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voice as he held out the key.
    Harris took it with a puzzled frown. “I don’t understand. She’s always been a light sleeper.” He inserted the key in the lock and turned it.
    Ed Johnson watched his face very carefully as he opened the door. He had a hunch what Harris was going to see inside the room, though he had no way of being certain that Mrs. Harris hadn’t returned to sleep in her own bed the preceding night.
    Harris stood immobile in the doorway and his face went slack and frightened when he saw the unoccupied and unused twin beds. He took a step forward and said, “Ellen,” disbelievingly, then turned a harried face to Johnson. “Where is she? Where’s my wife? What’s going on here?”
    He stared at the detective a moment as though he had never seen him before, then whirled and sprinted to the bathroom door and jerked it open.
    Johnson picked up his bag and followed him into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. At that moment he didn’t like his job one damned little bit. Here was this seemingly nice guy… driving all the way down from New York to spend a surprise weekend with his wife… and where in hell was she?
    He turned slowly away from the empty bathroom looking like a man who had been clubbed with a baseball bat. His eyes were vacant and staring, his jaw hung slack. “She’s not… she’s not here,” he muttered feebly. His vacant gaze moved all about the room, disbelieving, unable to comprehend… searching for the woman who wasn’t there. His gaze finally reached the open suitcase lying in the luggage rack, still packed exactly as it had been on Tuesday morning when Martha Hays first saw it. He took two wavering steps to stand over the suitcase, then turned to look distraughtly at Johnson who still stood in front of the closed door. “She’s got her bag packed,” he announced hoarsely. “As though she were ready to leave. But… she hasn’t even been here a week. Where is she?” The last words were almost a sob.
    Johnson shook his head compassionately. He said, “Sit down, Mr. Harris. Sit down and get hold of yourself. I got something to tell you, and you’ll be better off sitting down when you hear it.”
    “Something’s happened to Ellen! What is it, damn you? Don’t just stand there. Tell me. I have a right to know what’s happened to my wife.”
    “Yes,” said Johnson uncomfortably. “I guess you got a right to know, Mr. Harris. It’s just that… well, I don’t rightly know myself.” He paused to mop sweat from his ruddy forehead with his sleeve. “There’s just this I do know. Mrs. Harris hasn’t been seen in the hotel since shortly after she checked into this room last Monday afternoon. She hasn’t slept in her bed a single night. That suitcase isn’t packed for departure. It’s the way she left it Monday afternoon after she changed from her travelling outfit into a bright red cocktail dress. That much I do know.”
    He stepped forward quickly, real concern on his face as Herbert Harris’ face turned a horrible deathly gray and he swayed on his feet as though about to faint.
    Johnson caught hold of his arm and slid his own arm about Harris’ waist. He led him toward the bed, saying soothingly, “You just stretch out here and relax, Mr. Harris. I know how you feel. I know damn well how you must be feeling. I’m sorry as hell I had to tell you like that.” He gently lowered the man onto the nearest bed, stretched him out and got a pillow under his head.
    Harris lay stiff and trembling for a moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Then he sat up suddenly and opened his eyes wide and demanded, “You knew it all the time and you didn’t tell me? I wasn’t notified? All this week in New York, I didn’t know? What sort of hotel is this? What are you trying to cover up, anyhow?”
    “We’re not covering up anything, Mr. Harris. Look, you want I should call the doctor? It’s been a bad shock.”
    Harris continued to sit upright, and he drew in a