Frank Corson came half out of his chair, then he dropped back again. "I don't like this," he said. "What's to like? What's to dislike? For ten thousand dollars we can ignore both." "I have a feeling we're getting into something beyond our depth." "Okay, then let me handle it. I'll see that you get your cut." "Not so fast," Corson said sharply. "I didn't say I was backing out. I just said this might be bigger than we bargain for." "I don't think that's quite it," King replied coldly. "I think you don't trust me." "Maybe that's it. I don't think you trust me, either." "Ten thousand _is_ a lot of money. But we're not going to get it by sitting in a coffee shop arguing over it." "I guess you're right." "Then let's go." They left the coffee shop and, as they walked the four blocks that separated them from the room where he was ashamed to take Rhoda Kane, Frank Corson analyzed his own mood and attitude. He decided it wasn't that he mistrusted King, or that he actually thought the deal had any frightening elements in it. In plain truth, he was ashamed of himself. Somehow, in his own mind, he was degrading his profession. His love of Rhoda Kane, his need of money, his impatience with time and circumstance, had forced him into what seemed like a cheap intrigue. There was, somehow, a bad taste to the whole thing. But it was too late to back out now. And what the hell! If there was ten thousand dollars lying around, why shouldn't he get a piece of it? What was wrong with that? He unlocked the door to his room. He took a step forward and stopped, blocking the entrance. "Oh, my God!" Les King pushed through. His eyes widened, but that was his only reaction. Then his camera swung up into position. The bulb flashed. He lowered the camera. "Somebody cut the bastard's throat!" he marveled. Frank Corson moved forward. "Good lord! It looks as though he just sat there and let himself be murdered." "Suicide maybe?" "No knife close enough. It's over there in the sink." "Well, he didn't cut his own throat and then walk back here." Frank Corson had been studying the wound. He pressed his fingers against the crimson shirt front and rubbed them together, testing the feel of the blood with his thumb. "What's wrong?" King asked. "I don't know. That's an odd color for coagulating blood. It doesn't feel right, either." "Do you think he was sick?" "There's just something crazy about this whole thing. The man had two hearts." King was both amazed and angered. "What the hell are you talking about?" "I didn't get a chance to tell you. This man was a freak. I found it out last night. He had two hearts. I'm sure of it." "No chance to tell me? Why, goddamn it, we sat in that coffee shop for half an hour while I leveled with you. No chance! You held out on me." King laughed cynically. "I guess that's human nature. With a couple of bucks at stake even honest men go cagey."