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on the other hand, might not—give more accurate information and that the body would be posted at once.
    â€œThen if he’s eaten recently you’ll know about when he died,” the physician observed. “That is,” he added, “if you know when he ate.”
    Weigand thanked him and thought he might as well eat himself. He collected Mullins, left word that everything should be rushed as much as possible and all data sent to his office at Headquarters, and led Mullins out. Walking with Mullins, who was so inescapably a detective, always made Weigand feel, obscurely, as if he were under arrest. Mullins was often helpful, however; just now he knew a swell place around the corner to eat. He led the way to it, and into a long, noisy barroom, with tables in the rear. There was a noticeable lessening of the noise when Mullins entered and everybody looked at Weigand curiously, and with sympathy. Weigand stifled a rising suspicion that any kitchen in the establishment would be there merely as a legal device, satisfying the statute which, in New York, requires a readiness to serve food on the part of all who want to serve liquor.
    Weigand, reflecting that he was on duty, drank two quick martinis, after which things were noticeably better. Mullins had an old-fashioned, and another old-fashioned. Weigand looked at the menu and had another martini, which gave him strength to order. He looked at the New England Pot Roast which resulted and speculated on the desirability of another martini, but decided against it. There was, after all, Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley. Artemus was no teetotaler; on the other hand, he would view any tendency to stagger with disapproval. Weigand ate quickly, nervously, and waited for Mullins, who ate slowly and thoroughly. Mullins finished his pie and showed an inclination to talk.
    â€œIt’s a funny one, all right,” Mullins said. “Why do we get the funny ones, huh? Why not just ordinary blastings? The kind you just give a couple of guys a going over for?”
    Weigand shook his head, not knowing the answers. It was a funny one, all right—a bare man in a bare apartment. You couldn’t start more completely from scratch, if you came to that. Weigand moved his head again, nodding this time to show that he agreed with Mullins.
    â€œWith a blasting, you know where you are, and can just round guys up,” Mullins added, plodding after his thought. He smiled at the thought when he overtook it. Mullins liked to round guys up. His smile was succeeded by a somber expression, and Weigand could chart the arrival of realization that there was nobody to be rounded up. Then Mullins brightened again.
    â€œHow about these North guys?” he said. “They’d talk, all right.” He looked hopefully at Weigand. “They’re screwy, anyhow,” Mullins urged.
    Weigand shook his head, and Mullins’ hopes visibly subsided. He sighed deeply, and looked at the menu again, seeking comfort. But Weigand shook his head once more.
    â€œWe’ve got to see the chief,” he said. “Dear old Arty. And how he’ll love it.”
    They rose, Mullins reluctantly.
    â€œAnd don’t tell Arty that one about the Norths,” Weigand warned. “The idea’s screwier than they are. Right?”
    Mullins said, “O.K.” without enthusiasm. The more he thought about the Norths, his face reported to the lieutenant, the more he thought it would be a fine idea to go over them a bit. They would be easy to round up, too. But maybe the Loot knew best.
    They picked up their car and Mullins winked on its red emergency lights. Then, to the accompaniment of a stimulatingly alarming noise from the siren, they went down to Centre Street. Mullins went, on order, to the Homicide Bureau office and inquired with decision whether a lot of things were being done. They were, because the police department knows ways of starting from scratch; because