The Case of the One-Eyed Witness [antikvár]

ONE The night sky was sodden with low-hanging clouds. Cold drizzle coated the sidewalks with moisture, gave a halo to the street lights and caused the tyres of passing automobiles to hiss over wet road surface. Most of the buildings in the local shopping centre were dark, but on the corner the drug-store was a blaze of light. Half-way down the block on the same side an all-night café radiated a glow of hospitality. Across the street the motion picture theatre had switched out most of the lights in the foyer. The second show was drawing to a close and within five minutes the doors would open to disgorge the audience after the last nm of the feature picture. Over in the drug-store, the prescription clerk in a white smock was making entries in a book. The long soda-counter was vacant, but a tired-looking girl was arranging glasses, preparing for the sudden rush of trade which would follow the closing of the motion picture theatre. Within seven minutes every stool would be occupied and people would be there three deep at the counter. At that time, the cashier would move over to help out, and the prescription clerk would lend a hand. In the meantime there was a complete lull as the store waited for that last spurt of business which would swell the day's receipts. The woman who came hurrying down Vance Avenue and turned into Kramer Boulevard paused to glance apprehensively over her shoulder before making the turn, then she rounded the corner. The light from the window of the drug-store splashed her features, showing lines of determination about the mouth, fear in the eyes. She opened the door and walked in. The cashier, an open book held flat on the desk by the side of the cash register, kept on with her reading. The girl at the soda-fountain looked up inquiringly. The prescription clerk put down his pen and started to move forward.