VIII
I'd put in for an eight o'clock call, but my sleep had been so sound andperfect that I was all slept out by seven-thirty. I was anxious to getgoing so I dressed and shaved in a hurry and cancelled the eight o'clockcall. Then I asked the operator to connect me with 913.
A gruff, angry male voice snarled out of the earpiece at me. I began toapologize profusely but the other guy slammed the phone down on the hookhard enough to make my ear ring.
I jiggled my hook angrily and when the operator answered I told her thatshe'd miscued. She listened to my complaint and then replied in apettish tone, "But I did ring 913, sir. I'll try again."
I wanted to tell her to just try, that there was no 'again' about it,but I didn't. I tried to dig through the murk to her switchboard but Icouldn't dig a foot through this area. I waited impatiently until shere-made the connections at her switchboard and I heard the burring ofthe phone as the other end rang. Then the same mad-bull-rage voicedelivered a number of pointed comments about people who ring up honestcitizens in the middle of the night; and he hung up again in the middleof my apology. I got irked again and demanded that the operator connectme with the registration clerk. To him I told my troubles.
"One moment, sir," he said. A half minute later he returned with,"Sorry, sir. There is no Farrow registered. Could I have mis-heard you?"
"No, goddammit," I snarled. "It's Farrow. F as in Frank; A as in Arthur;Double R as in Robert Robert; O as in Oliver; and W as in Washington. Isaw her register, I went with her and the bellhop to her room, Number913, and saw her installed. Then the same 'hop took me up to my room in1224 on the Twelfth."
There was another moment of silence. Then he said, "You're Mr. Cornell.Registered in Room 1224 last night approximately four minutes aftermidnight."
"I know all about me. I was there and did it myself. And if I registeredat four after midnight, Miss Farrow must have registered about two aftermidnight because the ink was still wet on her card when I wrote my name.We came in together, we were travelling together. Now, what gives?"
"I wouldn't know, sir. We have no guest named Farrow."
"See here," I snapped, "did you ever have a guest named Farrow?"
"Not in the records I have available at this desk. Perhaps in the pastthere may have been--"
"Forget the past. What about the character in 913?"
The registration clerk returned and informed me coldly, "Room 913 hasbeen occupied by a Mr. Horace Westfield for over three months, Mr.Cornell. There is no mistake." His voice sounded professionallysympathetic, and I knew that he would forget my troubles as soon as histelephone was put back on its hook.
"Forget it," I snapped and hung up angrily. Then I went towards theelevators, walking in a sort of dream-like daze. There was a cold lumpof something concrete hard beginning to form in the pit of my stomach.Wetness ran down my spine and a drop of sweat dropped from my armpit andhit my body a few inches above my belt like a pellet of icy hail. Myface felt cold but when I wiped it with the palm of a shaking hand Ifound it beaded with an oily sweat. Everything seemed unreallyhorrifying.
"Nine," I told the elevator operator in a voice that sounded far awayand hoarse.
I wondered whether this might not be a very vivid dream, and maybe if Iwent all the way back to my room, took a short nap, and got up to startall over again, I would awaken to honest reality.
The elevator stopped at Nine and I walked the corridor that was familiarfrom last night. I rapped on the door of Room 913.
The door opened and a big stubble-faced gorilla gazed out and snarled atme: "Are you the persistent character?"
"Look," I said patiently, "last night a woman friend of mine registeredat this hotel and I accompanied her to this door. Number 913. Now--"
A long apelike arm came out and caught me by the coat lapels. He hauledand I went in fast. His breath was sour and his eyes were bloodshot andhe was angry all the way through. His other hand caught me by the seatof the pants and he danced me into the room like a jumping jack.
"Friend," he ground out, "Take a look. There ain't no woman in thisroom, see?"
He whirled, carrying me off my feet. He took a lunging step forward andhurled me onto the bed, where I carried the springs deep down, to bounceup and off and forward to come up flat against the far wall. I landedsort of spread-eagle flat and seemed to hang there before I slid downthe wall to the floor with a meaty-sounding Whump! Then before I couldcollect my wits or myself, he came over the bed in one long leap and hadme hauled upright by the coat lapels again. The other hand was cockedback level with his shoulder it looked the size of a twenty-five poundsack of flour and was probably as hard as set cement.
_Steve_, I told myself, _this time you're in for it!_
"All right," I said as apologetically as I knew how, "so I've made a badmistake. I apologize. I'll also admit that you could wipe up the hotelwith me. But do you have to prove it?"
Mr. Horace Westfield's mental processes were not slow, cumbersome, andcrude. He was as fast and hard on his mental feet as he was on hisphysical feet. He made some remarks about my intelligence, myupbringing, my parentage and its legal status, and my unwillingness toface a superior enemy. During this catalog of my virtueless existence,he gandy-walked me to the door and opened it. He concluded his lectureby suggesting that in the future I accept anything that any registrationclerk said as God-Stated Truth, and if I then held any doubts I shouldtake them to the police. Then he hurled me out of the room by just sortof shoving me away. I sailed across the hall on my toes, backward, andslapped my frame flat again, and once more I hung against the wall untilthe kinetic energy had spent itself. Then I landed on wobbly ankles asthe door to Room 913 came closed with a violent slam.
