The same cop was there. He was saying to a man who had been on his way home to read the after-midnight edition of the coming morning’s newspaper: “Lemme have your paper, Mac, will you?”

The man demurred, “I ain’t read it myself yet. I just now bought it.”

The cop said, “You can buy another. We can’t leave him lying like this.”

The thing that had been Hastings was in pretty bad shape. The cop spread the paper, separating the sheets, and made a long paper-covered mound. The stain even came through that a little, more like gasoline than anything else. Came through a headline that said something about the King of Jugoslavia being assassinated at Marseilles.

Striker thought, with a touch of mysticism, “Half a world away from each other this afternoon; now they’re both together—some-where—maybe.”

The same precinct-dick showed up in answer to the routine notification that had been phoned in. His greeting to Striker was as to the dirt under his feet. “You still on the face of the earth?”

“Should I have asked your permission?” answered the hotel man drily.

Eddie Courlander—that, it seemed, was the police dick’s tag—squatted down, looked under the pall of newspapers, shifted around, looked under from the other side.

“Peek-a-boo!” somebody in the small crowd said irreverently.

Courlander looked up threateningly. “Who said that? Gawan, get outa here, wise guys! If it happened to one of youse, you wouldn’t feel so funny.”

Somebody’s night-bound coupé tried to get through, honked imperiously for clearance, not knowing what the obstruction was. The cop went up to it, said: “Get back! Take the next street over. There’s a guy fell out of a window here.”

The coupé drew over to the curb instead, and its occupants got out and joined the onlookers. One was a girl carrying a night club favor, a long stick topped with paper streamers. She squealed, “Ooou, ooouooou,” in a way you couldn’t tell if she was delighted or horrified.

Courlander straightened, nodded toward Striker. “What room’d he have? C’mon in.”

He didn’t remember that it was the same one. Striker could tell that by the startled way he said, “Oh, yeah, that’s right too!” when he mentioned the coincidence to him.

Perry and the night porter were waiting outside the room door. “I wouldn’t go in until you got here,” the manager whispered virtuously to the cop. “I know you people don’t like anything touched.” Striker, however, had a hunch there was a little superstitious fear at the back of this as well, like a kid shying away from a dark room.

“You’re thinking of murder cases,” remarked Courlander contemptuously. “Open ’er up.”