His hope was fulfilled. The cab slowed down, stopped and waited for the green light. Bill had just time to grasp the spare tire on the rear and take a precarious seat on the inner rim when it started up again.
Across the Post Road and under the raised tracks of the New York, New Haven and Hartford it went, then into that network of mean streets between the railroad and the shore like a frightened cat up a back alley.
Near the harbor the car slowed down and drew up before an open lot. Bill dropped off and hid behind a pile of rubbish. Slim Johnson got out, paid off the driver and started away at a smart pace toward the docks. With his weather eye open, Bill followed him, running swiftly across the patches of light from the street lamps and seeking the shadow.
The gangster followed the harbor toward the sea front, wending his way among the wharves. At length, by the side of a pier, he stopped, and gave a shrill whistle. Bill stepped behind a small wooden hut and took a survey.
Lying out among other vessels was the white prow of a large yacht. He could just discern its lines in the dim moonlight. There was a lantern at the bows, and a glimmer at one or two of the portholes.
Soon he heard the creak and dip of oars, and could see the silver sparkle of flashing water. A small boat drew into the pier. Slim made his way carefully down the steps, disappearing from Bill’s view. There was the rasp of an oar on stonework as the boat was pushed off. Bill could distinguish the man’s lisping tones as he talked. Then the boat melted into the darkness, in the general direction of the yacht.
For a few minutes Bill gazed across the water at its outlines. Suddenly there was a bright flood of light upon the deck. A door flung open, a tall figure blocked it, and the light narrowed to a slit and winked out as the door closed again. While Bill stood watching from the pier, he would have given anything to know who the others were on board that vessel. Still hot with anger and horror at being forced to witness the dastardly crime, and sickened with the part he had had to play later, Bill was not in the mood to forego an opportunity of evening things up.
It came to his mind that even to approach the yacht in a small boat, keeping his eyes and ears open, might be of some help in learning who was aboard her, or perhaps yield him a clue to the truth about Slim Johnson’s business. But a small boat was not easy to procure at that time of night, and in any case he did not want any inquisitive soul to know what he was doing. As he walked slowly along the wharf his foot struck a rope, and looking down, he saw it held a small dinghy that lay in the water at the edge of the dock. It probably belonged to a yachtsman who had come ashore. A find, if ever he needed one. No time now to have any compunctions about its owner.
Bill looked across at the yacht, with its portholes showing dim glints of light, and in a trice he was on his knees. He slipped the knot of the rope and hurried down the wet steps.
The white yacht was farther out than he had thought, and when he reached it, he was astonished at its size and magnificence. A shaft of light burst from the door where he had seen the gangster enter. Johnson appeared on deck, and Bill was actually so near that he could see the pleased expression on his smiling face. The dinghy drifted under the yacht’s bows, and he was shut out from view, but he could hear Slim’s feet passing along the deck and clattering down the companionway. Then there was the sharp slam of a door.