“There was a smell of spring in the air, from the river, stronger even than the smell of the alley. It was raining again or, more exactly, a fine mist hung in the streets, collecting the city’s lights and diffusing them. If he stayed in the alley all night he was going to be wet by morning. “The man was out of his depth,” Fred muttered. “Even so, he was too docile. He wants the chest back but he’s not desperate for it. If he knew what it was, he’d be desperate. Ten thousand bucks isn’t much to o...ffer for something that’s worth the gross domestic product of Tasmania.” The windows were lighted on Franklin Tilley’s floor. Cracks of light showed around the closed blinds on the Pekham Street side. Fred rang the bell for number 2. No name there. Persons living in Boston were apparently as skittish about revealing their surnames as the city fathers were about committing the names of streets to signs. The street door opened on Franklin’s anxious face, floating above that same blue suit.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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