Mason and Drake crossed to the elevator. Mason said to the colored boy at the controls, “Five. Make it snappy.” The cage shot upward. Mason led the way down the corridor and pounded with peremptory knuckles on the door of 14B. The door promptly opened a crack, to disclose two appraising blue eyes, a head of blonde hair, a full-lipped, rosebud mouth, and a slender, white hand which clutched the negligee about the throat of the ‘wearer. “I don’t know you,” Marjory Trenton said in a tone which implied the barrier was not insurmountable.
Mason nodded. “That’s right, you don’t.”
“Well, what is it you want?”
“Want us to talk it over in the corridor?” Mason asked.
“I’m certain I don’t intend to ask you in,” she said acidly. “I’m dressing, and I haven’t the faintest idea who you are nor what you want.”
Mason raised his voice and said, “All right, we’ll talk it over right here. This is Mr. Paul Drake. His wife had a platinum wrist watch. That watch was stolen. You have that watch in your possession. We want to talk it over. Do you want to get tough or do you want to avoid publicity?”
Her eyes grew apprehensive. “Why,” she said, “I... I... come in, please.”
She held the door open. Mason pushed his way into the room, followed by Paul Drake.
“Are you detectives?” she asked, closing the door.
Mason said, “Never mind who we are. Let’s take a look at the wrist watch.”