“We’ve caught the murderer,” one of the detectives said, and motioned toward me.
“Donald!” she exclaimed in surprise.
He nodded.
I heard quick, pounding steps, and Bob, running up from the billiard room, came to stand in the doorway.
Alta Ashbury moved over to my side and said, “Dad’s on his way out here.”
He came in while the officers were still in a huddle over the finger-prints. I saw things weren’t going to suit them. They shifted photographs around and stared in scowling concentration at the prints they’d taken of my fingers. I was glad I’d remembered to wear gloves there in that hotel room.
Ashbury came over to stand near me.
The sergeant of detectives moved over to talk with Markham, the night clerk. Markham was more and more positive. He kept nodding his head emphatically. They moved over and had a whispered conference with Esther Clarde, and she continued to shake her head.
Ashbury said, “What’s all this all about, Donald?” Bertha Cool took his arm, pulled him off to one side, and started to whisper.
I said to the sergeant, “It’s too bad those finger-prints don’t check. You wanted to crack the case, didn’t you?”