“He gets this way when things get hot,” Mason explained to Della Street.
Della, watching the detective’s jaw with fascination said, “If there were only some way of harnessing that motion to a dynamo, we could run the elevator in the building.”
Drake grinned at her, and said, “Go ahead, folks, have your fun. I can see you’ve been painting the town red while I’ve been holding my nose to a grindstone.”
“My God!” Mason exclaimed. “Don’t tell me there’s a grindstone in here, too!”
Drake pulled the nearest memo pad over toward him. “Want the report?” he asked.
“I suppose we’ve got to have it,” Mason said.
Drake said, “I have an idea we let the biggest game slip through our fingers, Perry. It couldn’t have been helped, but I’m kicking myself just the same.”
“How so?” Mason asked.
Drake said, “Emily Milicant left your office, but didn’t go to her apartment. She kept calling a number from public phones and getting no answer. The fourth time she tried, one of my men got close enough to watch the number she was dialing. It was Westhaven one-two-eight-nine. I looked it up, and found that it was an unlisted number, in the name of L. C. Conway at apartment 625 in an apartment house at 513 Haldemore Avenue.
“I immediately sent a man down to cover that apartment, and we continued camping on Emily Milicant’s trail.”