“I am indebted to you, Mr. Barclay, for coming to see me,” remarked McLane, opening the private door leading directly into the outside corridor. “Your account of Tilghman’s death has interested me, and I will take steps to investigate the points you have brought up.”
Barclay pulled his hat down until his features were partly concealed under the shadow of the brim.
“Will you consult detectives?” he asked.
“The police are already after Ito,” McLane pressed his thumb on the elevator button. “Several years ago I was involved in the ‘C. O. D.’ murders, and in investigating them the detectives did not—eh, shine.”
“They are not always infallible,” agreed Barclay, and McLane’s quick ear detected the faint relief discernible in his tone. “I will let you know immediately if I get any information about the flask from the Japanese ambassador.” The arrival of the elevator interrupted further conversation, and bidding McLane good night, Barclay stepped inside the cage.
McLane continued to stare at the elevator shaft for some minutes after the elevator with its solitary passenger had shot downward.
“After fifteen years,” he muttered. “And Jim Patterson is in town.”
“Not only in town, but here,” announced a voice just back of him, and McLane, wheeling about, faced Representative Patterson. “I’ve been waiting in your front office for the deuce of a long time, McLane, and hearing your voice in the hall, came out to intercept you.”
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting; come back with me now,” and McLane motioned toward his private door.
“I won’t stay long,” promised Patterson, preceding the surgeon into his consulting office, and throwing himself down in a chair by the desk. “Who was the man with you in the corridor a moment ago? His voice sounded familiar, but I only saw his back.”