“No, but go on,” Veigle snapped.
“You gave the driver a buck for this trouble, but you left a bundle on the floor of the cab — a round bundle about ten inches in diameter tied securely in brown wrapping paper and white string. No writing on it. It feels like old clothes, but is heavier than that. Got it?”
“Almost — wait a minute.”
Shayne waited until Veigle said, “Okay, shoot. What’s it all about?”
“It’s a cognac bottle,” Shayne went on, “wrapped in a bath towel and in wrapping paper, but don’t open it in the claim office when you pick it up. The clerk might be allergic to the sight of blood.”
Veigle said, “What the hell?”
“It killed a girl tonight,” Shayne told him calmly. “I want you to get the bottle right away, Harry. The cab number is one-two-six. Take it to your lab before you unwrap it. It’s got the dead girl’s fingerprints and mine all over it, and, I hope, the murderer’s prints. My prints are on file at headquarters and the girl’s will be in a couple of hours. If the bottle has any other prints, bring them out. If it hasn’t — get rid of the damned thing, Harry. I might beat the chair that way.”
“Wait a minute, Mike. How’d your prints get on the bottle? If it’s murder evidence—”
Shayne said, “There was a time when you trusted me without asking questions.”
In a resigned tone, Veigle said, “Check. I claim this bottle from the cab office, try to bring out a set of prints other than yours and the dead girl’s. If I fail, I destroy the evidence and face a rap for accessory after the fact. That it?”