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The Ghost of Death’s Gap
(The Institute of Applied Science was established in June 1916 and made
many contributions to the science of fingerprints with it's home study
courses and literary contributions. Here are two stories for your enjoyment
from the Blue Book of Crime, eleventh edition published in 1936 by the
Institute of Applied Science.) There was a dance in progress at the Westshire Country Club. The outdoor dance floor was brilliantly lighted. Gaily dressed couples strolled about among the trees, and sipped forbidden refreshments on the club house veranda. Light--hearted youth was having its fling. Just beyond the circle of light stood the parked cars. And creeping stealthily among them, two crouching figures. In the silence and darkness they seemed to be seeking out some particular car. And had the watchman been looking, he might have seen them climb into the tonneau of a long rakish “chummy roadster.” The car did not move from the parking space. Not a movement, not a sound betrayed the presence of the intruders. The dance went merrily on. Shortly before midnight a young couple slipped away from the dance. They sought out the long, low, rakish roadster. With powerful headlights picking out the path, it moved cautiously through the parking space and out onto the right road. Youth, joy and love occupied the front seat. Sinister, peril, lawlessness, brutality crouched behind. Early the Next Morning A farm boy found the girl's dead body crumpled in the middle of a roadside ditch. A hideous bullet hole in her back. Concealed in the bushes at the side of the road lay the boy's lifeless body, also shot from behind. Three miles up the road the car was found abandoned. The village was agog with excitement. Detectives came from Newark and New York. All day long a man watched the boy's abandoned car guarding it from the hands of the curious villagers. The murder was as mysterious as it was ghastly. Her rings were gone--—his watch and chain. But his wallet containing his quarterly allowance of $200 was found in the bushes not far from the body. There were no clues except the finger prints on the car, hundreds of them. “Howdya think you're gonna find him with all them finger prints?” asked the village constable. “You got one chance in a thousan'--—one in a thousan'!” Swartz smiled. Swartz was the special finger--print expert who had come up from the Newark Bureau. With two assistants he got to work identifying the finger prints on the car. There were hundreds of them--—on the doors, the steering wheel--—the shining metal, gear shifts, the backs of the seats. Many belonged to the murdered boy. Some belonged to the girl who had been driving with him. Some belonged to the mechanics at the garage. But on the shiny surface of the windshield were two prints that could not be identified.
These Were the Finger Prints A nation--wide search began. Through every Bureau in the country finger--print experts searched for corresponding impressions. But they were not on file anywhere. Months passed. The name, “Death's Gap,” given by the newspapers to the cleft in the road where the girl's body had been found, still clung to the place. Children and superstitious women went around the other way at night: some said the place was haunted. One of Farmer Johnson's little girls actually saw a ghost there one summer evening. And two days later a boy, coming home through the woods, heard a man moving about in the bushes and muttering to himself, “It must be here--—it must be here.” At once they organized a posse. Heavily armed, and carrying lanterns and searchlights, they came to “Death's Gap.” The lanterns bickered eerily in the dark woods. They heard footsteps in the crackling under brush. Farmer Johnson turned suddenly to see a dim, shadowy form moving stealthily through the bushes. Shot Rang Out in the Silence A man came out of the cover of the heavy bushes. Just a tramp, seeking shelter in the woods. They arrested him on a charge of vagrancy and locked him up in the village jail. The constable took his finger prints and forwarded them to Swartz, as was now his custom. Two days passed. The constable wondered why the town should feed and shelter this worthless tramp. He was about to set him free when the telegram came--—a telegram from Swartz. “Hold Brandon. Arriving four--thirty train,” was all it said. The village was again thrilling with excitement. Opinion ran hot. They were even betting on the stranger's chances. “Just 'cause he was picked up at Death's Gap,” they scoffed, “and just 'cause his finger prints look some thin' like those on the machine, they can't ever convict this man for murder.” But when the trial came to its climax, the scoffers were silenced. George Brandon was convicted of murder--—murder in the first degree. His accomplice, named by him in his final confession, was sent to prison for life. This was another triumph for Swartz, the Finger Print Expert, who solved five murders in less than one year, who got 97 convictions out of 98 cases presented.
