“Yes.”
“All right. How about waiving extradition?”
“You’re arresting them?”
“Yes. On suspicion of murder. Will you waive extradition?”
Mason smiled at him and said, “I’ll wave my hands, and that’s all.”
“Get out!” Holcomb ordered.
Mason picked up his hat and said, “Remember, you two, don’t say a word in answer to any question unless I’m there and advise you to answer that question. They can’t make you talk if you don’t want to. Don’t want to. I’ll do the talking. Don’t waive extradition. Don’t sign anything. Don’t volunteer any information and remember that they’ll pull the old police gag of telling each one of you the other has confessed and—”
The three converged on him, ominous purpose in their eyes. Mason slipped adroitly into the corridor, said, “Good night, gentlemen,” and slammed the door shut behind him.
There was no sign of Della Street in the lobby. He went by cab to the airport, found the pilot and said “Have you seen anything of the young woman you brought up here?”
“Why, no,” the aviator said. “I thought she was with you.”