Mason said, “Sergeant Holcomb’s impulsive, but I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll steal a march on him, Della. Get your book and I’ll give you some dictation.”
She said, “Oh, well, you’ve never yet gone so far I wouldn’t back your play. Let’s go.”
She moved over to her secretarial desk, opened her shorthand notebook and held her pen poised above the paper, “Okay, Chief,” she said, “what is it?”
“In the Matter of the Application of Della Street,” Mason dictated, “for a Writ of Habeas Corpus.”
Chapter fifteen
Low-flung clouds, borne along in solemn procession by a brisk south wind, slid smoothly over the city streets, sending down an occasional patter of raindrops. The morning was depressing, gloomy, a fore-runner of disaster.
The transfer man who stood awkwardly ill at ease in front of the apartment house desk, said, “Well, all I know about it is she said she was moving in. She had a sublease or something. She said all the baggage initialed ‘D.M.’ was to go in. Here, she said to give you this letter if I had any trouble.”
The clerk said, “Well, you’re having trouble,” and slit open the envelope. He read the document, scratched his head and said, “Well, it seems to be in order. Rita Swaine has her rent paid and she’s in jail. She says to let a Miss Della Street move her things into the apartment, and these are Della Street’s things. I guess she has the right to do it if she wants. I’ll send the boy up to unlock the door.”
The transfer man nodded, walked back to the light transfer wagon at the curb, and started unpiling bags, suitcases and steamer trunks.
“How you going to get all that stuff into the one apartment?” the clerk asked.