“I d’know,” the transfer man admitted. “I’ll do it some way. Pile ’em in the center of the floor if I can’t do nothing else. She said to get ’em in, and I’ll get ’em in.”
The colored elevator boy approached the desk. “Boss, yo’-all remembah that the police officer man said you was to telephone him if anybody tried to get in that apartment.”
“No one’s trying to get in,” the clerk said. “The man’s simply delivering some baggage. However, I’ll notify Sergeant Holcomb.”
He plugged in a line, called police headquarters and asked for Sergeant Holcomb of the homicide squad. While he waited, the transfer man and the elevator boy moved baggage up to Rita Swaine’s apartment.
After a few moments Sergeant Holcomb’s voice said, “Hello. What is it?”
“This is the desk clerk at 1388 Chestnut Street. You’ll remember Miss Rita Swaine has an apartment here under lease, and you asked me to let you know if anyone tried to move anything out. Well, no one’s trying to take anything out, but some baggage is being delivered — that is, Miss Swaine has given orders to place Miss Street’s baggage in her apartment. The transfer man’s brought quite a few suitcases, trunks and— Just a minute, I’ll look— Yes, that’s right, it’s Della Street— What? — Well, I’ll be damned!”
The clerk pulled out the plug and set his face in stem lines of officious determination.
Della Street, tailored to the minute, as serenely confident as a poker player pushing a stack of blue chips into the center of the pile, came breezing in from the street door walked up to the desk and said, “I’m Miss Street. I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“You’re the one who sent the baggage for Miss Swaine’s apartment?” the clerk asked.
“That’s right. But this baggage shouldn’t have gone up there at all. This is the ‘D.M.’ baggage. It should have been delivered to the Trader’s Transfer Company for storage. Where’s the transfer man, please?”