“The car, of course, is still missing?”
“Naturally.”
“What was it?”
“A Locomobile, with a special cabriolet body. Black.”
“You can give me the license and engine numbers?”
“I think so.”
He turned in his chair to the big roll-top desk that hid a quarter of one office wall, fumbled with papers in a compartment, and read the numbers over his shoulder to me. I put them on the back of an envelope.
“I’m going to have this car put on the police department list of stolen machines,” I told him. “It can be done without mentioning your daughters. The police bulletin might find the car for us. That would help us find your daughters.”
“Very well,” he agreed, “if it can be done without disagreeable publicity. As I told you at first, I don’t want any more advertising than is absolutely necessary—unless it becomes likely that harm has come to the girls.”
I nodded understanding, and got up.
“I want to go out and talk to your wife,” I said. “Is she home now?”
“Yes, I think so. I’ll phone her and tell her you are coming.”