The throng parted. Fay saw, to one side of the dock entrance, a waiting taxi. Upon its seat a form crouched. Yeader waved his hand, opened the taxi door, tossed in the bag and assisted Fay and Rake to mount the running-board and step inside.
“’Otel Rockingham!” exclaimed Yeader. “Go a’ead!”
The door clicked shut with a strong pressure. The driver lowered the taxi-meter flag, released the brake and moved through first, second, and into third speed with the cunning manipulation of a professional.
Fay rubbed the thick plate glass at his side, glanced out at the flashing lights and street intersections, before he leaned down and opened the bag.
“Take these,” he whispered, handing Rake and Yeader two heavy automatics. “Plant them on the seat. Now this hatchet.”
Joe Yeader straightened with the package in his hand. He broke the string, ripped off the wrapping paper and held out a bright-looking hatchet.
“Hold it ready!” said Fay. “We’re turning into Fifth Avenue!”
The taxi swerved, straightened and lunged northward. Rake sputtered and swore as he attempted to open a door. Yeader bent over and tried the knob on the other door.
“Did you notice our driver?” asked Fay.
“Red hair and turned-up nose,” said Yeader. “What to hell kind of a bloody trap did we get into?”