ut now. And what the hell! If there was ten
thousand dollars lying around, why shouldn't he get a piece of it? What
was wrong with that? He unlocked the door to his room.

He took a step forward and stopped, blocking the entrance.

"Oh, my God!"

Les King pushed through. His eyes widened, but that was his only
reaction. Then his camera swung up into position. The bulb flashed. He
lowered the camera.

"Somebody cut the bastard's throat!" he marveled.

Frank Corson moved forward. "Good lord! It looks as though he just sat
there and let himself be murdered."

"Suicide maybe?"

"No knife close enough. It's over there in the sink."

"Well, he didn't cut his own throat and then walk back here."

Frank Corson had been studying the wound. He pressed his fingers against
the crimson shirt front and rubbed them together, testing the feel of
the blood with his thumb.

"What's wrong?" King asked.

"I don't know. That's an odd color for coagulating blood. It doesn't
feel right, either."

"Do you think he was sick?"

"There's just something crazy about this whole thing. The man had two
hearts."

King was both amazed and angered. "What the hell are you talking
about?"

"I didn't get a chance to tell you. This man was a freak. I found it out
last night. He had two hearts. I'm sure of it."

"No chance to tell me? Why, goddamn it, we sat in that coffee shop for
half an hour while I leveled with you. No chance! You held out on me."
King laughed cynically. "I guess that's human nature. With a couple of
bucks at stake even honest men go cagey."

Corson ignored the jibe. "Listen, for Christ sake! This is murder! Can't
you understand that?"

"Of course, it's murder--in your room, with your knife. You'll have some
explaining to do."

King's face hardened. He became subtly remote, impersonal. His eyes
turned cold as he began inserting flash-bulbs into his camera and
snapping the room and the body from various angles.

Frank Corson, out of his depth for sure now, stood helpless. Les King
looked up from his work. "Well, don't just stand there, Doctor. You've
got a murder to report. Get with it."

As Corson turned helplessly toward the door, King grinned faintly. "Me,
I'm just a free-lance photographer trying to make an honest buck."

* * * * *

Brent Taber stared icily down at Frank Corson and Les King. They looked
up at him sullenly, looming over them as he did, from the position of
a