“At what time?”
“About half-past seven—or maybe a little earlier.”
“Earlier,” said the doorman, who had drawn near again. “Not more’n twenty past. I put him in the taxi myself. And it wasn’t as late as half past.”
“Where did he drive to?”
“I don’t know. He ’most always gives the driver a slip of paper with the numbers on it—’specially if he’s going to more than one address. He did this tonight.”
“Where’s that taxi man?” asked Prescott, feeling his last prop being pulled from under him.
“He’s outside now,” said the doorman. “He’s waiting for a man upstairs.”
“Call him in.”
The taxi driver looked at Pollard, nodded respectfully, and replied to Prescott’s queries by saying that Mr Pollard did give him a memorandum of the places he wanted to go to, and that they were, first, the Hotel Astor, where he went in for a moment, and came back with some theater tickets which he was putting in his pocket.
“How do you know he had theater tickets?”