"Whoever he was," replied Garrick, "he was too keen for me. He caught on. There must have been some password or form that they used which we don't know, for he hung up the receiver almost as soon as he heard me."
Garrick waited a minute or two. Then he whistled into, the transmitter. It was done apparently to see whether there was anyone listening. But there was no answer. The man was gone.
"Operator, operator!" Guy was calling, insistently moving the hook up and down rapidly. "Yes—I want Central. Central, can you tell me what number that was which just called up?"
We all waited anxiously to learn whether the girl could find out or not.
"Bleecker seven—one—eight—o? Thank you very much. Give me information, please."
Again we waited as Garrick tried to trace the call out.
"Hello! What is the street address of Bleecker seven—one—eight—o?
Three hundred West Sixth. Thank you. A garage? Good-bye."
"A garage?" echoed Dillon, his ears almost going up as he realized the importance of the news.
"Yes," cried Garrick, himself excited. "Tom, call a cab. Let us hustle down there as quickly as we can."
"One of those garages on the lower West Side," I heard Dillon say as I left. "Perhaps they did work for the gambling joint—sent drunks home, got rid of tough customers and all that. You know already that there are some pretty tough places down there. This is bully. I shouldn't be surprised if it gave us a line on the stealing of Warrington's car at last."