The uniformed officer who was importantly directing the parking of cars stifled a yawn. Half an hour before, cars had been arriving by the score. Five minutes later, they would be leaving in droves. Right now he had nothing to do, save push his chest against his uniform and strut importantly up and down the pavement.
He looked up as he heard the sound of screaming tires, the roar of an automobile. He raised his whistle to his lips, then jumped to one side to avoid being struck as a car skidded sideways, swung half around, and lurched to a stop.
Mason jumped out, yelled at him, “Park that car somewhere,” grabbed Della Street, and, together, they raced up the gangplank just as the hoarse bellow of the ship’s whistle aroused echoes along the waterfront.
The gangplank was pulled away. Lines were cast off. The lawyer and his secretary, breathless from their mad scramble, stood by the rail, laughing, panting, and looking down across the widening strip of oily water at the sea of upturned faces.
Suddenly Mason said, “Look down there, Della, over against post number seven.”
Della Street followed the direction of his eyes. Rodney Cuff, Jimmy Driscoll, Rosalind Prescott, and Paul Drake were gathered together in a compact group. Drake spotted them just as Della Street looked. He said something to his companions, then raised his voice and yelled, “Perry! We burnt up the road to get here. A client of mine has a case he wants you to take. This is right down your alley. He has plenty of money and—”
“Not interested,” Mason called back.
“You can come back with the pilot,” Drake shouted, “and—”
“Not interested,” Mason interrupted, waving his hand. “I have a date in Singapore with a lady.”
Cuff shouted, “I wanted to congratulate you. You got out of the courtroom before I knew you were going. Wonderful work, Counselor.”