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long breath in a deep shuddering sob. “I don’t need a doctor. Goddamnit, I want the police. Hasn’t any thing been done to find Ellen? You just stand there like a goddamned statue. Call yourself a detective? She’s been missing for five days. What have you done?”
    “Look, Mr. Harris.” Johnson pulled a chair forward and seated himself in it. He spoke quietly and reasonably, striving to strike through the man’s panic. “There’s no reason to think anything’s happened to your wife. Get that through your head. Wait a minute.” He held up a big hand as Harris started to protest angrily. “I know how you feel. I know just how you feel. But stop and look at it for a minute. All we know is that she’s spent the last five days and nights away from this hotel. You admitted she didn’t know you were coming down to surprise her. If you had let her know, why, maybe…
    “Goddamn your soul to hell,” grated Harris viciously, swinging off the bed and surging to his feet with clenched fists. “What you’re saying is, in effect, that all this is her doing. Her choice. You’re just covering up for your goddamned hotel, for your own inefficiency. If I’d been informed last Tuesday morning… He moved forward with blazing eyes and drew his right fist back to swing it on the stolid detective seated in the chair.
    Johnson swung to his feet and easily warded off the infuriated blow. “Take it easy,” he grunted. He pushed the man backward to the edge of the bed where he dropped down and lay whimpering like a child, both hands over his eyes.
    Johnson stood beside the bed looking down at him commiseratingly and said, “All right. So you don’t want a doctor. How about a drink? You need to relax and start thinking straight. I can call down on the phone and get a bottle…”
    Herbert Harris writhed on the bed and moaned, keeping both hands clasped tightly over his eyes. “I could use a drink.” He spoke wonderingly. “There’s half a bottle of rye in my bag.”
    Johnson said, “I’ll get some ice. You want soda, or some kind of mixer?”
    “No. Just water will be fine.”
    The house detective went to the telephone and relayed a brief order over it. He turned to the chair drawn up close to the bed and reseated himself. “Start thinking straight, Mr. Harris,” he urged. “We’re not covering up for anything here. There’s no real evidence that anything has happened to your wife. Maybe she ran into some friends last Monday evening. Maybe they were throwing a party, or going on a yacht cruise or something like that. She was on vacation. No reason she shouldn’t go along.”
    Harris sat up on the edge of the bed again. He rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. “I could use a drink. You want to open my bag?”
    Johnson got up ponderously and put the man’s bag on the other bed and opened it. He found a fifth of rye about half full, and was turning toward the bathroom when there was a knock on the door. Turning back, he opened the door and took a pitcher of ice cubes from the bellboy standing there, growled his thanks, and got two clean glasses from the bathroom. He put two ice cubes in each glass, filled them near the top with whisky, and topped them off with tap water. He went back and put one into Harris’ lax hand as he sat on the edge of the bed staring down at the floor, sat back in the chair again and said as cheerfully as he could, “Drink up, Mr. Harris. You been thinking over what I said a little while ago?”
    “I’ve been thinking it over,” agreed Harris hoarsely. “And every bit of it is pure horse-shit. Ellen doesn’t have any friends down here. If she had met someone unexpectedly and decided to go off on a jaunt, she would have notified me at once. Goddamnit, man, don’t you understand that?” He glared at Johnson and then half-emptied his glass and coughed loudly.
    Johnson took a hesitant sip from his glass. He marshaled his thoughts and spoke carefully:
    “Get this clear in your mind, Mr.