“This,” Mason remonstrated, “is a damned outrage!”
Borge slipped out of his overcoat, draped it across the back of a chair, wiped perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. Inspector Bodfish moved in on the other side.
“Is this the way you do things in San Francisco?” Mason demanded.
Scudder said nothing.
Borge grabbed Mason’s right wrist. Mason jerked back.
Borge twisted Mason’s arm under his own, pivoted his body so that Mason was pulled up against the big man’s hip.
“Wrestler, eh?” Mason inquired.
Borge, saying nothing, twisted Mason’s arm so that the fingers were spread out. Bodfish put ink on Mason’s fingers and took a series of impressions. “Hold out your other hand,” Bodfish ordered. Mason held it out.
Silently, Inspector Bodfish took the fingerprints from the other two.
“Now then,” Scudder said, “we want to know when you last saw Mr. Cartman.”