“I think a lot, Chester. But appearances are deceiving. She’d never admitted takin’ that Stephney from the dock if she was guilty. She’d of denied it. The only time my Mary, at home, is lyin’ to me is when she says nothing.”
“Illogical logic!”
“Sure—an’ it’s the truth, nine times out of ten, Chester.”
Fay glanced at his watch and quickened his steps. “We’ll take the Subway to the Customhouse. From there we go over the Bay.”
Rake scratched his head and followed Fay down the steps, past the ticket-chopper, and lunged with him into the warm interior of a subway car. They were hurtled southward. Fay said nothing during the quick trip. His mind wove the details of the plan which he had to save the name of the Gray Brotherhood.
He mounted to the surface of the street, closely followed by Rake. He sought a phone-booth before crossing to the Customhouse. Rake heard him giving a series of rapid-fire directions to Harrigan, the manager at George Mott’s headquarters.
Fay emerged, tossed a dollar across to the cigar-clerk and jerked his thumb toward a box of Perfectos. “Eight of those!” he said. “Eight!”
Outside, in the cool evening, the two men drew a long breath of smoke for the final plunge. They dodged a flashing taxi, climbed the Customhouse steps, and found, after consulting an alert doorman, that the harbor master’s assistant was in.
To him Fay showed his card, his authority from George Mott, and other identifications. He sealed the matter with a cigar. The assistant to the harbor master made out passes in duplicate. He found the sealing wax and a well-chewed pen. He passed the finished documents over, after a scrawled signature in each corner.
“They’ll take you aboard anything from here to the Hook,” he said, leaning and watching Fay.