“Never mind that,” Sergeant Holcomb interrupted, pushing his face across the counter. “Did that baggage go in that room — even for a second?”
“Oh, well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t know. I suppose some of it may have actually entered the room for a second or two. I wasn’t there.
“Was Della Street alone in the room with any of that baggage?”
“Why, I wouldn’t know — wait a minute, let me see— Yes, she must have been, because the first load of baggage came down with the operator and the transfer man in the cage. They unloaded that bunch of baggage and went back for another bunch. Miss Street must have been in the room with—”
“You fool!” Holcomb yelled. “She’s Perry Mason’s secretary. Perry Mason’s defending Rita Swaine. They wanted something out of that room and didn’t know how else to get it, so she took that baggage in, manipulated things so she was left alone in the room, opened one of the empty suitcases, pitched whatever it was she wanted in there, and took it out.”
The clerk stared at Sergeant Holcomb with shocked, incredulous eyes. At length he said, “Why, Sergeant, she’s a perfect little lady, trim, well-tailored, refined—”
“Bah!” Sergeant Holcomb said. “You make me sick. Why the hell didn’t you hold her?”
“Hold her? How could I?”
“Tell her she was under arrest. Hold her until I got there.”
“But you told me particularly, Sergeant, not to tell anyone you were coming.”