Even if they did accept his story, and if they caught the killer, he would be chief witness in a murder trial. How was he going to explain being in the apartment when the murder happened? The truth would come out. Ann would know. The bank would know. All his friends would know.
His mouth turned dry.
He would be front-page news. Everyone would know that, while Ann was away, he had gone to a call-girl’s place.
Get out of this, he told himself. You can’t do anything for her. She’s dead. You’ve got to think of yourself. Get out quick!
He crossed the room to the front door; then he stopped short.
Had he left any clue in this dark apartment that would lead the police to him? He mustn’t rush away like this in a blind panic. There were sure to be some clues he had left.
He stood there in the darkness, fighting his panic, trying to think.
His finger-prints were on the glasses he had used. He was taking away Fay’s flashlight: that might be traced to him. His prints were also on the whisky bottle.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating face.
Only the killer and himself knew Fay was dead. He had time. He mustn’t panic. Before he left, he must check over this room and the bedroom to make absolutely certain he hadn’t left anything to bring the police after him.