“Well, some man was. At about six o’clock. At Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Where were you at that hour?”
“Why, I was almost right there myself. I walked down from the Club with Pollard about that time, and I left him at Forty-fourth and he went on down.”
“Very good,” Belknap nodded.
Barry’s air had been honest, his thinking back evidently real and his statement quite in accordance with the known facts. Pollard had said Barry walked down with him, and had left him at Forty-fourth. Now, from that time, Pollard’s every movement had been checked up, but not so Barry’s. Nobody seemed to have seen him from that moment until he arrived at the Lindsay dinner party.
To ask him as to this was sure to anger him, yet Belknap tried it.
“No!” Barry stormed, in answer to his query, “I haven’t an alibi. I mean I’ve nobody who can swear to one. As a matter of fact, I went directly home after leaving Pollard. I went into my hotel, a small one on West Forty-fourth Street, and I went to my rooms.”
“Meeting nobody?”
“Of course, I passed the doorman and the desk people. I don’t remember whether I spoke to them or not. I usually nod if they’re looking my way. But I can’t remember what happens every single night! I’m not trying to establish an alibi, because I didn’t kill Mr Gleason. But I’m ready to help you find out who did. I’ve not done much so far, because I thought the matter was in capable hands. But those capable hands have accomplished just nothing—nothing at all! Now, I’m going to put my finger in this pie—and I’m going to discover something!”
“Wait, Mr Barry,” Belknap said, “what about that letter signed by you, yet which you say you didn’t write. Suppose you explain that first.”
“Just what I intend to do! I haven’t quite proved it, but I have found out a possible solution of that matter. If I can prove I didn’t write it, and can show who did and how and why, it’ll help some—won’t it?”