That called for no comment; I didn’t make any. “Have to get you to show it to me again sometime.” He wanted me to know it was only a temporary truce. “Meanwhile, get straight. I’m calling signals on this team. Don’t notify Weissman. That’s an order.”
If it made him feel better, that was jake with me. “More gore on the inside of that door jamb.” I showed him.
“How come you were mucking around her suite, anyhow, Vine?”
I told him. About Elsie and the pillow slip. Lanerd and his automatic.
“What about the steak knife?” He puzzled over the finger marks on the door.
“Auguste. One of our room-service captains. He’s been serving up here; probably the tips are too fat to let one of his regular waiters work the suite. Tonight, after the service tables were wheeled down, the routine checkup showed one knife missing. Auguste came back for it. I did a simple sum. Four bloody fingerprints minus one knife equals somebody slashed. So I searched around.”
“Queer prints,” Hacklin muttered. “They outline the fingers. But there aren’t any whorl marks or loops, even where the blood’s drying. Maybe the boys can get an impression out of them, but to me it looks like they were made by somebody with gloves on. Your waiters wear gloves?”
“Sometimes. In summer time. Cotton whites.” I didn’t like the direction his quiz was taking. “You’re not going to dust off that oldie about an inside job!”
“Very likely,” he admitted. “We been on guard against that since we came in here.”
“I take it back. Not going to play for your team, after all.”