Drake said, “That’s the first really smart thought you’ve had all evening, Perry. I suppose you have some sort of a plan in mind, but it’s more than I can figure. I think you’ve gone plumb crazy.”
“Not quite that bad, Paul,” Mason told him. “There’s a method in my madness.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Drake said. “To me it seems like one of those goofy dreams, where everybody does cuckoo things. Honest to God, Perry, when Della was telephoning to Scudder, I expected any minute to have you chime in with a station announcement and ask the D.A. how he liked the amateur hour.”
Della Street drove to a neighborhood picture show, and parked the car. The three of them entered the lighted foyer. Mason bought tickets. Drake said, “Well, at least I can have a few minutes’ relaxation... Oh, Lord, Perry, I’ve seen this picture before and didn’t like it.”
Della Street parked her rented car near the hotel. Mason took Della Street’s arm, started across the pavement with her, heard Drake say, “Oh-oh!” and felt a hand grip his shoulder. He whirled around, to confront a tall man who loomed to enormous proportions in a heavy black overcoat. Thick-lensed spectacles distorted the man’s pale green eyes.
“Where you been?” he asked.
Mason turned back toward the entrance of the hotel, the hand of the big man still on his shoulder.
“Who wants to know?” he asked.
“The D.A. does.”
Mason said, “Tell him I’ve been to a picture show.”