It was a long ten minutes before Fay emerged with his teeth clamping a slender Perfecto. He passed one to Rake.
“Smoke up!” he said. “It’s on the British representatives. I’ve got a good lead from Arthur Hilton. It’s one I overlooked in my haste this morning. I think we get our people tonight!”
“What people, Chester?”
“The crooks who killed Stephney. They were after bigger game. The others of Stephney’s suite are due on the Imparada. Hilton tells me privately that she has been sighted from Sandy Hook.”
Rake examined the cigar, then lighted it and started puffing.
“I don’t get you! What’s due on the ship? What’s it got to do with—”
Fay started toward Broadway. Rake followed with the question still upon his mind.
“We’re closing in,” said Fay as he brought a sheet of paper from his side pocket and spread it out on the palm of his right hand. “I did a lot of phoning. There’s nothing new at Poughkeepsie—except that the train upon which Stephney’s body was found was made up on Tenth Avenue, New York.”
“That’s Death Avenue!”
“It’s well named. It left at seven o’clock. It passed the Harlem River at eight-sixteen. It reached Harmon at nine-three. It rolled into Poughkeepsie early in the morning and was shunted on a sidetrack. The railroad detectives searched it carefully while looking for tramps. It was then they found the body.”