“This must have been a picture frame,” Drake said.
Mason nodded, fished from the garbage can a crumpled, cracked, oval photograph. He smoothed it out. The likeness of Belle Newberry laughed up into the flashlight. The beam of light showed the words inscribed on the photograph in ink, “To Daddy, With Love, from Belle.”
Mason pushed the photograph back into the can, took Drake’s arm, led him back into the flat and said, “That’s all we need, Paul. We’ll leave a few fingerprints and get out.”
“Why fingerprints?”
“So the district attorney can know you’ve been guilty of breaking and entering,” Mason said. “He’ll probably stick you on a kidnaping charge, as well. Here’s a good place on the dresser mirror, Paul. And you can put some fingerprints on that table.”
“Now wait a minute. Perry. If you—”
“Go ahead,” Mason said, pressing his hand against the mirror on the dressing table.
Drake gingerly touched the top of the table as though it were hot.
Mason laughed, lowered his shoulder, pushed his weight against Drake and snapped off his flashlight. The detective, stumbling about in the darkness, grabbed at the table to keep himself from falling, then clung to a chair.
Mason switched on the flashlight and said, “Come on, Paul, you old criminal. Let’s get out of here.”