Among the shadows of the chill morgue, the police surgeon stripped the sheet away from the slab and wrinkled his nose distastefully. In the tiny room next to his office, Lieutenant Lay sprawled on his back and snored. Barselou turned off his desk lamp as morning glow began to seep through the plate-glass window. He scowled again at the worn map on his desk and penciled a faint cross upon it. Odell slouched at the counter of the Tomahawk Drive-Inn, drinking his second cup of coffee of the day. Munching a piece of dry toast in the already-steaming kitchen of the Las Dunas, Vernon expected the worst: that some cottage would want room service. Upstairs, Sagmon Robottom commenced a short note to his wife, decided to do his setting up exercises instead. The portable typewriter in Thelma Loomis’ second floor room had been clattering for fifteen minutes. Gayner stood in the lobby and critically surveyed the tile floor, still needing its initial sweeping. Humming happily, Mr. Trim cleaned his teeth.
