The inspector leaned over and poked his forefinger at the damp towel and wash cloth. When he straightened up his eyes were agate-hard. “Want to make a statement, Shayne?”
“Maybe,” said Shayne, “the murderer took advantage of an empty room and washed up with my towel.”
“We can find out by a chemical analysis,” the inspector stated.
“A blood test will only show the type of blood. If it’s the same as the girl’s you won’t prove anything,” Shayne protested. “Only that it might be hers.”
The inspector shook his head. “There are other tests. Perspiration, for instance. After we’ve made the tests we’ll know whether you used that towel or not, Shayne.”
“All right,” Shayne admitted angrily, “like a damned fool I forgot I’d left that stuff lying there in plain sight. But hell, I didn’t know a murder had been committed next door. I did go up to my room to clean up before coming here to keep my date.”
“Don’t forget the blood test. If it’s the girl’s type and not yours—” The inspector’s voice was coldly warning.
“I’m not worried about that. I know damn well it’s my blood on that towel. Of course, if her type is the same as mine it’s not going to help my story very much,” Shayne conceded.
“Why did you lie about not going to your room?” Denton barked.
“What would you do?” Shayne flared. “Why shouldn’t I protect myself? I know I’m in a jam. People jumping from a death room to mine — and you eager to jump at anything to put me away because you’re afraid I’ll uncover some of your dirty stuff here in the Quarter. Sure I lied about it.”