“Mason talking,” the lawyer said crisply. “I have an appointment in twenty minutes at my office. The man will probably drive up in a car. Put an operative at each end of the block. Check the license numbers of any cars that park anywhere in the block. Get all the dope you can, and have it ready when I call. I’ll drop in at your place just before I go to my office.”
Mason hung up the telephone, stripped off his pajamas, and hurriedly pulled on his clothes, noticing as he dressed that his wrist watch gave the hour as ten minutes past midnight. He ran a comb through the tangled mass of hair, struggled into a raincoat, gave a hasty look about the apartment, and paused to telephone the night clerk to have the hotel garage deliver his car. He switched off the lights, pulled the door shut, and rang for the elevator.
The Negro elevator boy looked at him curiously. “Rainin’ pow’ful hard, Mista Mason.”
“Cats and dogs?” Mason asked.
The boy flashed white teeth. “No, suh. Ducks and drakes. You goin’ out some place, suh?”
“There is,” Mason announced, “no rest for the wicked.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Meanin’ you’se wicked?” he asked.
“No,” Mason said with a grin, as the elevator slid to a smooth stop at the lobby floor. “My clients are.”
He greeted the night clerk on duty at the desk, said, “You got my message through to the garage man?”
“Yes, Mr. Mason. Your car will be waiting. Pretty wild night.”