Bardin groand.
“Now don’t start lousing up the issue. Maybe the guy cut his corns with it: people do.” He pushed open a door by the head of the bath and looked into an elaborately equipped dressing-room. On a chair was a suit, shirt and silk underwear. A pair of brogue shoes and socks lay near by.
Conrad walked into the room, then came to a sudden standstill.
“Now this will make you really happy, Sam,” he said, and waved to a bloodstained object on the floor.
Bardin joined him.
“Well, I’ll be damned! A machete!” He knelt beside the razor-sharp knife. “I bet it’s the murder weapon. It’s just the thing to cut someone’s head off with, and it would lay a belly open like you open a door.”
“It wouldn’t interest you to wonder why a guy like Jordan should have a South American jungle knife in his possession?”
Bardin sat back on his heels. His grin made him look like a wolf.
“Maybe he picked it up as a souvenir. I bet he’s been to South America or the West Indies: probably the West Indies. It’s the murder weapon all right, and I’ll bet the blood on it is June Arnot’s blood.”
Conrad was turning over the clothes on the chair.