He heard the businesslike slam of a car door. The doorbell rang three short, sharp rings. Mason heard running steps as someone dashed past the living room, running along the cement walk toward the back of the house. Once more there were three rings, then the sound of heavy steps on the porch.
Mason, conscious of Della Street trapped on the front porch, reached an instant decision. He turned the brass knob which released the bolt on the front door, opened the door, said, “Good evening,” to his white-faced secretary who was standing on the threshold. “Was there something I could do for you?” he asked, and then, apparently for the first time, became conscious of the police car at the curb and the broad-shouldered plainclothes officer who was standing just behind Della Street.
“Good evening,” Mason said cheerfully. “Are you together?”
Della Street said quickly, “No. I am soliciting subscriptions for the Chronicle. We have a very attractive—”
“Just a minute, sister. Jus-s-s-s-t a minute!” growled the officer.
Della Street turned to survey him with hostile eyes. “Thank you,” she said acidly. “I’m trying to make a living at this, and I don’t want to see any etchings. Just because I’m unescorted doesn’t mean a thing — to you.”
Mason said, “Won’t you come in?” and to the officer, “And what can I do for you?”
The officer came pushing in on Della Street’s heels.
“Really,” Mason said with the polite indignation of an outraged householder, “My invitation was to...”
The officer threw back his coat, disclosing a badge. “What’s going on here?” he asked.