Maxon, who was a reformed drunk, gave him a look eloquent of disgust as Striker chased by the desk. “I’m getting off the wagon again if this keeps up—then I’ll have some fun out of all these bum jolts.”

There was more of a crowd this time. The weather was milder and there were more night-owls in the vicinity to collect around him and gape morbidly. The kid had fallen farther out into the street than Hopper—he didn’t weigh as much, maybe. He was lying there face down in the shape of a Greek cross. He hadn’t undressed yet, either. Only his shoes and dinner jacket had been taken off. One strap of his black suspenders had torn off, due to the bodily contortion of the descent or from the impact itself. The white of his shirt was pretty badly changed by now, except the sleeves. He’d had a good-looking face; that was all gone too. They were turning him over as Striker came up.

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.”