Delaney yawned, braced himself with a drink of ice water drawn from an inverted-bottle, and stepped toward Drew’s door. He knocked with tired knuckles. He pressed forward as he heard a hearty: “Come in!”
The operative eyed his Chief with sovereign amazement. Drew looked as fresh as a daisy. There was a pink tinge upon his olive cheeks. These cheeks had been close shaven. Oil glistened from the detective’s black hair. His mustache was trimmed and level with his upper lip. His eyes, as he swung and fastened a clear glance upon Delaney, were almost too bright. They were like the hectic fires of an inner furnace.
Delaney searched about the room. He lifted one foot and then the other with a tired motion. He leaned against a filing-case like a heavy dray horse which had come to a final stop. He yawned behind his big, red hand.
“How d’ye do it, Chief?” he asked with a second yawn. “I’m dead on my feet. All the sleep I got was about thirty minutes. I haven’t woke up yet. I met myself going to work this morning.”
Drew laughed quickly and motioned toward a leather chair. “Sit down!” he suggested. “Sit right down, Delaney. Take it easy for a few minutes. You seem tired.”
“It beats me how you can do it!” declared the operative, sprawling across the chair and crossing his weary legs.
“One or two hours’ sleep is never any good. Better keep awake. You remind me of the last rose of Sharon!”
“I feel like a house-man in an all-night poker game. What’s the use! I’m going over to some bank and get a job as a night watchman, if this keeps up. I can sleep my head off, there.”
Drew swung in his chair and eyed the papers on his desk. He swiveled as Delaney inquired:
“What’s the news in the Stockbridge case? I’ve been asking Marie and Harrigan. They don’t seem to know anything except that everybody is out—already.” Delaney extended his huge mouth to a cavernous yawn. He fished up his great, silver watch. “What’s the news, Chief? Any assignments for me?”