Barrack turned south when he reached Eighth Avenue and walked along that busy truck-crowded street until he had passed the rear of Pennsylvania Station. At Thirty-second Street he swung westward again, to walk briskly past the block-long bulk of New York’s main post office.
There were fewer people abroad in that neighborhood. The boys could fall farther behind and still keep their quarry in sight. At Ninth Avenue, Barrack waited for a traffic light and then hurried past the halted vehicles. A moment later he vanished from sight through the doorway of a huge building.
Sandy waited for Ken to catch up, and they stood for a moment on the sidewalk.
“Either he’ll come right out again, or he’ll take an elevator,” Ken said.
When the second hand on Ken’s new chronometer had ticked off two full minutes, they drifted into the lobby with the stream of workers obviously hurrying toward an eight-o’clock deadline. The four elevators along one wall each swallowed up a dozen or more with every ascent. Ken and Sandy glanced around, saw no sign of Barrack, and slid through the crowd to study the building directory on the rear wall.
It was obvious from the names listed on it that the entire building was devoted to printers, paper dealers, and ink companies.
“That’s funny,” Sandy said. “What would he be doing at a printing trade center? I guess you were right after all. He was lying about where he worked.”
“I didn’t say that,” Ken reminded him. “And an employee of the Tobacco Mart might have perfectly legitimate business in a place like this. Maybe he came to pick up a batch of labels or printed containers.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s wait outside awhile and see if he comes back down and goes some place else—to Chatham Square, say.”
They found a sheltered doorway a few yards down the block and did their best to keep warm by stamping their feet. But the icy chill crept through their overcoats and into their very bones.
At nine o’clock Sandy said grimly, “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll agree to anything. Barrack lied about the Tobacco Mart. He’s really a printer. Or he’s an international crook who steals rubies to melt down into red ink which he ships around in iron boxes. Have it any way you like. But if I don’t get some hot coffee pretty soon—”