Ken strained his eyes in the growing dusk to keep Pete in sight. The boy was walking slowly on down the sidewalk, waving his arm occasionally when he thought he saw a taxi approaching.
The driver of the boys’ car turned around in his seat, his eyes curious. “Playing games?”
“Playing games,” Sandy agreed.
The driver shrugged. “It’s all right with me. It’s your dough that’s ticking away on the clock.”
“All right,” Ken said a moment later. Pete had found a cab and climbed in. “Follow that taxi there.” He pointed it out.
Ten minutes later the boys found themselves far downtown, less than a block from the East River. From inside their parked cab they could see Pete, half a block ahead, getting out of his cab and entering a small cigar store. The boy’s taxi remained at the curb. In almost no time Pete reappeared, clutching a package about half the size of the one he had delivered.
“Back to the Tobacco Mart?” Sandy asked.
Ken thought quickly. Pete’s taxi was already rolling off. “Let’s not. We seem to be following a chain—first Barrack, then Grace, then Pete—and now this. Let’s see what ‘this’ is.”
“Good idea. How much?” Sandy asked their driver.
He was grinning as he joined Ken on the sidewalk a moment later. “Sounded to me as if the driver said, ‘So long, Junior G-men.’”