His thoughts broke off. Two men, having crossed the bridge, hesitated a moment, then went down the stairway leading to the breakwater landing.
“That’s queer,” he told himself, “at this hour of the night!”
As he lingered his wonder grew, for two more men appeared from the dark bridge and descended into the depths below, and after these came three others.
“I’ll have a look,” he told himself.
As he shifted his position a door at the foot of the stairs opened and a man disappeared. “Odd sort of business. A door opens. No light comes out. Yet the man goes in. Something wrong about that. That’s beneath Angelo’s flower shop. He’s my friend. I’ll have a glimpse inside.”
His glance inside netted nothing but darkness. Putting out a hand, he pressed against a surface that yielded—a silent, swinging door.
At once he was in a large, smoke-filled room. A curious place it was, fitted with tables and a counter; yet there was apparently nothing to sell.
A strange feeling of discontent appeared to hover over the room. Johnny felt a desire to vanish. He resisted this to stare at the men who sat about in groups grumbling in monotones and at two who complained loudly in a strange language to a large, poker-faced man leaning over the counter.
All this will remain in the boy’s mind as a scene from some mystery drama, for a rough voice at his ear said:
“How’d you get here?”