Friday, The Thirteenth A brooding air of mystery hovered over the house. The wind screeched eerily through the bare trees and wild bursts of icy sleet seemed to rock the house on its foundation. I sprang up and reached for the automatic under my pillow. But each time I cursed myself for a cowardly fool and tried to sleep. Hour after hour I lay there waiting while the events that had preceded this horrible night paraded themselves in fantastic array through my weary brain. It was just four weeks to a night since the marauder had broken into our house. Even this first visit had an air of mystery about it, for he had taken nothing. At first I thought I would say nothing about it. But some uncanny premonition caused me to inform the police. They sent over Scully, graduate of the Institute of Applied Science who is a special detective and finger--print expert. He found on the shiny rail of the hall banister two finger prints that belonged to no one in the house. In a few days the excitement wore off. We almost forgot the affair. Just two weeks later, on Friday night, again, one of the maids, coming in shortly after midnight, stumbled over a man crouched in the darkness of the narrow hall. She shrieked and fainted. When she revived and told her story, the man was gone. But in the kitchen beside the open window was a tell--tale finger print standing out black and sinister on the white enamel of the kitchen cabinet.
The Finger Prints Found After examining the finger print, Scully said gravely, “This print was made by the same man who broke into your house two weeks ago. His mission, whatever it may be, is not yet accomplished. He will come again.” I sent my wife and daughters South. Only Willis, our new butler, and I stayed in the lonely house. Every night one of us stood guard--—against what? How I racked my brain trying to recall some enemy of my impetuous youth. But all in vain. And now the third Friday had come. Friday, the thirteenth. Willis had gone, mysteriously disappeared during the day. I was alone in the big house. How long I lay there, I do not know. Perhaps I was dozing for I was startled by a crash of thunder. I came to my senses to find myself sitting bolt upright in a cold perspiration. Was that a noise downstairs? A human footstep? Or just a freak of the storm? I threw a robe over my pajamas and crept down the back stairs. With automatic ready, I stole noiselessly to the library. I pushed aside the heavy velvet drape and found myself looking into the muzzle of a gun. My shot rang out a fraction of a second before his. His gun clattered to the tiled floor. I kept him covered till the police came. He lay on the floor, a wretched, moaning creature. Now that the horrible suspense was over, I actually found myself pitying the man. Between sobs and moans he told me a story of wretched poverty and suffering. He was an old house servant of ours discharged, I later remembered, because my daughter had complained of his insolence. I had refused to give a recommendation and he had found it hard to get another job. Desperate and hungry, he had crept into our library. “I never done nothing like this before,” he wailed, “I am an honest man, so help me God.” Laughing at my former hysterical nervousness, I told Scully the story. “It is coincidence,” I said. He only gave me that strange, inscrutable smile and said nothing. I began to feel that possibly I had been too hasty in turning this poor unfortunate over to the police. I spent a restless night torn between conflicting emotions. Next morning I visited his office. And the story his finger--print cards told was quite different from my old servant's tale of poverty and wretchedness. I shudder now when I think of the nameless danger that hovered over my family. For this piteous, whining wretch was the fiend who had broken into my house twice before. He was quite mad and his unstable mind had blamed us--—Isabel and I--—for his sufferings. So he had come, once, twice, three times, and his errand had been death. But for Scully and the timely warning of his finger print cards--—O God! I cannot bear to think what might have happened. The trial and conviction--—it was the first conviction secured on finger--print evidence in the State of Ohio--—brought him much glory and renown. It was but a few months later, I am glad to say, that Scully was appointed Superintendent of the Identification Bureau at Columbus, Ohio, an official position of much importance in this city.
This article was reprinted in “THE PRINT” |