Tom was stumped. Was the man going to refuse to co-operate? Instead of answering the question, he said:
“You’ve been reading about these Caribbean attacks, haven’t you? Well, I think that guy ahead of us is one of the pirates!”
“Good night!” the man exclaimed. “That’s enough for me. Here we go!”
In the wide stream of traffic that rolled toward the city, it was easy to remain close and still be unobserved by the cab driver and the passenger ahead. Along the parkways and into the center of the city itself, Tom’s driver never let more than two or three cars get between his own cab and the one he was tailing.
On a crosstown street in the fashionable section of the East River, Dansitt hopped out of his taxi in front of a modern apartment house. Tom instructed his driver to park halfway down the block and wait for him. Then he slipped quietly out of the cab and made his way toward the wall of the house. From the sidewalk to about a foot over Tom’s head the building was of black polished marble, which, together with the dim street lighting, afforded Tom a small dark pocket in which to conceal himself.
Dansitt, meanwhile, had shifted the package to his 60 TOM SWIFT AND HIS JETMARINE
left hand and was paying his driver. He obviously had given him a large bill, because the driver fumed and fumbled trying to make change. Finally Dansitt stepped to the bright entrance of the apartment house and looked at his watch.
Turning about, he peered up and down the street.
Tom hugged the wall.
At that moment another taxi pulled up in front of the entrance. As Dansitt moved toward it, the passenger opened the door and stepped out.