A chunky figure materialized from the doorway, to stand at Paul Drake’s arm.
“Inspector Bodfish,” the big man introduced.
Mason unexpectedly reached across in front of Della Street, grabbed Bodfish’s right hand, pumped it up and down, and turned to the big man. “What’s your name?”
“Borge.”
“Nice name,” Mason said, shaking hands.
“We could get along without your wise cracks,” Borge told him.
“So many people can,” Mason complained. “The trouble is that I can’t. Where do we talk?”
“The D.A.’s waiting for you.”
Mason said, “Do you know, I think it would be a swell idea to let him wait.”
Borge said, “I don’t.”