A woman's voice answered from 360. Panting and strained, hoarsely hysterical: "There's a dead man in three-sixteen. He's murdered. Oh, please hurry." And there was a click that closed the connection.

Evelyn sat rigid, staring at the board with dilated eyes. But that was Mr. Drood's room. 360. It was plugged into 360. Her staring eyes verified that fact. Sounded like the woman said "three-sixteen." But it was 360. Sure it was. She must have heard wrong.

Murder?

Evelyn frantically tried to call the number back. There was no answer. She jerked her head sidewise toward the profile of the clerk, half-dozing behind his desk, and whispered loudly, "Dick."

The profile stirred and the clerk's head turned languidly toward her. She motioned excitedly with one hand while she plugged in another connection.

The telephone buzzed in a private office behind the front desk, and a man who was dozing, fully clothed, on an old sofa in the small ofiice slowly came to life.

Oliver Patton, "Chief Security Officer" of the Hibiscus, swung his feet over the edge of the sofa and sat up, rubbing his eyes. His was a twenty-four-hour job since he was the only dick the hotel afforded, and he had to catch his sleep when he could. Generally it wasn't bad. Most nights went straight through without requiring his services at all.

He yawned as he glanced at his watch and reached for the phone beside the sofa. He was a big man who had gone steadily to fat since retiring from the police force a few years ago. His bunions bothered him a good deal, but. with his wife's hospital bills, his pension simply wasn't enough and he needed this extra money.

Evelyn's low-pitched but excited voice leaped out of the receiver at him as he lifted it, "Trouble in three-sixty, Mr. Pattonl"

"What kind of trouble?" he grunted sourly. "That's Drood, ain't it?"

"But it wasn't Mr. Drood. Some woman called. There's a dead man there."