“Let’s get this bird’s fingerprints and get it over with,” I said to O’Hara.
Dean was not in.
“And keep an eye on Clane. I think maybe he’ll have another story to tell us in a few minutes.”
We got in the elevator and took our men up to the identification bureau, where we put Farr’s fingers on the pad. Phels—he is the department’s expert—took one look at the results and turned to me.
“Well, what of it?”
“What of what?” I asked.
“This isn’t the man who killed Henry Grover!”
Clane laughed, Farr laughed, O’Hara laughed, and Phels laughed. I didn’t! I stood there and pretended to be thinking, trying to get myself in hand.
“Are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?” I blurted, my face a nice, rosy red.
You can tell how badly upset I was by that: it’s plain suicide to say a thing like that to a fingerprint expert!
Phels didn’t answer; just looked me up and down.
Clane laughed again, like a crow cawing, and turned his ugly face to me.
“Do you want to take my prints again, Mr. Slick Private Detective?”
“Yeah,” I said, “just that!”
I had to say something.