Civic spirit went blooey in Pederson’s face.
“540?” He stared at the ceiling. “That would be that fellow Rounds. Dropped dead, you say?”
“Dead. Tumbled down in the middle of the floor with a knife-cut in him. Who is this Rounds?”
“I couldn’t tell you much offhand. A big bony man with leathery skin. I wouldn’t have noticed him excepting he was such a sour looking body.”
“That’s the bird. Let’s look him up.”
At the desk we learned that the man had arrived the day before, registering as H. R. Rounds, New York, and telling the clerk he expects to leave within three days. There was no record of mail or telephone calls for him. Nobody knew when he had gone out, since he had not left his key at the desk. Neither elevator boys nor bellhops could tell us anything.
His room didn’t add much to our knowledge. His baggage consisted of one pigskin bag,