The policeman looked calm. "I'd take it easy, Mr. Cornell. Your story is not corroborated. But the employees of the hotel bear one another out. And from the record, it would appear that you were under the eyes of at least two of them from the moment your car slowed down in front of the main entrance up to the time that you were escorted to your room."
"I object to being accused of complicity in a kidnapping," put in the assistant manager.
"I object to being accused of mental incompetence," I snapped. "Why do we stand around accusing people back and forth when there's evidence if you'll only uncover it."
We stood there glaring at one another. The air grew tense. The only ones in the place who did not have chips on their shoulders were the policeman and the certified stenographer, who was clicking her silent keys in lightning manner, taking down every comment as it was uttered.
Eventually Olson returned, to put an end to the thick silence. "Y'car's outside," he told me angrily.
"Fine," I said. "Now we'll go outside and take a look. You'll find plenty of traces of Miss Farrow's having been there. Officer—are you telepath or perceptive?"
"Perceptive," he said. "But not in here."
"How far out does this damned dead area extend?" I asked Walton.
"About half way across the sidewalk."
"Okay. So let's all go."