“Oh, aye.” Ferguson turned and called to a helper lounging near the entrance. “Tell Dutch to come here,” and the man threw down his tools and ran in the building. The foreman turned back to Maynard. “Dropped anything in his car?” he asked.
“No.”
Further conversation was cut short by the appearance of Sam, still carrying the waste he had been busily wiping his hands on when sent for. A streak of black grease showed plainly where he had pushed his red hair off his forehead.
“What’s wanted, Boss?” he asked. Ferguson with a jerk of his thumb indicated Maynard and the chauffeur looked at him and bobbed his head in recognition. Ferguson, mildly curious, propped himself against a lamp-post and prepared to listen to the interview, but the arrival of several taxi-cabs called him away to his duties.
Maynard waited an appreciable moment for La Montagne to speak, but as the Frenchman said nothing, he addressed the waiting taxi-driver.
“You were in the Bellevue apartment house last night between nine and ten o’clock——” It was an assertion, but Sam took it as a question and answered briskly.
“Yes, sir; I went there to take Colonel Jean,” Sam’s pronunciation was somewhat faulty, “to the train. He kept me waiting so long we ’most missed it.”
“Why did you stop at Mr. Palmer’s apartment on your way to the Colonel’s rooms?”
“I didn’t stop, Boss,” quickly. “I went up in the elevator without getting off until I struck the Colonel’s floor. I wasn’t near Mr. Palmer’s apartment.” Sam’s eyes never flickered under Maynard’s level gaze.
There was a brief silence, then La Montagne, who had been studying Sam with eager intentness, shook his head.