Mason shook hands, felt the impact of the black eyes on his, the long, firm fingers which circled his hand. The face itself was as watchfully expressionless as that of the gambler back of the faro deck.
“How did you do it?” Rita Swaine asked.
“It’s a secret,” Mason told her. “Where can we talk?”
“Rossy’s room at the Riverside,” Rita said. “—Oh, there’s Miss Street. Good evening, Miss Street.”
Della smiled. Mason introduced her to Rosalind Prescott and Jimmy Driscoll. As though they had been casual tourists, sauntering from place to place in search of entertainment, they strolled out of The Bank Club and walked to the Riverside Hotel.
Mason dropped behind and said, “I’m sorry, Della, but you’re not going up with us. This thing is loaded with dynamite. Stay here in the lobby and keep one of the house phones in your hands. If anyone comes in who looks like an officer, and who asks for Rita Swaine or Rosalind Prescott, get a call through to the room and tip me off.”
She nodded.
“And don’t let the others know what you’re doing,” he warned.
As they entered the lobby of the hotel, Della Street said, “Chief, if you’ll pardon me, I’ll run into the dining room and see if I can get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. I haven’t eaten anything, and I’ll have a terrific headache if I don’t get something.”
Mason nodded, said casually, “Okay, Della. Come up when you get through. What’s your room number, Mrs. Prescott?”