“We were able to trace his actions before he entered the theater. He had been in the Turin Cafe, a small Italian restaurant downtown, for lunch. He had spent the afternoon in another theater — a ticket stub in his pocket indicated that fact.
“When we questioned the proprietor of the Turin Cafe, he said that he knew the man’s face — that Peretti came there nearly every day, and always ate alone at a corner table.”
“What kind of a place is the restaurant?” questioned Wilberton sharply. “Do racketeers frequent it?”
“No,” replied Griscom. “It has an excellent reputation—”
“It is a very fine restaurant, sir,” interposed Crowley, the secretary. “I go there occasionally. In fact, I expect to eat lunch there to-day. The Turin serves the best Italian food in New York. That is my opinion.”
Stanley Wilberton laughed dryly.
“Well, well, Crowley,” he said. “I am glad to see that you have some interest other than your work here.
“Perhaps you may be able to help Griscom in his dilemma” — there was a touch of ridicule in Wilberton’s voice — “perhaps you have seen a man named — what was that name, Griscom?”
“Tony Peretti.”
Crowley shook his head methodically.