“Any of your old pals here?”
“The only one I remember is that snob-nosed mechanic over there—the fellow under that car.”
Fay wheeled. A pair of bright eyes, grease-rimmed and shadowed with blond lashes, was peering out at him. A tapping sounded upon the rear axle of the taxi as Fay stooped a trifle. The mechanic extended one hand and coiled his fingers about a spanner.
“The only one in the place,” said Rake. “I served time with him somewhere—maybe in Sing Sing, maybe Joliet.”
“Come on, Rake!”
Fay led the way to the sidewalk, nodded pleasantly to the staring drivers, then turned toward the west. It was at the corner of the block where he paused and glanced in the direction of the garage.
“The entire case rests there,” he declared without pointing. “Stephney was murdered in a Gray taxi. He was suffocated in some way to render him unconscious. He was tossed on top of a freight-train after being well plucked. This much we know. Now, how was it done?”
“I don’t think a woman was mixed up in it. That girl looked like a perfect lady. An old night-hawk, who is as crooked as his whip, might do it. He could get a cab an’ turn the trick.”
“But the mysterious way of suffocating a man?”
The ex-convict scratched his head.