The Hotel King Arthur across the street provided almost twice as many problems. The King Arthur offered respectable and convenient lodgings to people from the suburbs who wanted to see a show and didn't want -- heaven knew didn't want! - to lunge anxiously through crowded streets to railroad stations and, at odd hours of night, drive from smaller stations to distant homes, probably through rain or, in November, something worse. The King Arthur was less expensive than the Dumont. The King Arthur had fifty-four overnighters, again counting rooms rather than people.

Check the overnighters out. Failing to find what was wanted, as was most likely, check out other guests, with special -- but not exclusive -- attention to those with rooms on the street. (Anyone active enough can reach a roof, wherever his room may be.) And know, while all this went on, that there was no real reason to suppose that the murderer had been a guest in either hotel. It was not even certain the shot had been fired from either hotel. There were other roofs, less convenient but not impossible. It is dull business, detecting, and hard on feet.

There was also the one salient question to ask, and ask widely: Did you notice anything out of the way? Like, for example, a man carrying a twenty-two rifle, probably with a telescopic sight attached?

There was, of course, no hope it really would be that simple. The sniper, whether psychopathic marksman or murderer by intent, would hardly have walked to his vantage point with rifle over shoulder, whistling a marching tune. Anybody carrying anything that might hide a rifle? Long thin suitcase? Or long fat suitcase, for that matter? Shrugs met that, from room clerks, from bellhops. Who measures? But nothing, it appeared, long enough to attract attention. Cases, say, for musical instruments? None noted at the Dumont. Several at the King Arthur. A combo was staying there. And had been for a week. Anything else? Anything at all? Shrugs met that.