“He’s upstairs now.”
“Yes. I saw the truck out in front,” Della Street said, as she dazzled the clerk with a smile, walked over to the elevator and jabbed the elevator button.
The elevator took her to the fourth floor. The desk clerk, hesitating for a moment, once more plugged in the line and said, “Police Headquarters.” Again he asked to talk with Sergeant Holcomb, and, after a two minute delay, was advised that Holcomb had just left.
The clerk was pulling out the plug when the elevator door once more opened, an a perspiring transfer man started pitching out suitcases, hat boxes, trunks, and hand bags. The elevator made two trips of it. Della Street came down with the second load, trim, alert, and smiling. She said to the desk clerk, “Thank you very much indeed,” and walked to the door of the apartment house. The eyes of the desk clerk followed her with ardent masculine appreciation.
Less than five minutes later, Sergeant Holcomb came striding into the lobby. “Where is she?” he asked.
The clerk waved a deprecating hand. “It’s all right, Sergeant. I’m sorry I bothered you. I tried to get you again. It was all a mistake, but it’s all right now.”
“What the hell do you mean, it’s all right now?”
“She’s left.”
“Who’s left?”
“Della Street.”