(Detective Pearson, Eighteenth Precinct, thought for a time he might be on to something. A refuse bin at the Dumont turned up a florist's box -- a very long box for very long stemmed flowers. Traces of oil on green tissue? The lab to check. The lab: Sorry. No oil.)

Anything at all strange?

Well, a man had tried, at the King Arthur, to register with an ocelot. At the Dumont, a guest had come in a collapsible wheel chair. At the King Arthur one guest had had his head heavily bandaged, and another had a bandaged foot and had walked with crutches. There had also been a man who must have had St. Vitus or something, because he kept jerking his head.

As reports dribbled in, William Weigand tossed them into the centrifuge which had become his head. Mullins came in. There was no sign of Mrs. Lauren Payne at her house on Nod Road, Ridgefield, Connecticut. The house was modern, large, on five acres. Must have cost plenty. The State cops would check from time to time; pass word when there was word to pass. Weigand tossed this news into the centrifuge. Sort things out, damn it. Sort out the next move.

Try to forget motive for the moment. Consider opportunity. Only those actually with Payne when he was shot, or who had left the party within not more than five minutes (make five arbitrary) positively had none. The Norths; Hathaway, Jerry's publicity director; Livingston Birdwood, producer of Uprising. They had been with Payne when he was shot, could not therefore have shot him from above.