to rest his back and stared down into the calm, expressionless face on
the pillow.

Twenty minutes passed, during which time Frank Corson checked and
rechecked every inch of the man's torso. When he finished, he slowly
folded his stethoscope and pulled the sheet back into place. He stared
at the patient for a full minute without bringing the slightest change
in the empty expression.

"Sleep well," he said, and walked slowly away.

Back in the street, five minutes later, he dropped into the seat beside
Rhoda. She eyed him questioningly and when he did not respond, she
asked, "Everything all right?"

"I don't know. I guess so."

"What do you mean--guess so? It is or it isn't."

"There was something about a patient's heartbeat. I passed it over on
the first examination, but it stuck in my mind. That's why I had to go
back."

"And ...?"

"He's got two hearts."

"He's _what_?"

"He's got two hearts, my beautiful love. One in his chest, where it
ought to be, and one in the center of his lower abdomen."

"You're--you're kidding."

"No, darling," Frank Corson said dreamily. "On this night of nights I
found a man who is pretty rare indeed. A man with two healthy,
functioning hearts."

"All right," Rhoda asked wonderingly. "What do we do about it?"

"We go home for the time being, baby--to your nice, private, wonderful
apartment."

"And ...?"

"We make love," he said absently.

* * * * *

Les King, the free-lance news photographer, surveyed his night's work
and was not happy. It had been singularly unproductive. A couple of
sneak necking shots he'd snapped during a stroll through Central Park
had come through a little too pornographic to be of value. Les threw
them into the wastebasket. A shot of a man leaning out of a
thirtieth-floor window came to nothing because the man had pulled his
head in and closed the window. He hadn't jumped. There was a picture of
a girl dodging a taxi. He'd caught her with both feet off the ground and
a look of surprise on her face, but with her body arced backward and
both hands on her rump as though she'd just been thoroughly and expertly
goosed. Too vulgar. He put the pic aside.

And the Park Avenue hit? Here it was, a shot of a guy lying where he'd
dropped, with the pigeon's rocketing away. Not bad, but it lacked an
angle. All that intern had found on him was a name. William Matson. No
address. The hell with it.

Les sighed and dropped th