“Well, he had a little pink envelope, and he often does get tickets there. Next, he stopped at Bard’s, the Florist’s, and brought out a small square box with him, and next I took him up to a house on Park Avenue, and he stayed there, and I came back.”
“All right, Mr Pollard, my duty is done.” The detective looked a respectful apology. “But I had to find out all this. And remember you did make a surprising statement.”
“Surprising to you, perhaps. But my friends, who know my eccentricities, weren’t surprised at it.”
“No? Well, if it’s your habit to threaten to kill people you don’t like——”
“I’d rather you didn’t call it a threat. To my mind, a threat is spoken to the intended victim.”
“I don’t know,” Prescott gazed thoughtfully at the speaker. “Can’t you threaten——”
“But I didn’t threaten. I merely said I should kill Gleason some day. It’s too late, now, to make good my promise, and you’ve satisfied yourself—or, haven’t you?—that I didn’t do it?”
“Yes, I’m satisfied. You couldn’t be here at home and in a taxicab doing errands, between six-fifteen and seven-forty-five, and have any chance to get away long enough to get yourself down to Washington Square and do up that murder business, too.”
“It does look that way,” Pollard agreed. “You’ve checked me up pretty thoroughly. Now do you want me any further? For, though I’m as good-natured and patient as the average man, I have something else to do with my time when you’re through with me.”
“Of course, of course. But, I say, Mr Pollard, can you give me a hint which way to look?”