The man called a taxicab office. He summoned a cab, giving the address of the cigar store. He learned that a cab would arrive in ten minutes.
He waited in the booth until he saw the clerk step to the rear of the store. Then he slipped silently to the street, dropping a coin for a copy of the Morning Monitor as he went out.
The cab arrived and the driver entered the store. He was surprised to find no passenger. Returning to his cab he saw a face at the window. It was partly obscured by an opened newspaper.
“I was waiting outside,” said a quiet voice. “Drive me into the city. I shall give you the address later.”
The taximan obeyed. He sped along the highway and crossed one of the mammoth bridges that connect Manhattan with Long Island.
“Turn left,” came the word from the back of the car, as the cab reached an avenue. The driver obeyed.
Twenty blocks on, the cab was stopped by a traffic light. The driver thought this was the time to learn his passenger’s destination. He put his head through the partition, but saw no one. With an exclamation of anger, he leaped from the cab and opened the back door.
His passenger had gone. The car was empty. A flat object was visible on the rear seat. The cab man picked it up. It was a damp, flabby ten-dollar bill.
Ten blocks back, the man came out of a dilapidated house situated on a side street. He seemed entirely different from the water-soaked individual who had taken the taxi near the drawbridge.
He was clad in a dark suit. Upon his shoulders rested a loose black cloak. His face was lost beneath the brim of a large, black felt hat. He turned and walked along the street, scarcely noticed by those who passed. A soft, chuckling laugh escaped his lips and echoed from a doorway as he passed.