“Yes,” said Prescott. “Inspector Gale told me over the telephone just now, that further investigation proves it is a murder case. I think, Mr Pollard, I’ll ask you to go with me right now to your hotel. I want to check up your story.”
“But I haven’t told you any story,” said Pollard.
“Well, then,” Prescott shrugged impatiently, “I’ll check up the story you didn’t tell! Come along. Anybody got a car I can borrow?”
Nobody had, as the guests had all expected to remain the whole evening. So Prescott called a taxicab, and soon the two started for Pollard’s hotel.
“You’re a queer guy,” the detective said, the semi-darkness in the cab giving him greater freedom of speech.
“As how?” asked Pollard, quietly.
“Well, first, saying you proposed to kill a man.”
“I’m not unique. I’ve often heard people say, ‘I’d like to kill him!’ or ‘I wish he was dead!’”
“Yes, but they don’t mean it.”
“How do you know I meant it?”