“This call was for seventeen minutes. It was charged to the prison.”
“What was the booth number?”
Harrigan consulted his sheet. “I didn’t get that,” he said, scratching his head. “Westlake didn’t give it to me.”
“Go on—we’ll get it! Go on! What was the next call?”
“The second call, Chief, was to the State Capitol Building at Albany. It was for three minutes. No more! I guess that was the warden talking to the Pardon Clerk, or something like that. We’ll forget it, eh?”
“The third and last call, Chief,” said Harrigan with haste, “was to the same telephone-booth at the Grand Central Station. Ah, here’s the number! That’s why Westlake didn’t give it to me on the first call to the booth. Number, Gramercy Hill 9845, Chief. That’s over near the east end of the building—on the lower level.”
“A quiet place!” mused Drew.
“Yes! Well, Chief, here is the time. The call was for twenty-two minutes, extending from a quarter to twelve—midnight—to seven minutes after twelve. It was charged to the Auditing Department of the prison.”
Drew rose from his chair. “That covers the hour in which Stockbridge was murdered!” he declared, reaching for the roll-top of his desk “That’s nice work on your part.”