There Are Doors

He thought frantically, groping for a question or comment that would hold her in conversation. “Do you drive out from the city every day?”

“Sure. There’s nothing to do way out here.” She glanced around to see whether someone was listening. “For us, I mean. There’s things for the guests.”

“What are they?”

“Oh, the spa, and indoor tennis courts and so on. We can’t use them. What would you like for breakfast?”

He noticed sadly that she had dropped the sir; he was no longer a customer, just another unwanted boyfriend. He asked, “What’s good?”

Under her breath: “I am.” Aloud she said, “Why don’t you have a waffle? The chef’s a real master with them. We’ve got about a dozen different kinds.”

“Whatever kind you think’s the best.”

She nodded. “I’ll be along again in a minute to give you more coffee.”

“All right. Hurry back.”

She walked slowly away, writing on her order pad. When she had rounded the partition and was out of sight, he spoke to the expressionless face of ice on the beach. “Did you get all that? Are you going to tell them everything?”

It did not reply.

Dr. Applewood had not been worried about spying, or about hidden mikes or cameras. When he had asked about the theater, Dr. Applewood had actually risen and seized the back of one of the old wooden chairs: “Do you recollect our stage properties, sir? That was what I used, like an old woman with a walker, clumping and thumping across the floor!”

But why had the doctor come to the hotel today, come with a bad leg to a hotel with a single guest? For that matter why had she said he was the only one? North was still registered. In fact, North might come back to the room while he ate his waffle, might already have come back while Dr. Applewood was bandaging his hand. They had all gotten away except Daniel—that was what the doctor had said. Daniel had been Nick, but where was North? Would North phone? Probably not—the police might tap the wire, listen to any calls to or from the room.

He sipped his coffee, which was excellent.

If he had a coat, he could walk all around the hotel; there had to be a parking lot somewhere. If North had used the little car that he had driven, he would recognize it, and the keys were in his pocket.

But North had probably not used that car. It had probably been burned when the theater burned down—he, not North, had the keys. Yet it was still possible. North had given him the keys, never saying they were the only set; and nothing would be less like North than to give somebody else the only set, to let go of that kind of power.

Anyway, thieves could start cars without the keys by hot-wiring the ignitions. North, who had made a lock pick from the hospital wiring, would know all about that.

A man in a three-piece suit came into the coffee shop and sat down not far from him. When the waitress brought his waffle, he asked her who the man was.

“Probably some guest. I don’t know—I’ve never seen him before.”

“You said I was the only guest.”

“That was yesterday, you and your friend. He probably checked in last night—I only got to work an hour ago.”

“There’s a fine for not knowing his name: you have to tell me yours.”

She grinned. “Fanny.”

“Really?”

“Would I fib about a name like that? I know yours. You’re A. C. Pine, and you’re in the Imperial Suite.”

She had gone before he could reply. As he ate his waffle (he had missed dinner the night before, and felt as though he could eat five), he vaguely considered the initials. What did A. C. stand for? Soon, he felt, he might have to tell Fanny; and it would be better if he were not stuck with something like Abner Cecil. Abraham Clyde? Arthur Cooper? By the time he had finished his orange juice, he had decided he was Adam something.

The lower level was no longer quite so deserted as it had been. Several shops showed lights, and once he heard footsteps. The first shop he looked into was a beauty parlor in which an enameled blonde was painting her own nails while she waited for customers. “Good morning,” he said.

She looked up without interest. “Hi, ya.”

“Nice day.”

“Is it warmin’ up a little?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t been outside.”

The blonde sighed, looked away, then back at him. “I have. Believe me, it ain’t a nice day. That wind could kill ya.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d get much business, then.”

She shrugged. “I might as well be here. It’s the only shop I got.”

“Suppose I wanted to change the color of my hair?”

She looked up, interested. “Do ya?”