All laughter had faded from Jill Gill's plump face. "I'm not a medical doctor, but I've had first aid training, of course. There were a pediatrician and a chiropractor in the room. We did what we could until the ambulances came-made a tourniquet for Commander Dixon's arm, lifted the table off that police detective, put a pressure bandage on another man's head-but those two at the very end of the table, Professor Sutton and Mr. Wolferman-they must have died almost immediately. It was hours before the ringing in my ears went away."

She took a deep breath. "Anyhow, your people arrived soon after, so you know the rest."

"Thanks, Jill," said Sigrid. "Too bad you didn't get here when the doors opened. You might have noticeds omeone changing the boards at your table.".

Sigrid had known Jill Gill long enough to discount her disclaimers about her powers of observation. She had learned, to her occasional discomfort, that very little went on in front of those absurd glasses that the scientist didn't notice.

"I've never been early for anything in my entire life," Jill Gill said regretfully.

A small hand bell tinkled at the front of the room to signal the beginning of a new round and she stood reluctantly. "Better go now. Why don't you and Oscar come for dinner next week?"

"You're going to be late for your next deal," Sigrid said.

Dr. Gill laughed. "You don't get out of it that easily. I'll call Oscar tonight."

She trotted away on bright red high heels, her long wool skirt twirling around ankles surprisingly trim for such a plump woman.

Elaine Albee promptly assumed her most professional attitude and tried to look as if she hadn't found Dr. Gill personally interesting as she summarized for the lieutenant the statements she and

Jim Lowry had collected in the blast few hours.

The smudged seating chart lay on the table before them. Albee had highlighted with a yellow marker the names of every one questioned thus far.

A contestant near the end of Table 5, on the opposite side from Jill Gill, had noticed that Tillie had bent down under the table immediately before the explosion.

"That's probably what kept Tillie from being killed outright," Albee speculated. "The table was between him and the bomb when it went off."

So far, no one seemed to have seen the cribbage boards switched.

They had located Haines Froelick's opponent, though, a young electrician who spoke of the older man's politeness and told the detectives that nothing in Mr. Froelick's demeanor had indicated nervousness or jumpy anticipation. The electrician was of the impression that Mr. Froelick had not immediately realized his cousin's proximity to the blast, but admitted that once the explosion occurred, he hadn't noticed Mr. Froelicka gain. Everything was too chaotic.

Val Sutton's opponent, a Japanese businessman named Eisaku Okawara, offered similar testimony when Jim Lowry brought him over to the witness table between rounds. Mr. Okawara spoke excellent English and conscientiously tried to answer their questions, but confessed that occidental facial nuances were a mystery to him. Mrs. Sutton had played skillfully; she had been friendly and smiling. When the blast occurred, she had immediately jumped to her feet and cried, "John!"

Mr. Okawara thought she had rushed toward the back of the room. He himself had prudently made for the main doors and was standing just inside when Madame Ronay and other hotel staff arrived. There had been much screaming and confusion. Madame Ronay had tripped over the little gilt tripod that held the seating chart. Busboys had rushed past, trampling it beneath their feet as they hurried with fire extinguishers to put out the flames. Then had come the firemen, police, and medical personnel, and Mr. Okawara had slipped away toh is room on the sixth floor without seeing Mrs. Sutton again.

He had been distressed this morning to read in the papers that her husband was one of those killed in the blast.

They let him return to his cards. In the lull, Sigrid caught the eye of one of the busboys and requested a glass of water.

"I could bring you juice, coffee, or tea if you'd rather," offered the slim young black man in a soft Southern voice.

"No, thank you, water's all I want," she said, and when he returned with it, she asked, "Were you on duty here last night?"

"Yes, ma'am. In fact, I was the one that put out the fire. I was just coming in the door when it happened and as soon as I saw the smoke, I grabbed the fire extinguisher there beside the door and ran right over."

"That was quick thinking."

"Well, it was just a small fire," the youth said modestly.

Sigrid shook a tablet from the bottle in her pocket, washed it down with the water, and returned the glass to the young black man. "Before they startedp laying last night, did you see anyone moving the cribbage boards at Table 5? Picking them up or anything?"

"No, ma'am. They already asked us that. Most folks were up at the front or standing 'round the hospitality table eating and drinking. 'Course, I wasn't watching every minute because I had to take out dirty glasses and bring in clean ones, so I guess somebody could have. I didn't see 'em though."

Sigrid thanked him again for her water and turned back to answer a question from Jim Lowry. Beyond his shoulder, she saw Lieutenant Knight re-enter the Bontemps Room, closely followed by Molly Baldwin. The assistant manager looked exhausted and Sigrid decided she'd settle the point Jill Gill had raised and then let the girl go home before she fell asleep on her feet.

As the busboy moved away, he remembered how old George had praised him for acting so quickly and how the boss lady would likely give him a bonus. Andh e remembered something else as well. He turned back, but that police lady was already busy with other people. Besides, he thought, it was such a little thing. She probably already knew about it anyhow.

He hesitated and the room steward appeared at his shoulder. "Over there, Johnson. Someone's spilled a cup of coffee. Step to it!"

"Yessir, Mr. George," he said smartly and hurried off.

12

ONLY a few minutes had passed since Sigrid swallowed the pain tablet, but already she could feel its effect. The ache in her arm hadn't yet begun to diminish, but at least it had stopped building. In the meantime, she tried to ignore her discomfort and listen intelligently while Lieutenant Knight perched on the edge of a gilt and purple silk chair and described his visit to the graphic studio down in the hotel's lower levels.

It was near the secretarial pool, he reported, that service area provided as a courtesy for business travelers who required light typing or access to a computer terminal or a Xerox machine during their stays in the city; just down the hall and around a corner from the barber shop and valet services.

"The calligrapher, a Mr. Gustaffason, says they finished matting the seating chart Wednesday afternoon. It sat on thatt ripod-easel doodad at the front of their studio all evening and was sent upstairs around eleven-thirty Thursday morning. The studio wasn't locked and this Gustaffason seems like a popular, loosey-goosey character, so there's probably a steady stream of people in and out. Dozens could have seen it."

It was no more than she expected, Sigrid told him, and beckoned to Molly Baldwin, who stood wearily before one of the more exuberant murals. She looked as if she longed to step inside its meadowed depths and curl up on the grass beside one of those fat sheep around whom giddy shepherdesses frolicked with their serenading swains.

"I know you're tired," Sigrid told her, "so I won't keep you much longer. I forgot to ask you before: do you know Commander Dixon?"