Behind each place of business was a cyclone cellar--a bomb-proof shelter--into which human bodies and stocks of merchandise could be crowded.
Gray drove directly to the lease he had come to examine, and was disappointed to learn that the owner had just left.

This was annoying; "Bob" had assured him that he was expected.

Inquiry elicited from the surly individual in charge no more than the reluctant admission that Jackson had been called to the nearest telephone, but would be back sometime.
There was nothing to do but wait.

Gray let his car go, then made a cursory examination of the property.

He could see little and learn less.