Rocks was already grabbing for his clothes, jerking them on over his pajamas. "What's wrong? What's happened?"
The cop shook his head. He was still a little white around the gills. "We don't know what's happened. The sawbones wasn't there when I left. But we want you to identify a man."
"Why can't he identify himself?"
The officer wiped perspiration from his face. "Because he's dead."
"Dead!" The word leaped from Rocks' lips. The first shiver of fear knifed through him. He was not yet wide awake and he hadn't fully comprehended what the officer wanted. But that single word shocked him to instant wakefulness.
In the basement of the museum they found three men talking earnestly in a corner. They weren't in uniform but their bearing fairly shouted "Detective!" They looked scared. Rocks didn't know it then, but these three men belonged to the homicide squad. They were accustomed to looking at violent death in all its forms. Stiffs didn't scare them.
But they were scared.
They had the uneasy alertness of the man-hunter who senses danger.
His escort turned Rocks over to them.
"I'm Kennedy; homicide bureau," said one of them. He had a heavy, impassive face and eyes that were drills of jet. "Sorry to bother you, Malone. You work here?"