In the murkiest, slimiest, darkest corner of the East End, there was a crumbling old warehouse that even the rats had deserted. One side of it leaned crazily out over the river, and the other side leaned gloomily out over the street.
It was called TURNER AND LUCKETT’S MEDICINAL SARSAPARILLA WAREHOUSE but there’d been no sarsaparilla stored there for years. People believed it was haunted. Mysterious lights used to gleam behind the broken windows high up on the top floor, and hideous noises came filtering out over the roof tops in the middle of the night.
It was the headquarters of Mack the Knife and his appalling gang.
When he reached the warehouse, with little Ned still struggling under his arm, Mack went straight to the top floor, where a bunch of gangsters were sitting around a table playing cards by the light of a stolen candle.
Their names were Quinlan, Peregrine, Auberon, and Filthy.