There were two men in the dingy hallway. The nearer one crowded the door just enough to prevent its being closed again, and asked, “Your name John Ingram?”

“Yes,” he said. “What is it?”

The other flipped open a folder containing a badge. “Police. We’d like to talk to you.”

He frowned. “About what?”

“We’d better come inside.”

“Sure.” He stepped back. They came in and closed the door. One took a quick look into the bathroom, and then the clothes closet, reaching in to pat the suit hanging there. Ingram went over to the suitcase lying open on its stand at the foot of the bed, and started to reach inside. “Keep your hands out of there,” the other man ordered.

He straightened. “What the hell? I just wanted to put on some pants.”

“You’ll get ‘em. Just stand back.”

The one who’d checked the bathroom and the closet came over and riffled expertly through the contents of the bag. “Okay,” he said. Ingram took out a pair of gray slacks and started to put them on. The two detectives noticed the scars. One of them opened his mouth to say something, but looked again at the big man’s face and closed it.

“Who are you?” Ingram asked. “And what is it you want?”

It was the one near the doorway who replied. “I’m Detective Sergeant Schmidt, Miami Police.” He was a dark, compactly built man in his early thirties with an air of hard-bitten competence about him, neatly dressed in a lightweight suit and white shirt. He nodded to the other. “This is Arthur Quinn. You’re from Puerto Rico—is that right?”

“More or less,” Ingram replied.

“What do you mean, more or less? That’s what the hotel register says.”

“I lived in San Juan for the past three years.”

“What line of work are you in?”

“I was in the boat-repair business down there. Another man and I had a boatyard and marine railway.”

“Is that what you’re doing now?”

“No. We had a bad fire. He was killed in it, and his widow wanted out, so we liquidated what was left.”

“What are you doing in Miami?”

“Looking for a boat.”

“To buy, you mean?”

“That’s right,” he replied. “What’s this all about?”

Schmidt ignored the question. “You checked in here the first time fifteen days ago, but you’ve been gone for the past eight. Where’ve you been?”

“Nassau. Tampa. Key West.”

“When were you in Key West?” Quinn asked. He was a slender, graying man with a narrow face and rather cold eyes.