A two-pound salmon sinker nailed to the center of the door was a knocker. Hardy picked it up and let it drop, and the door swung open. There was no movement from inside, no sound but the lapping canal and the traffic, now invisible back through the fog. The wood was splintered at the jamb.

Hardy put his hand in his pocket, feeling the gun there, taking it back out. He ducked his head going through the door, descending three wooden steps to the floor-level inside.

A line of narrow windows high on the walls probably provided light normally, but curtains had been pulled across them on both sides. The room was cold, colder than it was outside.

In the dim light from the open doorway, nothing seemed out of place. There was a telephone on a low table in front of a stylish low couch. Hardy picked up the receiver, heard a dial tone, put it back down.

Then he saw the pole lamp lying on the floor on the other side of the room. He reached up and pulled back the curtain for a little more light. The lamp’s globe was broken into five or six pieces scattered around the floor.

At the junction of the rear and side walls a swinging half-door led to the galley. Another door in the center of the rear wall was ajar. Hardy kicked at it gently. It opened halfway, then caught on something. A wide line of black something ran from under the door to the wall.

Hardy stepped over it, pushing his way through. His stomach rose as though he were seasick, and he leaned against the wall.

What was blocking the door was a woman’s arm. Naked, she was stretched out as though reaching for something, as though she’d been crawling-trying to get out? There was something around her neck-something strange, metallic-holding her head up at an unnatural angle. Hardy realized it was a neck brace. Hardy looked back to the stateroom.