“Quite right,” Chick replied. “Do you know where Jim Dacey lives?”
“Not exactly,” said Carson. “But you can easily find out.”
“How so?”
“Go out and question Tony Hogan. He has a taxicab stand around the corner. He has frequently taken Dacey home from here. He can tell you more about the man and just where he lives.”
“Thanks,” said Chick approvingly. “Not a word about this to others, mind you.”
“Trust me, Carter. I’m dumb.”
“You haven’t seen Dacey this evening?”
“No, not since yesterday.”
There was a very good reason for it. Leaving his limousine in the side street in charge of his chauffeur, Martin Moran, who was a bird of the same shady feather, Jim Dacey had entered the side door of the house when he went up to Kate Crandall’s apartments.
Chick thanked Carson again and repaired to the street. He soon found the man he was seeking, a shrewd, keen-eyed Irishman, who already knew Chick by sight and reputation. Hogan needed only a hint from the detective, moreover, to cut loose and tell all that he knew about Dacey.