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out the entry for room 602. The policeman slowly copied it out into his black book. The history of the city of New York, faithfully recorded in twenty thousand handwritten pages by the graduates of the police academy. An interesting archaeological discovery.
    I got out the bottle and uncorked it. “Sorry, I don’t have a glass,” I said.
    “I drunk out of bottles before this,” the policeman said. He raised the bottle. “Well, L’chaim ,” he said, and took a long swig.
    “You Jewish?” I asked as the policeman gave me the bottle.
    “Nah. My partner. I caught it from him.”
    L’chaim . To life, I remembered from the song in Fiddler on the Roof . “I think I’ll join you,” I said, raising the bottle. “I can use it. A night like this can leave a man a little shaky.”
    “This is nothing,” the cop said. “You oughta see some of the things we run into.”
    “I can imagine,” I said. I drank.
    “Well,” the policeman said, “I gotta be going. There’ll be an inspector around in the morning. Just keep that room locked until he gets here, understand?”
    “I’ll pass the word on to the day man.”
    “Night work,” the policeman said. “Do you sleep good during the day?”
    “Fair.”
    “Not me.” The policeman shook his head mournfully. “Look at the rings under my eyes.”
    I looked at the rings under the policeman’s eyes. “You could use a good night’s sleep,” I said.
    “You ain’t kidding.” The man dug a knuckle into his eye, viciously. If thy eye offend thee… “Well, at least there ain’t been no crime committed. Be thankful for small mercies,” he said surprisingly. Unsuspected depths, a vocabulary that included the word mercy.
    I accompanied him to the front door, opened it politely.
    “Have a good day,” the policeman said.
    “Thanks. You, too.”
    “Hah,” he said.
    I watched the heavy, slow-moving man climb into the prowl car and wake up his partner. The car went slowly down the silent street. I locked the door and went back to the office. I picked up the telephone and dialed. I had to wait for at least ten rings before the connection came through. This country is in full decay, I thought, waiting; nobody moves.
    “Western Union,” the voice said.
    “I want to send a telegram to Chicago,” I said. I gave the name and address, spelling out Ferris slowly and clearly. “Like wheel,” I said.
    “What’s that?” The voice of Western Union was irritated.
    “Ferris wheel,” I said. “Amusement parks.”
    “What is the message, please?”
    “Regret to inform you that John Ferris, of your address,” I said, “died this morning at three fifteen A.M. Please get in touch with me immediately for instructions. Signed, H. M. Drusack, Manager, Hotel St. Augustine, Manhattan.” By the time the reply came in, Drusack would be on duty and I would be somewhere else, safely out of the way. There was no need for the family in Chicago to know my name. “Charges, please.”
    The operator gave me the charges. I noted them on a sheet of paper. Good old Drusack would put them on Ferris’ bill. I knew Drusack.
    I took another slug of bourbon, then settled down in the swivel chair and picked up the Bible. I figured I could get well into Proverbs before the day man came on to relieve me.

4
    I TOOK A TAXI HOME AFTER telling the day man what had happened, or most of what had happened. I left the envelope for my bookie friend, as usual, with the note inside telling him I was betting five dollars on Ask Gloria at Hialeah in the second. For as long as possible it was wise to make it seem that today was just like every other day.
    Even in the East Eighties where I lived, muggings at all hours were not infrequent. The taxi was a luxury, but this was no day to be mugged. I had gotten the tube down from the shelf when the day man was busy in the front office. There had been no one in the lobby when I went out, and, even if there had been, there was nothing remarkable about a man