The telephone rang. Alfred Smith, who had been hauling clothes out of his valise and stuffing them into a typical hotel room bureau, looked up startled.

“Now, who—” he began, and shook his head.

Obviously it must be a wrong number. Nobody knew he was in New York, and nobody—this for a certainty—knew he had checked into this particular hotel. Or come to think of it, somebody did.

The room clerk at the desk where he had just registered.

Must be some hotel business. Something about don’t use the lamp on the end table: it tends to short-circuit.

The telephone rang again. He dropped the valise and walked around the bed. He picked up the phone.

“Yes?” he said.

“Mr. Smith?” came a thick voice from the other end.

“Speaking.”

“This is Mr. Jones. Mr. Cohen and Mr. Kelly are with me in the lobby. So is Jane Doe. Do you want us to come up or shall we wait for you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, then, we’ll come up. Five-oh-four, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but wait a minute! Who did you say?” He realized they had hung up.

Alfred Smith put down the telephone and ran his fingers through his crewcut. He was a moderately tall, moderately athletic, moderately handsome young man with the faintest hint at jowl and belly of recent prosperity.

“Mr. Jones? Cohen? Kelly? And for suffering Pete’s sake, Jane Doe?”

It must be a joke. Any Smith was used to jokes on his name. What was your name before it was Smith? Alfred Smith? Whatever happened to good old Johnnie?

Then he remembered that his caller had just asked for Mr. Smith. Smith was a common name, like it or not.

He picked up the phone again. “Desk,” he told the operator.

“Yes, Desk?” a smooth voice said after a while.

“This is Mr. Smith in Room 504. Was there another Smith registered here before me?”