The alleyway, a dreary, dim passage even in daylight, was bordered on the north by the International Workers’ Educational Club and to the south by three artisans’ houses, remodeled from older, existing structures. Once into the yard proper, Margo found herself surrounded by decaying old buildings. To the west lay the sack factory, where men and teenaged boys could be seen at work through dull, soot-grimed windows. Beside the abandoned cart factory stood a dusty, dilapidated stable which clearly hadn’t been used since Arthur Dutfield had moved his business to Pinchin Street. Terraced cottages to the south closed in the yard completely. The odor of tobacco wafted into the yard from these cottages, where cigarettes were being assembled by hand, using sweatshop labor. The whir of sewing machines, operated by foot treadles, floated through a couple of open windows in one of the cottages; a small sign announced that this establishment was home to two separate tailors. The rear windows of the two-story, barn-like International Workers’ Educational Club overlooked the yard, looming above it as the major feature closing in this tiny, isolated bit of real estate. The club, a hotbed of radical political activity and renowned for its Jewish ownership, also served as a major community center for educational and cultural events.
Standing in the center of the empty construction yard, Margo gazed thoughtfully at the rear windows of the popular hall. “Bold as brass, wasn’t he?” she muttered.
Shahdi Feroz was studying the yard’s only access, the eighteen-foot blind alley. She glanced up, first at Margo, then at the windows Margo was gazing at. “Yes,” the scholar agreed. “The hall was—will be—filled with people that night.”