"I'd hate to touch anything in here," I said. Patrrick was putting on a pair of soft cotton gloves. "If I were you I'd be one of those detectives that does everything by psychology," I said. Patrick said nothing. He was already starting a swift methodical search of everything in the room, beginning with the bed, lifting its covers and sheets, running gloved fingers over the pillows and the ancient mattress, eyeing the rusty springs, then put it together again so that it looked just as it did in the first place. I stood off, and each second hated the whole business more. "I'll do the psychology part," I said. "See that watermelon pink comb on the dresser? If vice has a color, it's watermelon pink. She done it."
(from The Golden Box, by Frances Crane)
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