Louis Steffan's finger was checking a name. He had found what he desired — the telephone number of Clark Murdock. He moved toward the phone booths.
As he approached, Towley's nickel clicked and the gangster dialed Barmont 4-9356. A strange coincident! That was the very number that Steffan had noted in the book. Biff Towley was talking in a low, quiet voice when Louis Steffan began to dial. Listening at the receiver, Steffan heard the clang-clang of the busy signal. He hung up the telephone and waited. Biff Towley was still talking when Steffan dialed again. Once more, he caught the busy signal. Louis Steffan stepped from his phone booth and glanced nervously at his watch. He walked hurriedly away.
Biff Towley, seeing him through the window of the booth, quietly ended his conversation and stepped from the compartment. He saw Steffan's tall form going through the door to a taxi stand. When Biff reached the spot, two cabs were drawing away. Neither Louis Steffan nor Jake Bosch were in sight. Biff Towley grinned and walked eastward on Forty-second Street.
Louis Steffan had taken the first cab he had seen at the stand. He had given the address of Clark Murdock — which he had noted in the phone book. Now riding uptown, the young man was highly perturbed.
He had come to New York with a definite purpose — to communicate with Clark Murdock. Until he had reached the Manhattan ferry terminal, he had gained no opportunity. That phone call with the busy signal, had been a waste of time. Steffan was waiting no longer. He was going directly to the man who he wished to see.
As the cab stopped at a traffic light, Steffan pulled a notebook from his coat pocket. He scanned the pages of shorthand notations that he had made.
The recollection of the risk he had run to get them made him shudder. He pictured himself listening at the door of the room where two men had been talking; and to Steffan's blinking eyes came a vivid portrait of one of the speakers.
Ivan Orlinov! The name was inscribed among the notes. Steffan shut his eyes as the cab jerked forward. In fancy he saw a shrewd, bearded face — the countenance of a demon!
Steffan clenched his fists. Ivan Orlinov was everywhere, it seemed! He opened his eyes and blinked at the lights of the avenue, as the vision faded.
He laughed a hoarse, nervous laugh. He was safe, here, with all these lights. Safe in New York, with Orlinov miles away. He tried to feel at ease and gradually his qualms ended. Reason told him that there was no danger for the present. The immediate task was to deliver his message to Clark Murdock. Steffan glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes after nine. There was menace here in New York — but it threatened another man. Steffan alone could thwart it — for he, alone, knew the secret. He was sure that nothing could happen until ten o'clock. Fifty minutes yet — and now the cab was swerving from the avenue. One block — two blocks — the taxi stopped in the center of the third. Steffan was ready with the fare.