why you should go to so much trouble to ascertain this point in space I can’t imagine. . . . Not that it matters, for you have overlooked the possibility of the bullet’s deflection.”
“Forgive me for contradicting you,” smiled Vance; “but yesterday morning I questioned Captain Hagedorn at some length, and learned that there had been no deflection of the bullet. Hagedorn had inspected the wound before we arrived; and he was really pos’tive on that point. In the first place, the bullet struck the frontal bone at such an angle as to make deflection practically impossible even had the pistol been of smaller calibre. And in the second place, the pistol with which Benson was shot was of so large a bore—a point-forty-five—and the muzzle velocity was so great, that the bullet would have taken a straight course even had it been held at a greater distance from the gentleman’s brow.”
“And how,” asked Markham, “did Hagedorn know what the muzzle velocity was?”
“I was inquis’tive on that point myself,” answered Vance; “and he explained that the size and character of the bullet and the expelled shell told him the whole tale. That’s how he knew the gun was an army Colt automatic—I believe he called it a U. S. Government Colt—and not the ordinary Colt automatic. The weight of the bullets of these two pistols is slightly different: the ordinary Colt bullet weighs 200 grains, whereas the army Colt bullet weighs 230 grains. Hagedorn, having a hypersensitive tactile sense, was able, I presume, to distinguish the difference at once, though I didn’t go into his physiological gifts with him,—my reticent nature, you understand. . . . However, he could tell it was a forty-five army Colt automatic bullet; and knowing this, he knew that the muzzle velocity was 809 feet, and that the striking energy was 329—which gives a six-inch penetration in white pine at a distance of twenty-five yards. . . . An amazin’ creature, this Hagedorn. Imagine having one’s head full of such entrancing information! The old mysteries of why a man should take up the bass-fiddle as a life work and where all the pins go, are babes’ conundrums compared with the one of why a human being should devote his years to the idiosyncrasies of bullets.”
“The subject is not exactly an enthralling one,” said Markham wearily; “so, for the sake of argument, let us admit that you have now found the precise point of the gun’s explosion. Where do we go from there?”
“While I hold the string on a straight line,” directed Vance, “be good enough to measure the exact distance from the floor to the knot. Then my secret will be known.”
“This game doesn’t enthrall me, either,” Markham protested. “I’d much prefer ‘London Bridge’.”
Nevertheless he made the measurement.
“Four feet, eight and a half inches,” he announced indifferently.
Vance laid a cigarette on the rug at a point directly beneath the knot.
“We now know the exact height at which the pistol was held when it was fired. . . . You grasp the process by which this conclusion was reached, I’m sure.”
“It seems rather obvious,” answered Markham.
Vance again went to the door and called Snitkin.
“The District Attorney desires the loan of your gun for a moment,” he said. “He wishes to make a test.”
Snitkin stepped up to Markham and held out his pistol wonderingly.
“The safety’s on, sir: shall I shift it?”
Markham was about to refuse the weapon when Vance interposed.
“That’s quite all right. Mr. Markham doesn’t intend to fire it—I hope.”
When the man had gone Vance seated himself in the wicker chair, and placed his head in juxtaposition with the bullet-hole.
“Now, Markham,” he requested, “will you please stand on the spot where the murderer stood, holding the gun directly above that cigarette on the floor, and aim delib’rately at my left temple. . . . Take care,” he cautioned, with an engaging smile, “not to pull the trigger, or you will never learn who killed Benson.”
Diagram of shooting.
Reluctantly Markham complied. As he stood taking aim, Vance asked me to measure the height of the gun’s muzzle from the floor.
The distance was four feet and nine inches.
“Quite so,” he said, rising. “Y’ see, Markham, you are five feet, eleven inches tall; therefore the person who shot Benson was very nearly your own height—certainly not under five feet, ten. . . . That, too, is rather obvious, what?”
His demonstration had been simple and clear. Markham was frankly impressed; his manner had become serious. He regarded Vance for a moment with a meditative frown; then he said:
“That’s all very well; but the person who fired the shot might have held the pistol relatively higher than I did.”
“Not tenable,” returned Vance. “I’ve done too much shooting myself not to know that when an expert takes delib’rate aim with a pistol at a small target, he does it with a stiff arm and with a slightly raised shoulder, so as to bring the sight on a straight line between his eye and the object at which he aims. The height at which one holds a revolver, under such conditions, pretty accurately determines his own height.”
“Your argument is based on the assumption that the person who killed Benson was an expert taking deliberate aim at a small target?”
“Not an assumption, but a fact,” declared Vance. “Consider: had the person not been an expert shot, he would not—at a distance of five or six feet—have selected the forehead, but a larger target—namely, the breast. And having selected the forehead, he most certainly took delib’rate aim, what? Furthermore, had he not been an expert shot, and had he pointed the gun at the breast without taking delib’rate aim, he would, in all prob’bility, have fired more than one shot.”
Markham pondered.
“I’ll grant that, on the face of it, your theory sounds plausible,” he conceded at length. “On the other hand, the guilty man could have been almost any height over five feet, ten; for certainly a man may crouch as much as he likes and still take deliberate aim.”
“True,” agreed Vance. “But don’t overlook the fact that the murderer’s position, in this instance, was a perfectly natural one. Otherwise, Benson’s attention would have been attracted, and he would not have been taken unawares. That he was shot unawares was indicated by his attitude. Of course, the assassin might have stooped a little without causing Benson to look up. . . . Let us say, therefore, that the guilty person’s height is somewhere between five feet, ten, and six feet, two. Does that appeal to you?”
Markham was silent.
“The delightful Miss St. Clair, y’ know,” remarked Vance, with a japish smile, “can’t possibly be over five feet, five or six.”
Markham
