Standing in the dark doorway of a delicatessen shop, Kingdon Cole gazed, through the fog and drizzle of the October night, at a second-story window across the street. The brim of a slouch hat shaded his eyes and most of his face. His lean figure was draped in a mackintosh that reached almost to his feet. The upward slant of the cigar, clamped between his teeth, hinted at total absorption in what he saw. The building that claimed his attention was an ordinary three-story structure of murky brick. Flanked by a warehouse on one side and a secondhand clothing store on the other, it presented a sullen and gloomy aspect to the watcher across the street. Yet there was something in the very drabnes…
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