We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was
empty, and sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous
California "red ink" we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental
note of the place. In the middle of the ceiling was a single
gas-burner with a big reflector over, it. In the back wall of
the room was a horizontal oblong window, barred, and with a sash
that opened like a transom. The tables were dirty and the chairs
rickety. The walls were bare and unfinished, with beams innocent
of decoration. Altogether it was as unprepossessing a place as I
had ever seen.
Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,
complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that
Kennedy had made up his mind as to his course of action.
"How sordid crime really is," he remarked as we walked on down
the street. "Look at that place of Albano's. I defy even the
police news reporter on the Star to find any glamour in that."
Our next stop was at the corner at the little store kept by the
cousin of Luigi, who conducted us back of the partition where
prescriptions were compounded, and found us chairs.
A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face
of the druggist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little
fortune open to the blackmailers.
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