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At one table, there was a discussion of the relative merits of religious books and occult books and how both were selling well, and I had a momentary impulse to lean over and say, «Religious books are occult books,» just to stir something up, but didn’t. It wasn’t my business, after all.

I heard only one comment from the other end of the spectrum, which isn’t surprising, since most of the attendees at the ABA were booksellers, after all. There must, however, have been two editors talking in the corner, for one was complaining that booksellers by and large didn’t read books and how could they sell what they were not interested in?

I wasn’t just being a nosybody, you understand. I was curious as to the extent to which Giles’s death had taken over the convention. The answer was simple. Zero, that was the extent. I caught exactly one comment that was Giles-oriented.

A fellow from Poughkeepsie said, «Someone fell and killed himself in the shower yesterday. Hear about that?» He couldn’t even use his name.

The answer was, «What I say is, don’t take showers. A cousin of mine—» and he was off on a dull story I didn’t want to hear.

Life goes on.

2 SARAH VOSKOVEK 8:45 A.M.

It was about a quarter to nine when I went to the elevator and punched the «up» button. I doubted that the hotel chief of security would be at his desk yet, and in any case I didn’t know where his desk was. I did know where Sarah was, so I went up to the sixth floor. Undoubtedly she wasn’t in yet, but I would wait a reasonable length of time.

I was wrong; she was in. The girl at the outer desk still wasn’t there, but I could see Sarah in the inner room. I knocked on the doorjamb and said, «Hello.»

She turned, saw me, and said, «Come in.»

She didn’t smile; somehow I felt smiling didn’t come easy to her, but she didn’t frown, either. She was wearing a dark-green outfit in which the collar stood up behind (I don’t know the technical terms and I refuse to try to learn them). It was cut narrow and low in front, just low enough to show a pleasant cleavage between breasts of light cream. It was a pleasant sight for the morning.

She said, «How are you, Darius? You look a little worn.»

«Bad day followed by bad night. It’s all right.»

She changed her cool expression into one of quiet sympathy. «It’s Mr. Devore’s death, of course.»

«Yes.»

«If I had not come to see you at the luncheon—»

«What’s the difference? I was about due to remember, and something else would have kicked it off if you hadn’t.»

She said, «You know, the Medical Examiner came at about seven-thirty last night and took the body away.»

«I assumed he did it at some time in the evening. What happened to Eunice? I mean, Mrs. Devore?»

«That I do not know. I presume she went home. Would you like me to get you coffee?»

«No, I’ve just had some. What I’d really like to do is to get, say, six hours of rest in which my brain was turned on to nothing but rest—preferably in your arms.»

Why I said it, I don’t know, because she didn’t appeal to me, but when you reach middle age and have as checkered a career with women as I have had, these things come out without real planning—like slicing bread.

Even as I heard myself say it, I expected her to turn icy, but she didn’t. Rather shockingly, she smiled and sat back in her chair. «Well,» she said, «don’t do anything that will get me fired.»

She caught me by surprise and the moment passed. Her muscles tightened and she was sitting up in her chair once more, her posture excellent.

«But is there anything in the business way with which I can help you?» she said.

«When does the chief of security come in? His name is even harder than yours or I’d call him by that.»

She looked at her watch. «It is Masogliani.» (She pronounced it «Mahr-soh-LYAH-nee,» which is how I tried to say it afterward.) «He’s usually quite early, but I don’t know if he’s arrived. And if he has arrived, he may not be at his desk. Is it that you want to see him?» she asked, lapsing into non-English word order, which just made her sound cuter.

«Quite a lot,» I said.

She shrugged. «I’ll call him for you, but you know, he was a little annoyed with you yesterday.»

«Did he tell you why?»

«He said you were a busybody. No details.»

«I am a busybody,» I said. «At least right now I am. For instance, before you call him, would you tell me something?»

«Depends.»

«Is there a drug problem at the hotel?»

«Drug problem?»

«I mean, is the hotel involved in some way in the sale or distribution of drugs—dope—heroin?»

«Certainly not!»

«All right. Not the hotel. But is it taking place here without the hotel’s connivance? That’s what I mean.»

She stared at me thoughtfully. «Why are you asking this?»

«I said I’m a busybody.»

«You are, indeed. It’s not your business to ask a question like that, nor is it mine to answer. If you must ask, you will have to ask Mr. Marsogliani, but I don’t see why he should answer you, either.»

«Would you call him?»

She did. He answered. At least I suppose he answered, since she talked as though he were on the phone. She explained that I wanted to see him and said, in a cajoling tone of voice, «He only wishes to see you for a moment.» She had to guess that, for it was not derived from anything I had said.

I got the impression he wouldn’t have agreed to see me if I hadn’t been working through Sarah. Chalk up one good decision for me in seeing her first, and one good turn from the little woman.

«Thanks, Sarah,» I said. «I wouldn’t want to do anything to make you lose your job, but it requires restraint on my part.»

She smiled a little.

Just as I was walking out, the receptionist walked in. She moved behind the desk in the outer office, put down her purse, and looked at me and then at Sarah with a kind of wise tolerance in her eyes. She was a good-looking black woman, about thirty, I should say.

I lifted both hands as though surrendering. «Business,» I said. «Strictly business.»

She laughed genially. I didn’t think she’d mind if it weren’t.

3 ANTHONY MARSOGLIANI 9:20 A.M.

Marsogliani wasn’t smiling when I reached his office, which was also on the sixth floor. He made me wait while he went over some papers leisurely, making it perfectly clear he wasn’t rushing. I sat there, my mind detached, prepared to show no signs of impatience but letting my eyes follow him in all his movements. He wasn’t smoking a cigar but he smelled of stale cigar smoke just the same. I guess he always did.

And he looked about the way he smelled, sour and uninviting.

It was well after nine when he finally wore himself out at the game of doing nothing under my unswerving gaze and said, «What can I do for you?»

I said, «Would you be able to find out for me whether anything in Mr. Devore’s autopsy shows him to have been a user of drugs?»

«No,» he said. «Call the police or ask his wife. Anything else I can do for you?»

«The police wouldn’t tell me and it would be rather rough bothering his wife on such a subject at such a time. Why can’t you tell me?»

«The police won’t tell me, either. It’s none of my business.»

«Isn’t it? There was heroin in the hotel room.»

«I didn’t see any.»

«It was there. Someone brushed it away.»

He reddened very slightly. «Who is the someone? Me?»

«I’m not accusing anyone, but it was there, and after a while it wasn’t there. It seems to me important to know if it had anything to do with Devore. If he was not a drug user, then it may have been left over from the previous occupant of the room.» (I didn’t plan to say where I had gotten that notion; I felt Marsogliani wouldn’t welcome having his underling suggest such a thing to me and I didn’t want to do anything to endanger Strong’s job, any more than Sarah’s.)