Harry Veigle entered the room quietly. He had a large sheet of cardboard in one hand and one of the fingerprinted slips in the other.
Shayne asked, “How about it, Harry?”
“I’ve got it. There’s no question about it.” He laid the sheet of cardboard on the table. It held a blurred set of prints, greatly magnified.
Shayne sighed deeply. “Let’s have it.”
“This is an enlargement of the third set of prints on the death bottle. They’re still on the bottle for you to check, Quinlan. And here,” he laid the slip of paper beside the cardboard, “are the same set of prints.”
The slip of paper bore the neat signature of Joseph P. Little.
The editor shuddered and made a squawking sound. “It can’t be,” he cried. “Not on that bottle. It can’t, I tell you. I wore gloves all—” He stopped suddenly, staring around in stricken fright.
“That,” said Shayne, “is what we wanted to hear. I know the killer wore gloves. There weren’t any prints on her balcony or mine.”
Mr. Little’s pince-nez fell to the floor from his trembling fingers. He said dully, “I–I confess. I did it.” He put his face in his hands and began sobbing.
Shayne caught Rourke’s eye and motioned him to a far corner of the room. He said, “There’s your story, Tim. Sell it to the Item for a scoop and put it on the wire,” loud enough for Denton to hear, then lowered his voice. “And if it isn’t worth what the plane cost, I’ll make up the difference. I had to have that picture.”