He opened the door a few inches and eased himself almost furtively into the corridor, his grin fading through the narrow opening as he silently pulled the door to.
Mason reached for his hat, said, “I’m going down to the pet store, Della.”
“Still worrying about the canary, Chief?”
He nodded. “Why should a canary have a sore foot? Why should a girl carry a canary through the streets and up to a law office?”
“Because her sister wants the canary put in a safe place.”
Mason said slowly, “Looks like her sister intends to be away for a while. And, when you come right down to it, Della, no one has told us where the sister is right now.”
“She said she didn’t know,” Della Street explained.
“That,” Mason told her, “is exactly my point. Damn it, don’t you take all the romance out of life. If I can squeeze a mystery out of this canary, I’m going to do it — even if I have to put him through a clothes wringer.”
Chapter three
The pet store on the corner was a bedlam of noise when Mason opened the door, nodded to a clerk, and walked back toward the office in the rear. A parrot screeched greeting. A chained monkey thrust forth an inquisitive paw, clutching at the lawyer’s coat. A fat individual, with pale, patient eyes, and a black skullcap protecting the shiny dome of an onion bald head, looked up from a ledger, then came waddling from the glass-enclosed office.