“They’re on this floor?”
“The cage is.”
Mason said, “Find out all you can about Peltham.”
“I’m working on it,” Curly said. “Got an operative on the job now. Do you want me to report at your office?”
“No,” Mason said. “I’ll get in touch with you. In about fifteen minutes you’d better come in my office and get a drink of whiskey — unless Paul keeps a bottle in his desk.”
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Mason. I’ll be in.”
Mason said, “I’ll do better than that. I’ll put the bottle on a desk in the entrance room, and leave the door unlocked.”
“Gee, that’ll be swell. Thanks.”
Mason’s heels pounded echoes from the silent walls as he marched down the corridor toward the end of the passage where he had his office.
He saw no one, heard no sound save the pound of his own footfalls. He unlocked the door of the reception office, left it unlatched, and walked on into his private office. He opened the drawer of his desk, found a pint of whiskey, and was just placing it on the desk used by the information clerk when the door opened and a thinnish man in the late thirties said, “Mr. Mason, I presume?”