Maybe a dead man, thought Striker morosely. He raised the plug toward the socket of 913. He ought to call Kramer, make sure he stayed awake. That would be as big a giveaway as pussyfooting around the hall up there, though. He let the plug drop back again.

About three o’clock more footsteps sounded. Heavy ones stamping in from the street. A man’s voice sounded hoarsely. “Hey, desk! One of your people just tumbled out, around on the side of the building!”

The switchboard stool went over with a crack, something blurred streaked across the lobby, and the elevator darted crazily upward. Striker nearly snapped the control lever out of its socket, the way he bore down on it. The car had never traveled so fast before, but he swore horribly all the way up. Too late again!

The door was closed. He needled his passkey at the lock, shouldered the door in. The light was on, the room was empty. The window was wide open, the guy was gone. The fifty-fifty odds had paid off—the wrong way.

Striker’s face was twisted balefully. He got out his gun. But there was only empty space around him.

He was standing there like that, bitter, defeated, granite-eyed, the gun uselessly in his hand, when Perry and Courlander came. It would be Courlander again, too!

“Is he dead?” Striker asked grimly.

“That street ain’t quilted,” was the dick’s dry answer. He eyed the gun scornfully. “What’re you doing? Holding the fort against the Indians, sonny boy?”

“I suggest instead of standing there throwing bouquets,” Striker said, “you phone your precinct house and have a dragnet thrown around this building.” He reached for the phone. Courlander’s arm quickly shot out and barred him. “Not so fast. What would I be doing that for?”

“Because this is murder!”

“Where’ve I heard that before?” He went over for the inevitable note. “What’s this?” He read it aloud. “’Can’t take it any more.’”

“So you’re still going to trip over those things!”

“And you’re still going to try to hurdle it?”

“It’s a fake like all the others were. I knew that all along. I couldn’t prove it until now. This time I can! Finally.”

“Yeah? How!”

“Because the guy couldn’t write! Couldn’t even write his own name! He even had to have the clerk sign the register for him downstairs. And if that isn’t proof enough there’s been somebody else in this room, have a look at that.” He pointed to the money Kramer had left neatly piled on the dresser top. “Count that! Four-fifty. Four singles and a four-bit piece. He had forty-nine dollars and fifty cents on him when he came into this room, and he didn’t leave the room. He’s down there in his underwear now. Here’s all his outer clothing up here. What became of that forty-five bucks?”

Courlander looked at him. “How do you know so much about it? How do you know he couldn’t write, and just what dough he had?”