Mason nodded.
She said, “Gee... Thanks, Mr. Mason. I... I...”
Mason gravely opened the desk drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and glasses. Gertrude Lade, tall, thin as a rail, her figure angular, her face plain, took the glass of whiskey Mason handed her, grinned at them, and said, “Here’s regards.” She tossed off the whiskey in a single swallow, handed Mason back the empty glass, and said, “Listen, Mr. Mason, any time you want anything pulled around here, don’t be afraid to call on me, and... thanks for that raise.”
She turned and walked with long-legged strides through the door to the outer office.
Mason finished his whiskey, set down the empty glass, grinned at Della Street, and said, “She talks like a trouper.”
“She sure does,” Della Street said. “I was afraid I’d have to argue with her. I didn’t. All I said was, ‘The boss is in a jam. Go into his office and set fire to a wastebasket where it’ll do about ten dollars’ worth of damage.” I waited for her to ask questions and argue. All she said was,’Is that all?‘”
Mason chuckled, picked up the telephone, and said, “Tell Paul Drake to come in, Gertrude.” He hung up the telephone, looked at Della Street, and chuckled again. “Getting a girl for that information desk and switchboard has been something of a job,” he said, “but I think we have one now. That remark of hers is priceless.”
“Her voice didn’t show the least excitement,” Della Street said. “She was just as casual about it as though I’d told her to mail a letter.”
Mason said, “Well, we’d better get this whiskey away before Drake comes in, or he’ll mooch our booze as well as our cigarettes. Della, call Emily Milicant, and tell her I want to see her as soon as she can get here.”
Della Street gathered up the empty glasses. “I’ll wash these, and bring them back,” she said.