“I can't say. My name is John Maclane.”
“Heavy-weight champion about seven years ago?”
“I was,” the man acknowledged. “You may have seen me in the ring. Now, gentlemen, if you please.”
The lift had stopped opposite to them. The manager's gesture of dismissal was final.
“I am sorry, Mr. Maclane, if we have annoyed you with our questions,” Francis said. “I wish you could remember a little more of Mr. Wilmore's last visit.”
“Well, I can't, and that's all there is to it,” was the blunt reply. “As to being annoyed, I am only annoyed when my time's wasted. Take these gents down, Jim. Good afternoon!”
The door was slammed to and they shot downwards. Francis turned to the lift man.
“Do you know a Mr. Wilmore who comes here sometimes?” he asked.
“Not likely!” the man scoffed. “They're comin' and goin' all the time from four o'clock in the afternoon till eleven at night. If I heard a name I shouldn't remember it. This way out, gentlemen.”
Wilmore's hand was in his pocket but the man turned deliberately away. They walked out into the street.