“Very good, Inspector.” Welsh paused half way to the door as a thought struck him. “Did you get a message from Mr. Benjamin Potter?”
“No. What did he want?”
“He didn’t say.” Welsh again started for the door. “Just asked to have you call him up. Wasn’t his wife one of the witnesses at the Baird inquest?”
“She was—” Mitchell was already reaching for the telephone directory. “As you go out, Welsh, tell Allen to bring my car around at once.”
Getting the Potter apartment on the telephone was more difficult than Mitchell expected; the naturalist used a private wire and it was only by virtue of his office that Mitchell was supplied with the number by “Information.” Another wait ensued as Central claimed the wire “busy,” and it was with perceptible irritation that the Inspector answered the hoarse, “Hello,” that finally responded to his repeated calls.
“Can I speak to Mr. Potter?” he asked.
“Mr. Potter is out—” a violent cough interrupted the speaker. “Is there any message?”
“Who is speaking?”
“Mrs. Potter.”
“I beg pardon, Madam.” Mitchell moderated his voice. “This is Detective Headquarters—Inspector Mitchell on the ’phone. Your husband left word for me to telephone to him. Do you know what he wished?”