TWIST ENDING II
Raymond Chandler points out in The Simple Art of Murder that “the detective story, even in its most conventional form, is difficult to write well. Good specimens of the art are much rarer than good serious novels.” If we grant this, and further grant that the short-short story is perhaps the most exacting form of fiction, then we arrive at the proposition that the mystery short-short probably is the most difficult fictional form there is, approaching the sonnet in its logical complexity as an art form. All of which has not a little to do with “Hand in Glove,” which makes the difficult not only look easy, but entertaining as well. Florida-based James Holding has never published a novel (at least not as far as your editors know); but during the past fifteen years, several hundred of his short stories have appeared in almost every conceivable magazine and journal both here and abroad. J.G.
“The man was a blackmailer,” said Inspector Graves, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “There’s nothing nastier. Therefore, in my opinion, the person who killed him deserves a vote of thanks, not censure and a possible prison term.”
Golightly, standing with his back to the fireplace and jingling his change in his trousers pocket, looked at the inspector with surprise. “A blackmailer,” he inquired. “The newspaper report of the murder made no mention of that.”
‘‘Naturally not,” said the inspector, “since it was one of the few clues we had to work with in the case. Releasing it to the press would have complicated matters enormously.”
“I can understand that,” said Golightly. Then, curiously, ‘‘What I can’t understand is how you concluded Clifford was a blackmailer.”
The inspector said, “Quite simple, really. We found a list of his victims in a wall safe behind a painting in his bedroom—with the amount of blackmail each one had paid to Clifford, and at what intervals. It was a very revealing document.”
“I daresay.” Golightly nodded agreement. “It also answers a question that has puzzled me ever since you knocked at my door a few moments ago, Inspector.”
“Why I am here, you mean? Yes, Mr. Golightly, your name is on Clifford’s list. He was into you for a rather staggering amount, wasn’t he?”
“You could say so.” Golightly looked bleakly about his once luxurious flat. Everything had a slightly shabby and uncared-for look now. “I make no secret of the fact that Clifford’s murder made me a happy man.”
“As it did every other victim on his list,” acknowledged the inspector. “And all have admitted it readily, once they realized we were onto Clifford’s dirty work. We have, of course, contacted them all. They comprise a ready-made list of suspects, as you will appreciate.”
“But you have not been able to discover the murderer?”
“Each of Clifford’s other blackmail victims has an unshakable alibi for the evening of Clifford’s murder, as it happens,” said the inspector sadly. He gave Golightly an expectant glance. “Are you also provided with one, Mr. Golightly?”
Golightly seemed taken aback. “For last Saturday evening?”
“Friday evening. From ten to midnight, approximately.”
“Friday, yes, let me see.” Golightly frowned in the act of memory, then smiled. “As it happens, I, too, have an alibi, Inspector. I would prefer, however, not to give you her name except in the ultimate extremity. She is what Clifford’s blackmail demands on me were all about. I can tell you this much: she is a lady of high station—and thus far—unblemished reputation. Do you see my dilemma?”
The inspector sighed. “Perfectly,” he said. “Yet if our other line of investigation proves a dead end, we may very well come to your ultimate extremity, Mr. Golightly. It is only fair to warn you.”
“Thank you.” Golightly bowed. “You do have other clues, then?”
“Only one. A full set of bloody fingerprints on the sill of the rear window by which the killer made his exit from Clifford’s home.”
“Bloody fingerprints, you say?”
“Yes. As the newspapers reported, Clifford was stabbed with a paper knife, a letter opener. There was a great deal of blood about.”
Golightly looked baffled. “Perhaps I am dull,” he said, “but if you have a set of fingerprints to work with… Aren’t they infallible in establishing identity?”
The inspector nodded. “If they are clear and unsmudged, they are infallible. But our bloody fingerprints were far from clear, I regret to say. They were badly smeared. Even without the smearing, they presented certain difficulties.”
“What difficulties, Inspector, may I ask?”
“Whoever left bloody fingerprints on Clifford’s windowsill was wearing gloves.”
Golightly started. “Gloves! Then no wonder it was impossible to learn anything from the prints.”
“I said difficult, not impossible,” murmured the inspector. “As a matter of fact, I was able to deduce certain basic information from the prints, even though the fingers that made them were gloved.”
“I shall never cease being astonished at police technology,” said Golightly. “What could you possibly deduce from prints made by gloved fingers?”
The inspector ticked off his points on his own fingers. “One, I deduced that the gloves worn by Clifford’s murderer were of a type that would be very expensive. Under high magnification, the prints showed that the gloves worn by the killer had been string gloves—you know, the woven or knitted type. And not just knitted of the ordinary kind of cotton, but of fine silken thread. Two, some seam stitching showed quite plainly in one of the glove prints, and it was so fine and so carefully contrived that our laboratory had no hesitation in pronouncing that the gloves had been handmade; custom-made, if you prefer. And by a very expensive glove-maker.”
“You astound me, Inspector.”
“I sometimes astound myself,” the inspector said comfortably. “In any event, these and other characteristics of the glove smudges indicated to us that they might provide a feasible, even a fertile, field of inquiry.”
“And you followed it up?”
“Just so. I, myself, after a city-wide search, unearthed a custom glover in a byway off Baker Street, Mr. Golightly, who admitted to producing gloves of this particular kind. His testimony is available if needed.”
“He must have made such gloves for scores of clients,” Golightly suggested.
Inspector Graves shook his head. “Such was not the case. This glover had made only a single pair of gloves like the ones I described to him. One pair only. Several years ago. Yet by great good luck, his records still contained the name and address of that client.”
“Indeed?” said Golightly. “That was good luck, Inspector. For you, if not for me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose,” he went on with a wry smile, “that your investigation’s success now depends rather heavily upon a show of hands, does it not?”
Inspector Graves nodded regretfully. “If you please, Mr. Golightly.”
Golightly stopped jingling his coins. Slowly he withdrew his bands from his trouser pockets and held them out for Graves’ inspection.
His right hand had six fingers on it