Drake heaved a sigh. “Okay,” he surrendered reluctantly.
Mason flashed a reassuring smile at the manager. “Personally,” he said, “I think it’s a mistake.”
They took the stairs, starting to climb leisurely, running up them two at a time as they got out of sight of the manager. Mason said, “Hurry, Paul. She may telephone, and let her know we’re on the trail.”
They trooped down the corridor.
Drake said to Della Street: “Tap on the door, Della. If she comes, all right. If she doesn’t, and wants to know who’s there, remember you’re the girl from across the hall, and you’re out of matches.”
They paused in front of the door. Della Street tapped gently on the panel. After a moment of silence, a woman’s voice said, “Who is it please?”
Della said gushingly, “Oh, I’m from across the hall, and I’ve run out of matches. My boy friend’s been working late, and I’m making a pot of coffee and some scrambled eggs. I’ll only need just a couple.”
The door opened.
The young woman who stood on the threshold was striking in appearance. The henna hair did not particularly become her, but the limpid, dark eyes, the very red, full lips, the smooth lines of her neck stretching down into perfectly formed curves visible beneath the sheer silk of the lounging pajamas, gave her a somewhat voluptuous appearance; while the dead white of her skin, drawn tight across the forehead and wide cheekbones, made her seem peculiarly exotic.
Drake and Mason took charge without giving her an opportunity to collect her thoughts or take any independent action.