his own first name, and in the back of his mind the suspicion that he was going to fail loomed just a little larger.
The clerk had a drawer full of five-by-seven file cards. He looked at several and frowned. “I don’t seem to find your reservation, Mr Parker.”
Menlo was not that much of a traveller. His infrequent jaunts in the past had always been in an official capacity; such problems as hotel reservations had always been taken care of by the Ministry. Coming to the United States, he had been checked into a Washington hotel by the Klastravian embassy officials.
But now he was travelling on his own, and he was doing things all wrong. “I don’t have a reservation. I only want a”
“No reservation?” The clerk seemed unable to believe it for a second or two. Then a sudden frost hit him. “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re quite full up. You might try one of the hotels downtown; perhaps they could help you.”
Menlo and his suitcases were shunted aside. The fat man’s face reddened with anger, but there was nothing he could do. He was no longer Inspector Menlo. He was now merely a hunted refugee, alone and uncertain. Even a hotel clerk could treat him disdainfully with impunity.
After a minute he went back to the desk again, and caught the attention of the clerk. “Elizabeth Harrow,” he asked, “what room?”
The clerk looked. “Twelve twenty-three.”
“And I may call from where?”
“House telephones to your left, sir.”
The minute he reached for his suitcases a bellboy materialized, but he shook his head angrily and the bellboy went away. There was a point at which hesitancy and confusion could no longer be borne, when what was needed was a sharp, sudden show of aggressive certainty. He had pussyfooted long enough; it was not his style. He would put up with it no longer.
He even took offence at the bored tone with which the switchboard operator responded. His own voice was authoritative and brisk as he gave Bett Harrow’s room number. But there was no response; she was apparently not in her room.
He slammed the receiver down with annoyance, turned, caught the bellboy’s eye. The boy hurried over, and Menlo pointed imperiously at his suitcases.
“I wish to check this luggage. Are there facilities?”
“Yes, sir. Right over there by”
“You may take the luggage, and bring me the claim check.”
“Yes, sir.”
He lit a cigarette. He had discovered a brand that combined the superior American tobacco with an adaptation of the Russian cardboard mouthpiece. There was an annoying wad of cotton or some foreign substance wedged down into the cardboard tube, but it didn’t alter the taste much. It would do.
When the boy returned with a square of numbered red plastic, Menlo tipped him a quarter and asked for the restaurant. The boy pointed it out, and Menlo marched resolutely through the wide doorway. He had come into the hotel looking soft and fat and slump-shouldered, but now he was his formal self again, carrying his bulk with lithe dignity.
He had steak, an American specialty. His table was next to a huge glass window overlooking the beach, and as he ate he watched the hotel guests there. A few were swimming, but most were merely walking about aimlessly or lying on pneumatic mattresses. A depressing number of women, all in bright-coloured bathing suits, were stout and middle-aged and ugly, but here and there was a tall and beautiful one, and these he watched with pleasure and a feeling of anticipation.
He ate a leisurely meal, and lingered at the table afterwards to smoke a cigarette over a third cup of coffee. It was mid-afternoon, a slack time in the restaurant, so no effort was made to hurry him. When at last he paid his check, he took a chance and proffered one of the fifty-dollar bills. He was terrified of running short of the smaller bills, again, and surely here a fifty-dollar bill wouldn’t seem unusual. The waiter didn’t seem to react at all, but took the bill and soon returned with a little tray full of change. In this country, he noted, a waiter’s tip was not automatically added on to the bill at home it was a standard 10 per cent but was left to the discretion of the diner. To be on the safe side he left a 15 per cent tip instead of 10, and strolled back out to the lobby.
Menlo crossed to the house phones and called Bett Harrow’s room again, and this time she was there. “Good afternoon, my dear, this is Auguste.”
He hoped she would recognize him by the first name alone. He didn’t want to mention his full name, in case the switchboard operator was listening in.
There was the briefest of hesitations. “Well, I’ll be damned. You did it.”
“You expected less?”
“Where are you?”
“In the lobby. I would like to talk with you.”
“Come on up.”
“Thank you.”
There was a bank of elevators across the way. He went over and was swooped up to the twelfth floor, where the corridor was uneasily reminiscent of Dr Caligari’s cabinet, the walls and ceiling painted in bright primary colours, the carpeting wine red. He found the door marked 1223 and knocked.
She opened the door almost immediately, smiling at him in amusement. “Come in, come in. Tell me all about it.”
“In due time. It is more than pleasant to see you again.”
