Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination - Edogawa Rampo [47]
Wouldn't it be very handy, I told myself, if I could make a cast of the thumbprint. Why, I could plant it on the scene of my next crime. . . and the ones after that. No one could remember the fingerprints of my actual self, so no one could tell whose they were. . . and the very fact that my own fingerprints would not match those of my brother's would establish my innocence. As for the police, they would have to search for the person who bore the fingerprints, not knowing that he was buried a good thirty feet under the ground.
This wonderful idea raised me to a seventh heaven of delight Why, I would be able to play the fantastic role of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in reality—and never be caught.
Putting my wicked plot into operation, I soon stole a large sum of money from the house of a friend and purposely left my brothers thumbprint. This was easy, for I once had some experience as a photoengraver, and of course I had made a block.
After this, whenever I was short of money for my merrymaking, I resorted to this means, and was never once suspected or apprehended. Intoxicated by my success, I continued to steal right and left, and as the law never seemed to catch up with me, I finally went to the extent of committing another murder'
Of this last crime of mine you must have read the records, so I'll not go into too much detail. Suffice it to say that I learned of a large sum of money in the possession of another friend—two million yen to be exact, reposing in his safe. When I further learned that the money was kept secretly as campaign funds for a political campaign, the setup seemed just about perfect.
After studying every detail, I stole into his house one night as my natural self—the younger brother. Creeping into the room where the money was kept, I opened the door of the safe with gloved hands and took out the bundles of banknotes. (I knew the combination because he had once opened the safe in my presence, trusting me because I—that is to say, my dead brother—was an old acquaintance.)
Suddenly the lights I had extinguished were turned on. Startled, I turned around and found the owner of the safe confronting me! Desperately, I snatched a knife out of my pocket and stabbed him in the chest. Groaning, he sank to the floor and, in a few moments, was dead. I strained my ears, but fortunately no one had been aroused by the sound of the brief struggle.
After recovering my breath, I took out the engraved thumbprint of my brother and dipped it in the blood that had been spilt on the floor. I then stamped it on the wall nearby, and after making sure that there was no other evidence, I ran away at top speed, taking every precaution against leaving any footprints.
On the following day, a detective paid me a visit. But this did not disturb me at all, for I was still confident that the trick would work again. He told me apologetically and politely that he had visited every person who must have known of the large sum of money in the safe of the victim. Furthermore, he said that a thumbprint had been left on the spot, that it had not matched that of any ex-convict, and that he was sorry to trouble me but he wanted me to let him have my thumbprint as I had also known of the money in the safe. "Merely a matter of routine," he assured me.
Laughing at him inwardly, I asked many questions as if to show that I grieved the loss of my friend, and then let him take my thumbprint. After the detective left, I immediately forgot all about him and hurried to my favorite merrymaking hangout with a well-filled purse.
Two or three days later the same detective paid me another visit. I found out later that he was a crack sleuth of the Metropolitan Police Board. When I casually walked into the drawing room, the detective looked at me with a peculiar smile. The next moment my