He crossed over for a closer
inspection. The front of the house was dark, the little store windows
shuttered. He hesitated an instant, then walked around the corner to
survey the building from the side and rear. Here, from a window that
gave on the intersecting street, there showed a light. The window was
low, scarcely above the level of his head, but held no promise on that
score as a source of information, for the shade within was tightly
drawn. Jimmie Dale scowled at it for a moment, noted its proximity to
the backyard and the front of the building. The Rat, then, or the Rat's
mother, was still up, and he would need to exercise more than ordinary
caution--or else wait--indefinitely, perhaps.
He shook his head at that alternative, as he looked sharply up and down
the street. He would gain little by waiting, and--ah! He was crouched in
the doorway now, the deft fingers working swiftly with the picklock.
There was a faint metallic click, barely audible above his low-breathed
exclamation--and the door opened and closed behind him.
The flashlight in his hand winked once--and went out. Small,
glass-topped counters were on either side of the somewhat restricted
aisle in which he stood; directly in front of him, at the rear of the
store, was a door, leading, obviously, to the living rooms beyond.
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