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trousers jumped on the running board. He pushed his grimy little face through the open
window.
 Hey, mister, you re to go to 2 Coral Row; right away: its urgent.
I started the engine, my eye on the driving mirror, expecting to see a police car come
pounding up behind me.
 Who says so?
 Some guy gave me a dollar to tell you. Says it s urgent, and you d know.
He dropped off the running board and bolted off down the street. I hadn t time to go after
him. I wanted to, but the need to get away from 274 was more pressing. Already I could hear
the distant sound of a police siren. I sent the car shooting towards Beach Road.
I had never heard of Coral Row, but it would be somewhere in Coral Gables. I headed that
way because I was curious. Right at this moment I had a lot on my mind. I was wondering if the
old waiter would remember me, and if he had noticed the number of my car. I was particularly
anxious not to get tied up with Mifflin at this time. He could work out the problem of Gracie s
murder without my help. I had other more pressing things to do. But if he began asking
questions and got around to the waiter, he might get a description of me. I knew he wouldn t be
pleased I had left before he arrived.
At the bottom of Beach Road I turned left on to the waterfront, and parked in a vacant space
hedged in on either side by coils of rope and oil drums.
Coral Gables is no place to wander around in unless you have an escort or carry a gun. Even
the cops go around in pairs and scarcely a month passes without someone is found up an alley
with a knife in his back.
As I got out of the Buick and looked up and down the long harbour, crammed with small
boats and fishing trawlers, I was aware that I was being stared at by groups of men who
lounged in the sun, picturesque enough in their soiled canvas trousers and various coloured
sweat-shirts, their shifty, dark eyes weighing me up.
I picked on one who was on his own, aimlessly whittling a piece of wood into the shape of a
boat.
 Can you put me on to Coral Row?
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He eyed me over, leaned away from me to spit into the oily water of the harbour and jerked
his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the coffee-shops, the sea-food stalls and the like
that faced the waterfront.
 Behind Yate s Bar, he said curtly.
Yate s Bar is a two-storey wooden building where, if you aren t fussy who you eat with, you
can get a good clam-chowder and a ten-year-old ale that sneaks up on you if you don t watch
out. I had been in there once or twice with Kerman. It s the kind of place where anything can
happen, and very often does.
 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 rat-
infested 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.
Throwing my cigarette away, I walked across the courtyard to the sagging door. I wasn t any
calmer than a hen chased by a motor car, and my heart was banging against my ribs but I went
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