Fay’s fingers groped along the seat and clasped an automatic. “Get the other!” he said into Rake’s ear. “You, Yeader, take the hatchet and pry at the bottom of the door. I’ve got my hand over the suction pipe. We wont be suffocated.”
The ride seemed endless. The taxi rolled from out the foliage of the Park and climbed a long hill. It turned northward along street-car tracks.
“Broadway!” said Fay, sensing his position. “We’re going right out Broadway.”
Rake gasped and pressed a finger across his mouth. He coughed, pounded his chest, and recovered himself. His eyes glared indignantly. He waited till the taxi clattered over a bridge, then he protested:
“Let me out, Chester. I’ll wring that damn girl’s neck! I can’t stand this much longer. There’s no air.”
“Sisst!” said Fay. “Are you sure Elsie De Groot is driving the taxi?”
“Sure! I’d swear to it!”
Fay chuckled. “We’ll soon know. This is Yonkers. We’ve passed Getty Square. We’re turning now. Now we’re going north. Two turns and then a straight road. I’d know where we are, blindfolded.”
It was twenty minutes later when the taxi slowed, backed, then swung toward the left and took a narrow bumpy road. Fay sat up, pressed his toe on the sucking exhaust-pipe and clamped his teeth with a suggestive grind.