“How?”
“Reservations on the six o’clock plane. I’ll meet you at the airport.”
Della Street said, “A dab of powder on my nose, and I’m headed for the elevator.”
“Okay,” Mason said, “make it snappy. I’ll be aboard the plane. There’ll be a ticket for you at the ticket window. Just pick it up and climb aboard.”
“Be seeing you,” she promised, and hung up.
The late afternoon rush was on at the airport. Speeding cars came dashing in or went roaring out. People milled around in little groups, saying farewells or greeting arriving passengers. The loud speaker blared forth the fact that the six P.M. plane for San Francisco was ready for departure, and Mason, giving one last look around, was starting for the gate when Della Street came sprinting through the door. She gave him a friendly wave of her hand, then ran over to the ticket window to pick up her transportation. She joined him as he was getting on the plane.
“Skin of my eyeteeth,” she said. “A lot of traffic. Been here long?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes. Anything new at the office?”
“No. Drake’s got a lot of men out and is picking up a few details. That must have been vile whiskey. He was taking his third Bromo-Seltzer when I ran in to tell him I was checking out for the night.”
“Didn’t tell him where you were going?”