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satisfaction, sarcasm? Chester expected him to pull a gun. His right hand hung empty, his left carried a newspaper. The young man advanced.
    â€œWhere’re you taking him?” Rydal asked, with a quick glance up and down the corridor.
    â€œI was—” Chester went suddenly limp, and the dead weight slipped to the floor. “That room,” Chester said, motioning weakly to the door with the red light over it.
    The young man dropped his newspaper, bent quickly and took the Greek under the shoulders and began to drag him towards the store-room.
    Chester stared.
    â€œDidn’t he have a hat?” Rydal asked, and, at Chester’s frightened nod, “Better get it.”
    Chester opened the store-room door—it was unlocked—then ran back to his room. Colette had unlatched the door and was standing right behind it. “Honey, get me his hat. It’s there by the telephone.”
    Colette got the hat from the telephone table and handed it to him.
    Chester trotted up the hall with it. The door under the red light was half open, and he heard a clatter of buckets. “Here.” He handed the hat to the young man.
    â€œThe man’s dead?” asked Rydal.
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œI think he is.” Rydal, with rather shaky hands, pulled out quickly the contents of the man’s inside pockets, and the billfold that was buttoned into his hip pocket, and stuffed them into his own. “Was there a gun? He’s got a holster here.”
    â€œI’ve got it,” Chester said. Dead, he thought, his hands twitching. He watched the young man shove the feet farther in, so the door would close, and then the door shut on the first man he had ever killed, a man with a lolling, bleeding head, seated among buckets and mops and dirty grey rags.
    Rydal pulled Chester by the arm, back towards his room, and scooped up his newspaper as they passed it.
    Chester drummed on the door with his fingertips. It was a strange way for an agent to behave, he thought. Did he want to protect the hotel patrons from the sight of a corpse?
    Colette opened the door and drew in her breath.
    Chester went in quickly.
    Rydal followed him, automatically giving a little bow of greeting to the woman. He did not care for the sight of blood, and he was beginning to feel a bit airy in the head. “My name . . . my name is Rydal Keener,” Rydal said to both of them. “How do you do?”
    â€œHow d’y’do?” Chester mumbled.
    â€œMy husband hit the man in self-defense,” Colette said quickly, looking straight at Rydal. “I saw the whole thing happen.”
    â€œDon’t say anything, Colette,” Chester said.
    â€œBut . . . allow me to tell you,” Rydal said, and was ashamed of the “allow me” as soon as it was out of his mouth, “that I’m not a police agent.”
    â€œNot a—Then why—?” Chester said.
    Rydal didn’t know why. It had been such a fast decision, it was no decision at all. “I’m just an American tourist. You can consider me a friend.” It was odd talking to them; it made him feel very odd. Or was it the blood drops on the pale-green carpet? “You’d better wipe up those blood spots while you can,” he said to the man.
    Helpless himself, Chester motioned for Colette to do it.
    She went off to the bathroom and returned at once with the sponge Chester had bought for her. “I’ve wiped it all up from the bathroom,” she said. She got down on her hands and knees and began scrubbing away.
    Her derrière looked perfectly round under her straight black skirt. Rydal looked at her instead of at the blood spots. Then he moved quickly to the door, opened it cautiously, and looked out into the corridor.
    â€œHear something?” Chester asked.
    â€œNo. I wanted to see if there was any blood in the hall. There probably is, but it doesn’t show on the black carpet. Now,”