“I’ll tell you how I know. Mr Pollard glanced at his wrist watch as he got into the cab. It had a radium dial, and I saw it plain.”
“Mr Pollard wears a wrist watch, then?”
“Yes, he’s worn it ever since the war. Got used to it over there, I s’pose. Well, anyway, that’s what happened, so—if the watch was correct—it was seven-twenty-five.”
“Good,” said Wise. “And, as I understand it, one or two people saw Mr Pollard in his room, or heard him telephone during the hour or so he was here?”
“Yes, sir,” the desk clerk rehearsed the story a little wearily. The employees of the hotel had told the tale often, for owing to Manning Pollard’s threat—which had passed into history—he was frequently being suspected by somebody, detective or amateur, and the hotel people had been called upon to rehearse the story until they were letter perfect in their parts.
Next, Pennington Wise investigated the doings of Dean Monroe.
And the result was that he learned that Monroe had gone from the Club that day straight to the home of his mother, and had remained with her until so late that he had to make great haste dressing for dinner in order to reach the Lindsay house on time.
“H’m,” said Penny Wise, profoundly, to himself; “h’m.”
Three days later, Zizi returned. She went to Wise’s apartment before going to the Lindsay house.
“Find out much?” he asked her, as she flung off her wraps, and deposited her small person in a very large easy chair.