As they rejoined the group, they heard the voice of the girl Linda unsuccessfully pleading with the strange Frenchman, just inside the ancient doorway. He left her and slowly paced up the street towards the north, lost in some brooding memories of the past, or perhaps some faintly flickering hope of the future.
"Pete," whispered MacAllister, drawing that worthy aside, "that French boy is starting a little expedition of his own for our island. No first degree stuff—a week's lay-up will be enough. These greaser cops are as helpless as Secaucus constables, but it's better to play safe. So use discretion, Pete, use discretion!"
His husky lieutenant wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shifted the lump from cheek to cheek, and hitched his trousers, as signals for action.
"I'll use somethin' on him all right," he answered, then disappeared up the street, shadowing the stranger around the corner of the northern end of "The Café of Many Tongues," and into a deserted alley that descended to the water. It was very dark here, and the only sounds were those of the wavelets whispering their secrets to the ancient walls.
Carlotta and MacAllister needed all their determination and tact to guide the protesting Phil, the pugnacious old man, and the Swede, southward along the irregular street. The polyglot babel had steadied to the snoring drone of many sleepers under the striped awnings on the uneven sidewalks, or in the narrow-windowed rooms above. They chose the middle of the highway, for the walk itself was
