“Still out?” Mason inquired.
“No. He comes back oop.”
“No one else been in in the meantime?”
“No.”
The janitor missed the floor by six inches with the elevator, and Mason said, “That’s good enough, Ole.”
The sliding doors rolled smoothly back, and Mason stepped out into the semi-darkness of the long corridor. He walked rapidly to where the corridor made a T, but in place of turning left to his own office, turned right toward the oblong of illumination which marked the frosted glass door of the Drake Detective Agency. He pushed open this door and crossed a small waiting room just large enough to accommodate an open bench and two straight-back chairs.
Behind an arch-shaped, grilled window marked “Information,” the night switchboard operator looked up, nodded, and pressed the button which released the catch on the swinging door.
Near a radiator, an undersized man was trying to dry the bottoms of his trousers. A soggy felt hat and a glistening raincoat hung on a rack near the radiator.
“Hello, Curly,” Mason said. “Did you give up?”
“Give up,” the operative asked, looking ruefully down at his wet shoes. “What do you mean, give up?”