On the other hand, he had turned up no real proof yet, and the motive remained as unfathomable as ever. In short, he was really no further than before he’d started. He had tried to solve it circumstantially, by deduction, and that hadn’t worked. He had tried to solve it first hand, by personal observation, and that hadn’t worked. Only one possible way remained, to try to solve it at second hand, through the eyes of the next potential victim, who would at the same time be a material witness—if he survived. To do this it was necessary to anticipate it, time it, try to see if it had some sort of spacing or rhythm to it or was just hit-or-miss, in order to know more or less when to expect it to recur. The only way to do this was to take the three dates he had and average them.

Striker took the early part of that evening off. He didn’t ask permission for it, just walked out without saying anything to anyone about it. He was determined not to take anyone into his confidence this time.

He hadn’t been off the premises a night since he’d first been hired by the hotel, and this wasn’t a night off. This was strictly business. He had seventy-five dollars with him that he’d taken out of his hard-earned savings at the bank that afternoon. He didn’t go where the lights were bright. He went down to the Bowery.

He strolled around a while looking into various barrooms and “smoke houses” from the outside. Finally he saw something in one that seemed to suit his purpose, went in and ordered two beers.

“Two?” said the barman in surprise. “You mean one after the other?”

“I mean two right together at one time,” Striker told him.

He carried them over to the table at the rear, at which he noticed a man slumped with his head in his arms. He wasn’t asleep or in a drunken stupor. Striker had already seen him push a despairing hand through his hair once.

He sat down opposite the motionless figure, clinked the glasses together to attract the man’s attention. The derelict slowly raised his head.

“This is for you,” Striker said, pushing one toward him.

The man just nodded dazedly, as though incapable of thanks any more. Gratitude had rusted on him from lack of use.

“What’re your prospects?” Striker asked him bluntly.

“None. Nowhere to go. Not a cent to my name. I’ve only got one friend left, and I was figgerin’ on looking him up ‘long about midnight. If I don’t tonight, maybe I will tomorrow night. I surely will one of these nights, soon. His name is the East River.”

“I’ve got a proposition for you. Want to hear it?”

“You’re the boss.”

“How would you like to have a good suit, a clean shirt on your back for a change? How would you like to sleep in a comfortable bed tonight? In a three-dollar room, all to yourself, in a good hotel uptown?”