With the
door closed, it was dark, pitch dark. And this, too, like everything
else connected with Chang Foo's establishment, for more reasons than
one--for effect--and for security. Nervous little twitters began to
emanate from the women--the guide's voice rose reassuringly:
"Keep close together, ladies and gentlemen. We are going upstairs now
to--"
Jimmie Dale hugged back against the wall, sidled along it, and like a
shadow slipped down to the end of the hall. The scuffling of two dozen
pairs of feet mounting the creaky staircase drowned the slight sound as
he cautiously opened a door; the darkness lay black, impenetrable, along
the hall. And then, as cautiously as he had opened it, he closed the
door behind him, and stood for an instant listening at the head of a
ladder-like stairway, his automatic in his hand now. It was familiar
ground to Larry the Bat. The steps led down to a cellar; and diagonally
across from the foot of the steps was an opening, ingeniously hidden by
a heterogeneous collection of odds and ends, boxes, cases, and rubbish
from the pseudo tea shop above; a low opening in the wall to a passage
that led on through the cellars of perhaps half a dozen adjoining
houses, each of which latter was leased, in one name or another--by
Chang Foo.
Jimmie Dale crept down the steps, and in another moment had gained the
farther side of the cellar; then, skirting around the ruck of cases, he
stooped suddenly and passed in through the opening in the wall.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210