Bill said, “How about taking his finger-prints, Sergeant?”
“Good idea.”
They grabbed my hands. I resisted as best I could, but they held my wrists and took finger-prints.
Bill said, “Come on, Lam. What’s the use of beating around the bush. Your finger-prints check with the ones we found there in the hotel.”
“Then someone planted them.”
“Yes, I know. You loaned someone your hands for the evening.”
I said, “Show me where they check.”
The detectives huddled together, began comparing my prints with some photographs they had. I heard the sound of heavy steps in the upper corridor, and Mrs. Ashbury and Bernard Carter came walking down the stairs. He was tenderly solicitous. She was prepared either to make a scene or put on an act, as the occasion might require.
There was something in the ponderous dignity of her appearance that impressed the officers more than Alta Ashbury’s clean-cut patrician manner. The officers became deferential.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Ashbury asked.