“Let’s go back, Chester.”
“No! We’ll go on to the office of the morning Messenger. Foley is their sporting editor. Perhaps he can tell us something about Ponsardin and the taxi-company.”
“Nice name!” blurted the ex-inmate. “Sounds like a doped wine an’ deep-dyed villainy.”
Fay grasped Rake by the elbow and hurried him in the direction of the avenue up which the taxi had flashed. There was no trace of it. Fay hesitated a moment, like a keen hound on a scent, then fell into a brisk walk northward, which took him to the somewhat unostentatious building that housed the uptown offices of the Messenger.
Foley, the sporting editor, was in. He greeted Fay with a hand thrust over a battered typewriter propped upon a broken desk. He thrust aside a bundle of press clippings and cleared off two chairs.
“Sit down!” he welcomed. “Got some dope on the crook game for me?”
Fay leaned back and glanced about the office with slow caution, then shot a question at Foley through rigid lips.
“What do you know about Ponsardin—your proprietor?”
Foley tried to wink with lashless eyelids. He upended a huge can of cold tea, drank deeply, glanced at the keyboard of his typewriter before he set the can down on the corner of a box which had once contained ink rolls.
“What do I know? Nothing! He’s a queer stick. Bought the paper about three years ago. Hardly ever see him. Goes to Washington quite often. The police are investigating the sheet, I guess.”