“Out of headquarters?” Chennery said, turning to Drake.
Mason said, “No. A private detective in my employ.”
Chennery walked over to the door, held it open and said, “Go ahead, roll your hoops, both of you.”
His wife put a pleading hand on his arm. “Listen, Pete,” she said, “you can’t do that to these men. They’re...”
He shook her off and said to Mason, “I said, go ahead and roll your hoops.”
Mason, for a moment, might not have heard him. He turned, thumbs still hooked in the armholes of his vest, his eyes, narrowed in thought, staring moodily out of the window. Drake said belligerently, “You talk big.”
“I’m talking big,” Chennery told him, “because I happen to have paid rent on this apartment. This is my home. You haven’t any search warrants. Get out!”
“We might have a warrant of arrest,” Drake said.
Chennery laughed. “A private detective,” he mocked, “with a warrant of arrest. Phooey!”
Abruptly, Mason turned from the window. There was a twinkle about the corners of his eyes. “Come on, Paul,” he said, “Chennery has all the aces.”