She shook her head. “I absolutely refuse to solve cases for you. It’s a violation of my contract with the union.”
“You’re not trying to solve the cases,” Mason said. “You’re simply giving me ideas.”
“You don’t need anyone to give you ideas,” she said. “Or do you?”
They laughed.
Abruptly, she settled down against his shoulder with a little wriggling motion. “I’m getting my wires crossed,” she admitted. “In order to get anywhere in this world, a woman is supposed to be feminine and leave the thinking to the males. They like it better that way.”
“You must have been taking lessons,” Mason said.
She yawned sleepily. “I have. It’s a swell book. Sex Appeal for Secretaries, in two volumes. It says a well-trained secretary never argues with her boss.”
“Can’t a boss argue with his secretary?”
“It takes two to make an argument. Go ahead, Chief, and solve your mysteries. I’m supposed to stand by and hold your coat. Here I was, forgetting myself and trying to put it on, and — somehow, I don’t think it fits.”
The rambling frame structure of the Gentrie residence was dark and somber, save for the dining room and kitchen, which were ablaze with light. Mason parked his car and climbed the long flight of stairs which led up from the street to the porch level.