He felt like a long-distance runner one second before the starting gun. There were only two things that worried him: the murderer had jumped the gun and was three months ahead of him, and he didn’t know in which direction to run. Somewhere under this surface of disquieting perspective and speculations of unknown worth his policeman’s brain had already begun to plan the routine searches of the next forty-eight hours, which, he knew in advance, would obtain certain results. This was as sure as the fact that sand will run down in an hour glass.