The gray brotherhood

An exciting story of Chester Fay, underworld prince, and of one of his most daredevil exploits ... Henry Leverage at his best.

A gray taxi was threading the traffic of Fifth Avenue. Up through the wealthiest street in the world the driver flashed with all the aplomb of a professional “bucker” who knew the elastic limits of the automobile laws.

Chester Fay leaned forward now and then and studied the hands which shifted the lever at the street intersections like those of an American Ace at the “stick” of a biplane.

“Good boy,” he exclaimed when the taxi came to a grinding halt before the doorman of the Hotel Rockingham. “Good kid!” he added when he extended the fare.

“I thank you,” said the driver of the gray taxi.

Fay paused at the marble steps of the Hotel Rockingham. The taxi turned and darted southward.

Wheeling with a pucker of interest on his features, Fay strode through an alley of palms and bronze vases and leaned over an onyx-topped desk where stood a trim-looking clerk whose collar and tie indicated prosperity in subordinate positions.

“Arthur Hilton?” Fay questioned.

“By appointment?”

“Yes. He phoned me at--” Fay glanced up to the gilt clock over the clerk’s head. “Exactly twenty minutes ago!” he declared.

The page who responded to the pressure of a button led the way to a private elevator, nodded to the pilot and closed the green-grilled door when Fay stepped briskly inside the cage.

He was whisked to a silent stop on an upper floor. He stepped out and faced a gray-haired English detective of the superior type, who had been 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, toying with his cap, as the detective passed through a rift in the portiéres which led in the general direction of Fifth Avenue. He was on the point of coughing to attract attention when the curtains parted in invitation.

* * * * *

Sir Arthur Hilton stood by a long window with the white light of a western sky reflected across his furrowed face like the reaching hand of a specter.

“You’re Fay?” he said as the Scotland Yard man backed into the shadow of 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 of Downing Street--a King’s greyhound--with thirty thousand pounds in American banknotes, was found dead on top of a goods-train at Poughkeepsie this morning.”

Fay pulled out a cigarette.

“Murdered!” declared Hilton with a rising voice. “Killed in cold blood somewhere between the steamer dock at West Street and--and Poughkeepsie.”

Fay dragged on the cigarette, thrust his hands into his pockets and leaned forward. His eyes hardened slightly. They fastened within the steady stare of Sir Arthur’s own.

“Facts are these,” resumed the British representative. “Stephney had landed at the dock at ten-twenty last night. Was seen by two of the steamship company’s detectives who were watching all embarking passengers.”

“Was that the Carpathia?” asked Fay.

“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.”