“Ali,” I said irritably as he scuttled into the room like a lame spider. “What the devil is going on? Where were you when this person intruded upon me?”

The answer was what I expected: he had been attending to the needs of another patron and had not observed the intruder.

“Summon the manager at once,” I ordered. “And close the door behind you.”

“But, Sitt, there is a body—”

“Close it!”

I waited until the door was shut before I emerged from the tub and assumed my dressing gown and slippers. I was reasonably certain that the fellow on the floor was dead (the hilt of a knife protruding from his back assisted me in this diagnosis) but duty demanded I ascertain whether he was beyond assistance.

He was. Having felt for a pulse and found none, I was about to begin investigating his pockets when the door was again flung open and I beheld Emerson, looming head and shoulders over the group of people behind him. Even in such a short space of time the sensation seekers had gathered, no doubt due to Ali’s bleats of distress as he went downstairs to the lobby. There was some pushing and shoving, and a few irritated comments. One strident voice rose above the hubbub. “Out of the way, you chaps! Don’t you know who I am?”

No one did, or no one cared; the crowd continued to enlarge. Emerson appeared somewhat agitated; he was breathing quickly and his face was flushed, but he controlled himself admirably. “Curse it,” he remarked. “What the devil are you up to now, Peabody? Who is the person lying on the floor? Anyone we know?”

“I believe not, Emerson. I had just begun searching him in the hope of finding a means of identification.”

“Allow me, Peabody.” He turned the body onto its side. The fellow’s features were no more prepossessing in death; they were set in a snarl and the staring eyes were like dull brown pebbles.

“Hmph,” said Emerson, going through the fellow’s pockets and removing a few papers. “Receipts and bills . . . and this.”

It was a piece of pasteboard, the same size as an ordinary calling card, blank except for a single hand-printed word.

“Judas,” Emerson and I said in unison.

“What the devil does that mean?” Emerson asked, solo.

“Could it be an accusation?” was my response. “Judas was, of course, the betrayer of Jesus. The ultimate betrayer. But to the best of my knowledge I haven’t betrayed anyone.”

“Here’s another odd item,” Emerson went on. “It appears to be a monocle.”

“He was wearing it when he came in,” I explained. “It must have fallen from his eye when he crumpled.”