It was after midnight when Perry Mason and Della Street, flushed and laughing, entered Paul Drake’s office. The man who was on duty at the switchboard knew Perry Mason.
“The boss in?” Mason asked.
“Yes. Just go in. I’ll tell him you’re coming.”
They walked along the reception hallway, pushed open a swinging door at the end, entered a filing room, and beyond that, pushed open the door to an eight-by-ten office where Drake had contrived to place a small desk, a swivel chair, three telephones, a filing case, and a steel safe.
Mason said, “I know now why you like to sprawl all over our office, Paul. There isn’t room for you to relax here. You have to sit straight as a ramrod to keep your feet from slipping out of the office during the middle of a conference.”
Drake, violently chewing gum, consulted the three memo pads, one in front of each telephone, and said, “Give Della the chair over there, Perry. You can sit on the corner of the desk. What sort of a run-around were you giving me with this Barkler guy?”
Mason laughed. “Guess I was a little crude there, Paul. I tipped my hand.”
One of the telephones rang. Drake, chewing his gum violently, scooped the receiver to his ear, said, “Hello. Yes — okay, give it to me,” and started making notes. In the midst of the note-taking, the other telephone rang. Drake picked it up, said into the transmitter, “Hold the line for just a minute,” finished making notes, said, “Okay, Frank. Hang on for a minute. Something’s coming in over the other telephone.” He said, “All right,” into the second transmitter and translated the metallic sounds which came through the receiver into notes on the pad in front of him, said, “Report again in an hour,” and hung up. He said into the first telephone, “Okay, keep the place sewed up. Don’t let him get away. Make a report as soon as he does anything.”
“I take it,” Mason said, “you’ve struck pay dirt.”
Drake spat his chew of gum into a wastebasket, opened a drawer, took out two fresh sticks, fed them rapidly into his mouth.