“I’ll stoiy right ’ere, sir.”
“See that you do,” cautioned the Detective. “See that you do.”
Delaney found the hats and coats in the foyer. These they donned, opened the outer door, and stepped into the night with jaws squared and hands thrust deep in their pockets.
They crossed the snow-mantled Avenue upon a long diagonal which brought them to the up-town corner and the waiting taxi, whose engine was softly purring beneath its hooded bonnet.
The driver was asleep. He woke as Drew laid a hand on his arm.
“Seen anything?” asked the Detective.
“Nothin’, boss, but snow. Nothin’ at all,” he yawned.
Delaney glanced about. He opened the taxi door on the street side and lunged inward with a sigh of relief. Drew followed and pulled the door shut.
“Where’s the bunch?” he asked. “Just how did you post them?”
“Flood’s with the fixed-post cop on the Avenue. He’s down a block. Flynn and Cassady are in the alley—in the yard, I mean. They’re watching the junction-box and the wires. Joe and O’Toole went east. Harrigan is planted across the street. That’s him between the two buildings. See him?”