The fingerprint men were at work there. There was plenty of work, but Bill Weigand doubted much would come of it. There would be prints enough - of Elaine Britton, or her maid, of any casual guests who might have come since the room was last polished by Agnes Connors. It was too bad, Bill thought, that there was so seldom a telltale glass, marked with lipstick, laden with revealing prints; so seldom a cigarette of peculiar brand. Murderers were inconsiderate.
(from Murder Is Served, by Richard and Frances Lockridge)
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