From the telephone book I discovered that he lived at the Whistler Studios, not far from Central Park on the middle West Side—­a new building, I remembered, inhabited almost entirely by artists and writers.  As I hurried down on the Subway, then turned and walked east toward the Park, I racked my brain for an excuse to get in.  Entering the lower reception hall, I learned from the boy that the director had a suite on the top floor, high enough to look over the roofs of the adjoining buildings directly into the wide expanse of green and road, of pond and trees beyond.

“Mr. Werner isn’t in, though,” the boy added, doubtfully, without ringing the apartment.

“I know it,” I rejoined, hastily.  “I told him I’d meet him here this afternoon, however.”  On a chance I went on, with a knowing smile, “I guess it was pretty late when he came in last night?”

“I’ll say so,” grinned the youth, friendly all of a sudden.  He had interpreted the remark as I intended he should.  He believed that Werner and I had been out together.  “I remember,” he volunteered, “because I had to do an extra shift of duty last night, worse luck.  It must have been after four o’clock.  I was almost asleep when I heard the taxi at the door.”

“I wonder what company he got the taxi from?” I remarked, casually.  “I tried to get one uptown—­” I paused.  I didn’t want to get into a maze of falsehood from which I would be unable to extricate myself.

“I don’t know,” he replied.  “It looked like one of the Maroon taxis, from up at the Central Park Hotel on the next block, but I’m not sure.”

“I think I won’t go upstairs yet,” I said, finally.  “There’s another call I ought to make.  If Mr. Werner comes in, tell him I’ll be back.”

I knew very well that Werner would not return, but I thought that the bluff might pave the way for getting upstairs and into the apartment a little later.  Meanwhile I had another errand.  The boy nodded a good-by as I passed out through the grilled iron doors to the street.  Less than five minutes afterward I was at the booth of the Maroon Taxi Company, at the side of the main entrance of the Central Park Hotel.

Here the starter proved to be a loquacious individual, and I caught him, fortunately, in the slowest part of the afternoon.  Removing a pipe and pushing a battered cap to the back of a bald head, he pulled out the sheets of the previous day.  Before me were recorded all the calls for taxicab service, with the names of drivers, addresses of calls, and destinations.  Although the quarters in the booth were cramped and close and made villainous by the reek of the man’s pipe, I began to scan the lists eagerly.

It had been a busy night even down to the small hours of the morning and I had quite a job.  As I came nearer and nearer to the end my hopes ebbed, however.  When I was through I had failed to identify a single call that might have been Werner’s.  Several fares had been driven to and from the Grand Central Station, probably the means by which he made the trip to Tarrytown.  In each case the record had shown the Central Park Hotel in the other column, not the Whistler Studios.  I was forced to give up this clue, and it hurt.  I was not built for a detective, I guess, for I almost quit then and there, prepared to return to the laboratory and Kennedy.