“They could send it over with a boy.” He opened the door for her and she went out, while the tall young man sat on the edge of the bed. He had on a brown and yellow checked shirt, open at the neck, and well-tailored, sand-coloured slacks. His legs and arms were more muscular than one might have expected, and he had surprisingly broad and powerful-looking shoulders. He gave a slow, lazy smile, showing teeth both big and white.

“Thanks,” he said. “Will one of you tell me what happened?”

“You were drugged with morphia,” Luigi told him. “You were unconscious with morphine poisoning.” The doctor was more precise.

“Your hand baggage and your checked baggage was stolen,” the Homicide man stated, “but no one took your money or your travellers’ cheques.”

The young man named Thomas G. Loman put a hand to his forehead; that might have been to hide his expression of bewilderment. And no wonder, thought the Homicide man, the fellow had plenty to be bewildered about. Apart from the movement of his arm and hand, he kept very still. He seemed to be like that for a long time, before he asked in a muffled voice :

“Do you have the time?”

“Twenty of eight,” answered Luigi. “Still nighttime!”

“I have to be on a flight to London, England, at ten-thirty.”

“You have to check in at nine-thirty,” said Luigi. “You have plenty of time.”

“You need to rest,” the doctor said.

“I can rest on the flight, I guess.”

“What about your baggage?” Luigi asked.

“So I’ve no baggage.” At last Thomas G. Loman lowered his hand — and on the same instant the door opened and the nurse came in with a tray. “I’ve lost baggage before.”

“You mean you’ve had some stolen before?” Luigi demanded.

The young man looked at him levelly, and slowly shook his head. The nurse put the tray down on a bedside table and began to pour coffee. She had some cookies on a plate, also.

“I said lost,” repeated Loman.