‘Thanks,’ I said, and crossed the broad water-front road to the bar.
Alongside the wooden building was an alley. High up on the wall was a notice that read: Leading to Coral Row.
I paused to light a cigarette while I regarded the alley with a certain amount of caution and no enthusiasm. The high walls blocked out the sunlight. The far end of the alley was a black patch of smelly air and suspicious silence.
I slid my hand inside my coat to reassure myself I could get the .38 out fast in case of an emergency, then I walked quietly towards the darkness.
At the end of the alley, and at a sharp right-angle to it, was Coral Row: a dismal, dark courtyard flanked on three sides by derelict-looking buildings that had at one time or another served as marine storehouses. By the look of them now they were nothing better than ratinfested ruins.
High above me I could see the stark, black roofs of the buildings sharply outlined against a patch of blue sky.
I stood in the opening of the alley, looking at the buildings, wondering if I was about to walk into a trap.
Opposite, a worm-eaten door sagged on one hinge. A dirty brass number, a 2, was screwed to the central panel.
There it was: 2 Coral Row. It now depended on myself whether I’d go in there or not. I took a drag at my cigarette while I looked the place over. It would probably be as dark as a Homburg hat inside, and I hadn’t a flashlight. The boards would be rotten, and it would be impossible to move silently.
I decided to go ahead and see what happened.