“Yes—the Carpathia! Stephney came down the gangplank, turned at the customroom, went inside a telephone booth, came out and was observed taking a gray taxi at the foot of the dock. That was the last seen of him until the chief of the railroad detectives at Poughkeepsie found his body on top of a goods-train. Skull was slightly crushed. Pockets rifled. Portfolio, with banknotes and memoranda, missing.”
“Quick work!”
“Beastly quick!” shot back Hilton through rigid lips. “Beastly clever, too!”
The British representative glanced toward the doorway before which the portiéres draped. He strode to Fay’s side and leaned forward as his fingers clutched the investigator’s left shoulder in the grip of a bulldog.
“Stephney didn’t die from the crushed skull,” he said tersely. “That accident came afterward. He was killed by an unknown method. He was lured to death in the heart of civilization!”
“An unknown method?”
“Fact! Had the coroner of Poughkeepsie on the wire not an hour ago. A surgeon from Plattsburg happened to assist at the autopsy. It was he who detected the condition of the lungs. Also, Stephney’s face was greenish-black.”
Fay backed away and allowed Sir Arthur’s hand to drop. His eyes glazed with speculation. They hardened.
“You have other facts?” he asked.
“Little more! Stephney was last seen alive getting into a gray taxi which disappeared soon afterward. He was headed for this hotel. I sat up until three o’clock waiting for him.”