Mason strode over to him, placed his hand on the collar of the little man’s coat, and said, “Get up off that bed,” and, as he spoke, jerked Freel to his feet.
Mason whipped the pillows from the bed and felt underneath them. He turned to Paul Drake. “Give me a hand with this mattress, Paul,” he said. “We might as well try here first.”
Mason took the head of the mattress, Drake the foot.
“Flip it over.”
They turned the mattress over.
Freel came running forward to grab at Mason’s arm. “No, no,” he cried, tugging futilely at the lawyer’s right arm.
Mason shook him off.
“You can’t do that,” Freel screamed indignantly.
Near the center of the mattress on the under side, inch-wide strips of adhesive tape had been interlaced into a network. Mason took out his penknife and cut through the strips of tape.
Once more Freel lunged at him, and Mason said, without looking up, “Take care of that guy, Paul. He might get hurt on the knife.”