The driver’s answer was to glance around the right-hand side of the taxi, slow to a crawl, then swing the corner with both arms over the wheel.
Fay braced himself for five blocks of cobbled streets upon the surface of which ragged children played ball and dodged death. He stepped down from the taxi as it came to a gliding stop before the ornate entrance to the great dock.
“Mind waiting?”
The driver glanced at the taxi-meter.
“You’ve paid me for a couple of hours.”
“Stay right here. Ill be back in ten minutes.”
Chester Fay found two English detectives covering the dock. With them was a Secret Service operative of slight acquaintance.
“Hello!” he said, drawing this man to one side. “Say, Gardner,” he whispered, “who would know down here what happened last night when the Carpathia’s passengers came down the planks? I want to trace a man who took a Gray taxi. The man is—”
“Putney Steph—Stephney.”