Ken explained, briefly, about the picture Sandy had taken and how they had traced the car’s license number. “But, of course,” he concluded, “if you’ve never been in Brentwood we must have made a mistake somehow. Maybe we didn’t read the license number correctly.”
“But I was there that same day,” Barrack corrected him apologetically. “I should have explained that. And my car was parked opposite a jewelry store—right at the time the fire happened, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t go inside the store at all. And I can’t understand—”
He broke off suddenly and his puzzled look gave way to a smile. “It must have been my passenger,” Barrack explained. “I’d forgotten all about him until this minute.”
Ken and Sandy both smiled too.
“Good,” Ken said. “Then if you know who it was—”
Barrack shook his head. “But I don’t. I guess it’s my turn to explain. I’m a salesman for the Tobacco Mart—a company that sells smokers’ supplies. I was on my way back from a trip through the Pennsylvania territory that day, and one of my customers in some little Pennsylvania town asked me if I could take a passenger to New York. A friend of his, I guess. He didn’t want to have to take the local into Philadelphia, and then another train on from there. It’s a long trip that way. I agreed, of course, and the fellow came along. I thought he stayed in the car while I stopped to make a call in Brentwood—I cover New Jersey too—but for all I know he might have broken his watch then and gone across the street to have it fixed.”
“And you don’t know who he was?” Ken asked.
“Haven’t the slightest idea.” Barrack looked regretful and then he brightened. “My Pennsylvania customer would probably know, though. I could ask him the next time I go by there and then let you know.” He got to his feet.
“Thanks,” Ken said. “We’d appreciate that—or, rather, Sam Morris would. He doesn’t like to owe people money.”
“But probably the fellow will write to the jeweler and ask for his change before long,” Barrack pointed out.