“What time did you leave Donald Willsson last night?” I asked.
“You mean night before last, the night he was killed?”
“Yeah.”
“At precisely half-past nine.”
“You were with him from five o’clock till then?”
“From a quarter after five. We went over some statements and that sort of thing in his office until nearly eight o’clock. Then we went to Bayard’s and finished our business over our dinners. He left at half-past nine, saying he had an engagement.”
“What else did he say about this engagement?”
“Nothing else.”
“Didn’t give you any hint of where he was going, who he was going to meet?”
“He merely said he had an engagement.”
“And you didn’t know anything about it?”
“No. Why? Did you think I did?”
“I thought he might have said something.” I switched back to tonight’s doings: “What visitors did Willsson have today, not counting the one he shot?”
“You’ll have to pardon me,” the secretary said, smiling apologetically, “I can’t tell you that without Mr. Willsson’s permission. I’m sorry.”
“Weren’t some of the local powers here? Say Lew Yard, or—”
The secretary shook his head, repeating: