The Gray Brotherhood
An exciting story of Chester Fay, underworld prince, and of one ofhis most daredevil exploits ... Henry Leverage at his best.
A gray taxi was threading the traffic of Fifth Avenue. Up through thewealthiest street in the world the driver flashed with all the aplombof a professional “bucker” who knew the elastic limits of theautomobile laws.
Chester Fay leaned forward now and then and studied the hands whichshifted the lever at the street intersections like those of anAmerican Ace at the “stick” of a biplane.
“Good boy,” he exclaimed when the taxi came to a grinding halt beforethe doorman of the Hotel Rockingham. “Good kid!” he added when heextended the fare.
“I thank you,” said the driver of the gray taxi.
Fay paused at the marble steps of the Hotel Rockingham. The taxiturned and darted southward.
Wheeling with a pucker of interest on his features, Fay strodethrough an alley of palms and bronze vases and leaned over anonyx-topped desk where stood a trim-looking clerk whose collar andtie indicated prosperity in subordinate positions.
“Arthur Hilton?” Fay questioned.
“By appointment?”
“Yes. He phoned me at—” Fay glanced up to the gilt clock over theclerk’s head. “Exactly twenty minutes ago!” he declared.
The page who responded to the pressure of a button led the way to aprivate elevator, nodded to the pilot and closed the green-grilleddoor when Fay stepped briskly inside the cage.
He was whisked to a silent stop on an upper floor. He stepped out andfaced a gray-haired English detective of the superior type, who hadbeen pacing an ornate hallway.
“Arthur Hilton?” said Fay.
“By Sir Arthur’s consent?”
“Certainly!”
“You may follow me,” drawled the Scotland Yard man.
Fay found himself in the foyer of a splendid suite. He waited, toyingwith his cap, as the detective passed through a rift in the portiéreswhich led in the general direction of Fifth Avenue. He was on thepoint of coughing to attract attention when the curtains parted ininvitation.
Sir Arthur Hilton stood by a long window with the white light of awestern sky reflected across his furrowed face like the reaching handof a specter.
“You’re Fay?” he said as the Scotland Yard man backed into the shadowof an inner room.
“Yes. Chester Fay—Mr. George Mott, the reformer’s friend.”
“Good—good and bad! There’s the old Nick to pay. Putney Stephney ofDowning Street—a King’s greyhound—with thirty thousand pounds inAmerican banknotes, was found dead on top of a goods-train atPoughkeepsie this morning.”
Fay pulled out a cigarette.
“Murdered!” declared Hilton with a rising voice. “Killed in coldblood somewhere between the steamer dock at West Street and—andPoughkeepsie.”
Fay dragged on the cigarette, thrust his hands into his pockets andleaned forward. His eyes hardened slightly. They fastened within thesteady stare of Sir Arthur’s own.
“Facts are these,” resumed the British representative. “Stephney hadlanded at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of thesteamship company’s detectives who were watching all embarking passengers.”
“Was that the Carpathia?” asked Fay.
“Yes—the Carpathia! Stephney came down the gangplank, turned atthe customroom, went inside a telephone booth, came out and wasobserved taking