The farther you go down the Portobello Road, the crummier it gets. It’s just about okay until you reach the Electric Cinema, but after that it’s downhill all the way. You come to an overpass at the bottom, by which time you’re in a different world. You’ve left the antique shops and the bustling stalls behind you. Now you’re in a flat wasteland, up to your ankles in litter. It’s amazing how quickly a short walk can take you from one side of London to the other.
The Hotel Splendide was the sort of place that would be hard to find unless you knew it was there—perhaps the sort of place you might choose if you didn’t want to be found. It was right at the far end of the Portobello Road, halfway down a narrow cul-de-sac, nestling in the armpit of the overpass, which swept around the building as if holding it in a clammy, concrete embrace. You wouldn’t get much sleep at the Hotel Splendide, not with the traffic roaring past only a couple of yards from your bedroom window. Because the top floor of the building, beneath the flat roof, was level with the raised highway. Roll over in bed and you risked being run over by a truck. That is, if the bedbugs and cockroaches didn’t get to you first.
It was a square, ugly building, the color of moldy cheese. A red neon sign with the name glowed behind a first-floor window, only the glass was so dirty you could hardly read it. A row of garbage cans stood outside the entrance, their overflowing garbage adding to the delightful atmosphere. You know how some travel guides award symbols of knives and forks to hotels in recognition of their quality? Well, the Hotel Splendide wouldn’t even have merited a toothpick.
There was a drunk lying half asleep next to the garbage cans, the top of a wine bottle poking out of the brown paper bag that he clutched in one hand. A dog—an Alsatian—lay sprawled beside him. It was drunk, too. We stepped past them and went into the hotel. The door was hanging off its hinges. The interior smelled of sweat and disinfectant.
We found ourselves in what passed for a reception area. Some hotels advertise theaters and restaurants. In this one the posters advertised soup kitchens and delousing clinics. There was a counter opposite the door, and behind it an unshaven man reading a cheap paperback. He was wearing a grimy shirt and jeans with a stomach that managed to force its way over the top of the belt and sag down to his thighs. He was sucking on a cigar that had gone out perhaps a week ago. He didn’t look up as we approached. Instead, he flicked a page in his book, grunted, and went on reading.
“You Jack Splendide?” Herbert asked.
“Who wants to know?” He talked without moving his lips. But the cigar waggled between his teeth.
“The name’s Diamond,” Herbert said. “I’m a private eye.”
“Ya don’t say!” Splendide yawned and went back to the book.
“We’re looking for someone who’s staying here,” I explained. “A dwarf. His name’s Johnny Naples. He owes a client of ours a lot of bread.”
“That’s right,” Herbert said. “And if we find him, we’ll cut you in for a slice.”
We were making it all up, of course, but it was the only way to get past the hotel manager. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the stairs. “Room thirty-nine,” he said.
We climbed five flights of stairs, trying to stop them from creaking beneath our feet. The carpet was threadbare, the walls damp and discolored. We could hear TV sets blaring away in the distance and a baby crying. I suppose I’d have cried, too, if I’d had to stay there. Room 39 was at the back of the hotel, at the bottom of a corridor. We guessed it was 39 because it came after 37 and 38. But the number had fallen off. The door was closed.
“Do you think this is a good idea?” Herbert whispered.
“Have you got a better one?” I asked.
“We could go home . . .”
“Come on, Tim,” I said. “We’ve found him now. It can’t hurt to—”
That was as far as I got. The gunshot wasn’t loud, but it was close enough to make me jump the way you do when a car backfires or somebody drops a plate. It had come from the other side of the door. Herbert froze, then tried to lurch away, but fortunately I managed to grab hold of his jacket. I didn’t want to go into the room by myself. I didn’t want to go into the room at all. But if I’d run away then, I’d never have forgiven myself.
Still clutching Herbert, I opened the door. It wasn’t locked. In the Hotel Splendide, the rooms didn’t have locks. Some of them didn’t even have doors.
The first thing I saw was a flapping curtain and a shadowy figure disappearing outside. I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman. There was just the flash of a leg hanging over the edge of the sill and then it was gone.
It was a small room, just big enough for a bed, a table, a chest of drawers, and a corpse. I closed the door behind me. Johnny Naples was lying on the bed. He wasn’t dead yet, but the big red splotch on his shirt told me that his time was running out about as quickly as his blood. I went over to the window and looked outside. But I was too late. Whoever had climbed out had jumped the short distance to the overpass and run for it. Maybe they’d had a car waiting for them. Anyway, they were gone.
The dwarf groaned and I looked back again. The room was probably in a mess to begin with, but I guessed there had been a fight. There was a chair upturned on the floor and a lamp had been knocked over on the table. My eyes fell on a pack of matches. I don’t know why I picked them up and put them in my pocket. I knew we didn’t have a lot of time and that any clue—no matter how small—might help. Maybe it was just that I didn’t want to look at the dwarf. Anyway, that’s what I did.
Johnny Naples opened his mouth and tried to speak.
“The falcon . . .” he said. Then a nasty, bubbling sound.
Then: “The sun . . .” And that was it. His eyes closed. The mouth stayed open.
Herbert had picked something up off the carpet.
“Nick . . .” he began.
It was a gun. And it was still smoking.
And he was still standing there, holding it, when the door crashed open. The man who had been drunk outside the Hotel Splendide was standing there and he had a gun, too. The Alsatian was with him, growling softly.
There were two more people behind him.
“Police!” he shouted.
Herbert fainted.
The man swung around to cover him. “You’re under arrest,” he said.
THE FALCON
Johnny Naples was taken to the morgue. We were taken to the Ladbroke Grove Police Station. I don’t know which of us got the better treatment. While he was carried out on his back, covered with a nice clean sheet, we were dragged out, handcuffed together, and thrown into the back of a van. It had turned out, of course, that the drunk in the street had been a plainclothes policeman. The Alsatian was a plainclothes police dog. The Hotel Splendide had been the subject of a major police stakeout, and we’d more or less asked for trouble the moment we’d walked in.
We were left to stew in a bare-bricked interrogation room. Or to freeze, rather. That place couldn’t have been much warmer than the morgue. There was one metal table, three metal chairs, and five metal bars on a window that would have been too small to climb out of anyway. A blackboard lined one wall and there was a poster on the other reading CRIME DOESN’T PAY, underneath which somebody had scrawled NEITHER DOES POLICE WORK. The room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. I wondered how many hardened criminals had grown harder waiting there.
Herbert had said little since he woke up. But after about twenty minutes he suddenly looked around as if he had only just realized where he was. “Nick . . . ?” he said.
“Yes?”
“You don’t think the police think I had anything to do with what happened to the dwarf, do you?” he asked.
