“That’s one on me, then,” he admitted. “It was the Marlow case, nine years ago. I was dead drunk and somebody shoved me in the room with Marlow. He was all cut to ribbons and they tried to pin it on me. Wish I knew who did it!”
Bernard nodded.
“I remember. Chicago, wasn’t it? So you’re—let me see—you’re Wheeler, eh?”
“Yes, sir, I’m Wheeler,” said the chauffeur grimly.
There was a short silence between them, the man with a record doggedly silent while the two detectives studied him.
“Well, Harley,” said Bernard at last, “did you see anyone at all about the premises while you were cleaning the car or when you came into the house?”
Harley reddened with gratitude.
“I didn’t, sir! I didn’t see a soul,” he answered.
“By the way, if you caught the man who killed Marlow, what would you do with him?” asked Bernard suddenly.