“Right. That does it.” Ken copied the number off on a scrap of paper. “It’s a New York license. And I’ll bet Dad can get the car owner’s name from the New York Motor Vehicle Bureau. We’ll phone him when he’s had a chance to reach home.”
Sandy’s prints were all washed and on their drying boards by the time Ken got his father on the telephone. Richard Holt laughed when he first heard Ken’s request.
“Don’t tell me you’re on the track of another mystery,” he said. “After last night—”
“This is something else, Dad,” Ken broke in hurriedly. He explained about Sam Morris’s phone call and their subsequent discovery of the watch-owner’s car in Sandy’s print. “Sam was so nice to us we just thought we ought to try to help him out.”
“You’re right,” Richard Holt said quickly. “We should. I’ll call Global and have the agency’s Albany man put in an inquiry. Ought to have the owner’s name for you tomorrow.”
“O.K. Swell, Dad. Sandy says to tell you the little camera’s a honey,” he added before he hung up.
“You ready to go home now?” he asked Sandy.
“I will be in a minute. Just want to take these prints off the boards. Most of them are dry now.” One by one he began to lift them from the chromium plates, examining each one as he turned it face up. “Look at them,” he said admiringly, reaching for his magnifying glass. “I could enlarge them to eight-by-tens and still have pretty sharp prints!”
“Do your gloating at home,” Ken suggested. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but I believe I’m actually hungry.”
Sandy grinned. “Turkey sandwiches sound pretty good to me too.” He put the prints into an envelope and slipped them into his pocket, along with his magnifying glass. “All right. Let’s go.”