A man with a sketch pad in hand sat with a large pink woman in a small office at the end of a long, dim corridor and made pencil lines on paper and said, "Is this more like it, Mrs. MacReady?
Or are the eyebrows more like this"?
When he had finished with that, he would go to another part of the hotel and say much the same things to someone else, most probably a busboy.
"Begin to look like him now, would you say?
Different about the mouth, huh?
More like this, maybe"?

Men blew dust on objects in a room on the seventeenth floor of the Hotel Dumont and blew it off again, and did the same in a tiny, almost airless room in a tenement in the West Forties.
And men also used vacuum cleaners in both rooms, sucking dust up once more.

Men from the Third Detective District, Eighteenth Precinct, had the longest, the most tedious, job.
At the Hotel Dumont there had, at the time in issue, been twenty-three overnighters, counting couples as singular.
These included, as one, Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Payne, who had checked in a little after noon the day before, and had not checked out together.
But Gardner Willings was not included;
he had been at the Dumont for almost a week.
There was, of course, no special reason to believe that the man or woman they sought had stayed only overnight at the hotel.
The twenty-three (or twenty-two with the Paynes themselves omitted) provided merely a place to start, and their identification was the barest of starts.
With names and addresses listed, verification came next.
It would take time;
it would, almost inevitably, trouble some water.
("I certainly was not at the Dumont last night and my husband couldn't have been.
He's in Boston.
Of course he's in" --)

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.

(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.

Take Gardner Willings.
He had left after the scuffle;
had been seen to leave.
He would have had ample time to go into a blind somewhere and wait his prey.
Consider him seriously, therefore?
Intangibles entered, then -- hunches which felt like facts.
Willings would ambush, certainly;
Willings undoubtedly had.
Willings was, presumably, a better than average shot.
But -- hunch, now -- Willings would not ambush anything which went on two legs instead of four.
Because, if for no other reason, Willings would never for a moment suppose he was not bigger, tougher, than anything else that went on two legs.
Ambushes are laid by those who doubt themselves, as any man may against a tiger.

Faith Constable had had to "go on" from the party and had, presumably, gone on.
To be checked out further.
Forget motive?
No, motive is a part of fact.
Nobody in his right mind punishes a quarter-century-old dereliction.
Grudges simply do not keep that well in a sane mind.
Faith Constable had accomplished much in a quarter of a century.
Jeopardize it now to correct so old a wrong?
Bill shook his head.
Also, he thought, I doubt if she could hit the side of a barn with a shotgun.

Lauren herself?
She had left the party early, pleading a headache.
No lack of opportunity, presuming she had a gun.
She might, conceivably, have brought one in in a large-enough suitcase.
(Check on the Payne luggage.
) She might now have taken it away again.
Motive -- her husband wandering?
Bitter, unreasoning jealousy?
Heaven knew it happened and hell knew it too.
But -- it happened, almost always, among the primitive and, usually, among the very young.
(Call it mentally young;
call it retarded.
) There was nothing to indicate that Lauren Payne was primitive.
She did not move in primitive circles.
She was young, but not that young.

It occurred to Bill Weigand that he was, on a hunch basis, eliminating a good many.
He reminded himself that all eliminations were tentative.
He also reminded himself that he had an unusual number of possibilities.

The Masons, mother or son, or mother and son?
Opportunity was obvious.
Motive.
Here, too, the cause to hate lay well back in the years.
But bitterness had more cause to remain, even increasingly to corrode.
With the boy, particularly.
The boy had, apparently -- if Mrs. MacReady was right in what she had told Mullins -- only in recent months been forced to give up college, to work as a busboy.
Seeing the man he blamed for this made much of -- youth and bitterness and --

Bill picked up the telephone;
got Mullins.

"Send out a pickup on Mrs. Mason and the boy when you've got enough to go on", Bill said.
"Right"?

Mullins would do.

A man named Lars Simon, playwright-director, had expressed a wish that Anthony Payne drop dead.
He would say, of course, that he had not really had any such wish;
that what he had said was no more than one of those things one does say, lightly, meaning nothing.
Which probably would turn out to be true;
which he obviously had to be given the opportunity to say.

A man named Blaine Smythe, with "y" and "e" but pronounced without them, had been fired at Payne's insistence.
He was also, if Pam North was right, a closer acquaintance of Lauren Payne's than she, now, was inclined to admit.
He might deny the latter;
would certainly deny any connection between the two things, or any connection of either with murder.
He would have to be given the opportunity.

Mullins?
It was evident that Mullins was the man to go.
It was evident that a captain should remain at his desk, directing with a firm hand and keeping a firm seat.
Bill Weigand was good and tired of the wall opposite, and the crack in the plaster.
Let Mullins keep the firm seat;
let Stein.

When Siamese cats are intertwined it is difficult to tell where one leaves off and another begins.
Stilts and Shadow, on Pam's bed, appeared to be one cat -- rather large, as Siamese cats go, and, to be sure, having two heads and two tails.
On the other hand, they, or it, seemed to have no legs whatever.
Pamela North said, "Hi", to her cats, and added that proper cats met their humans at the door.
Of four dark brown ears, one twitched slightly at this.
"All right", Pam said.
"I know it isn't dinnertime".

But at this the one too-large cat suddenly became two cats, stretching.
Shadow, the more talkative, began at once to talk, her voice piteous.
Stilts, a more direct cat, leaped from the bed and trotted briskly toward the kitchen.
Shadow looked surprised, wailed, and trotted after her.
The hell it isn't dinnertime, two waving tails told Pam North.

It was not, whatever tale was told by tails.
Martha presumably would cope.
She might be firm.
It was most unlikely that she would be firm.
They want to be fat cats, Pam thought, and lighted a cigarette and leaned back on a chaise and considered pulling her thoughts together.
After a time, it occurred to her that her thoughts were not worth the trouble.
A vague feeling that Anthony Payne had had it coming was hardly a thought and was, in any event, reprehensible.
Had Faith Constable's explanation of her confidence, so uninvited, been a little thin?
That was more like a thought, but not a great deal more.
Had that tall dark boy, carrying trays too heavy for him, found what he might have considered adulation of a man he probably hated more than he could bear?
And possessed himself -- how?
-- of a rifle and killed?
Pam found she had no answers;
had only a hope.
The poor kid -- the poor, frail kid.
Some people have luck and some have no luck and that, whatever people who prefer order say, is the size of it.
The poor, unlucky --

The telephone rang.
Pam realized, to her surprise, that she had been almost dozing.
At four o'clock in the afternoon.
Two martinis for lunch -- that was the trouble.
I ought to remember.
Don't pretend.
You do remember.
You just -- "Hello?
Yes, this is she?
What"?

The voice had music in it.
Even with words coming too fast, they came on the music of the voice.

"I said I would", Pam said.
"They won't talk about who gave the information.
Not unless they have to.
They don't, Mrs. Constable.
Not unless they have" --

She was interrupted.

"Call this a cry for help", Faith Constable said.