“No,” she said, striding toward the door.
As the door slammed shut, Della Street said reproachfully, “After all, Chief, that was cruel. She may have cared for him a lot.”
“That,” Mason said, “was exactly what I wanted to find out.”
Chapter 8
Mason, freshly shaved and seeming as buoyant as a new tennis ball, deftly scaled his hat over the curved brass hook on the rack, walked over to his desk, picked up the file of important correspondence which Della Street had placed on his blotter, and deposited it on the far corner of the desk. Della Street opened the door of her office, grinned a greeting and said, “Hi, Chief. What’s new?”
“How are the birthdays?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve recovered all right, but don’t give me any more.”
He laughed. “After all, it was just a fake birthday, Della. You really aren’t a year older, you know.”
“Well,” she observed dubiously, “I feel a year older.”
“Whose suggestion was the birthday?” he asked.