“What was the picture?”
“Oh, a light comedy, something about a divorced husband who returned just as his wife was about to marry again. Some rather interesting situations in it.”
“Can’t you describe the plot any better than that?”
“No.”
Kleinsmidt said, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you preserved your ticket stub?”
Endicott said, “I may have.” He started searching mechanically through his pockets. From a right vest pocket, he took out several stubs of tickets, looked at them, selected one, and said, “This is probably it.”
Kleinsmidt walked over to the telephone, picked it up, and called a number.
“The theater won’t be open this time in the morning,” Endicott said.
“I’m calling the manager’s house.”
A moment later, Kleinsmidt said into the telephone, “Frank, this is Bill Kleinsmidt. Sorry I got you up, but a glass of hot water with a little lemon juice, and a brisk walk will do your waistline a lot of good. Now, wait a minute. Don’t get sore— I want to ask you something about your tickets. I have the stub of a ticket that was sold last night. There’s a number on it. Is there any way of telling when that ticket was sold? Oh, there is— Just a moment. Hold the phone.”