I cursed the habit of building hotels in dead areas, although I admittedthat I'd steer clear of any hotel in a clear area myself. But I didn'tneed a clear area nor a sense of perception to inform me that Room 913was absolutely and totally devoid of any remote sign of femalehabitation. In fact, I gathered the impression that for all of his brutestrength and virile masculinity, Mr. Horace Westfield hadn't entertaineda woman in that room since he'd been there.
There was one other certainty: It was impossible for any agency short ofsheer fairyland magic to have produced overnight a room that displayedits long-term occupancy by a not-too-immaculate character. Thatdistinctive sour smell takes a long time to permeate the furnishings ofany decent hotel; I wondered why a joint as well kept as this one wouldput up with a bird as careless of his person as Mr. Horace Westfield.
So I came to the reluctant conclusion that Room 913 was not occupied byNurse Farrow, but I was not yet convinced that she was totally missingfrom the premises.
Instead of taking the elevator, I took to the stairs and tried theeighth. My perception was not too good for much in this murk, but I wasmentally sensitive to Nurse Farrow and if I could get close enough toher, I might be able to perceive some trace of her even through thedeadness. I put my forehead against the door of Room 813 and drew ablank. I could dig no farther than the inside of the door. If Farrowwere in 813, I couldn't dig a trace of her. So I went to 713 and triedthere.
I was determined to try every -13th room on every floor, but as I wasstanding with my forehead against the door to Room 413, someone came upbehind me quietly and asked in a rough voice: "Just what do you thinkyou're doing, Mister?"
His dress indicated housedick, but of course I couldn't dig the licensein his wallet any more than he could read my mental, #None of yourbusiness, flatfoot!# I said, "I'm looking for a friend."
"You'd better come with me," he said flatly. "There's been complaints."
"Yeah?" I growled. "Maybe I made one of them myself."
"Want to start something?" he snapped.
I shrugged and he smiled. It was a stony smile, humorless as a crevassein a rock-face. He kept that professional-type smile on his face untilwe reached the manager's office. The manager was out, but one of theassistant managers was in his desk. The little sign on t
he desk said"Henry Walton. Assistant Manager."
Mr. Walton said, coldly, "What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Cornell?"
I decided to play it just as though I were back at the beginning again."Last night," I explained very carefully, "I checked into this hotel. Iwas accompanied by a woman companion. A registered nurse. Miss GloriaFarrow. She registered first, and we were taken by one of your bellboysto Rooms 913 and 1224 respectively. I went with Miss Farrow to 913 andsaw her enter. Then the bellhop escorted me to 1224 and left me for thenight. This morning I can find no trace of Miss Farrow anywhere in thisfleabag."
He bristled at the derogatory title but he covered it quickly. "Pleasebe assured that no one connected with this hotel has any intention ofconfusing you, Mr. Cornell."
"I'm tired of playing games," I snapped. "I'll accept your statement sofar as the management goes, but someone is guilty of fouling up yourregistration lists."
"That's rather harsh," he replied coldly. "Falsifying or tampering withhotel registration lists is illegal. What you've just said amounts tolibel or slander, you know."
"Not if it's true."
I half expected Henry Walton to backwater fast, but instead, he merelyeyed me with the same expression of distaste that he might have usedupon finding half of a fuzzy caterpillar in his green salad. As cold asa cake of carbon dioxide snow, he said, "Can you prove this, Mr.Cornell?"
"Your night crew--"
"You've given us a bit of trouble this morning," he informed me. "SoI've taken the liberty of calling in the night crew for you." He presseda button and a bunch came in and lined up as if for formal inspection."Boys," said Walton quietly, "suppose you tell us what you know aboutMr. Cornell's arrival here last night."
They nodded their heads in unison.
"Wait a minute," I snapped. "I want a reliable witness to listen tothis. In fact, if I could, I'd like to have their stories made underoath."
"You'd like to register a formal charge? Perhaps of kidnapping, or maybeillegal restraint?"
"Just get me an impartial witness," I told him sourly.
"Very well." He picked up his telephone and spoke into it. We waited afew minutes, and finally a very prim young woman came in. She wasfollowed by a uniformed policeman. She was carrying one of thosesub-miniature silent typewriters which she set up on its little standwith a few efficient motions.
"Miss Mason is our certified public stenographer," he said. "Officer,I'll want your signature on her copy when we're finished. This is asimple routine matter, but it must be legal to the satisfaction of Mr.Cornell. Now, boys, go ahead and explain. Give your name and positionfirst for Miss Mason's record."
It was then that I noticed that the night crew had arranged themselvesin chronological order. The elderly gent spoke first. He'd been thenight doorman but now he was stripped of his admiral's gold braid and helooked just like any other sleepy man of middle age.
"George Comstock," he announced. "Doorman. As soon as I saw the carangling out of traffic, I pressed the call-button for a bell boy. PeterWright came out and was standing in readiness by the time Mr. Cornell'scar came to a stop by the curb. Johnny Olson was out next, and afterPeter had taken Mr. Cornell's bag, Johnny got into Mr. Cornell's car andtook off for the hotel garage--"
Walton interrupted. "Let each man tell what he did himself. Noprompting, please."
"Well, then, you've heard my part in it. Johnny Olson took off in Mr.Cornell's car and Peter Wright took off with Mr. Cornell's bag, and Mr.Cornell followed Peter."
The next man in line, at a nod from the assistant manager, steppedforward about a half a pace and said, "I'm Johnny Olson. I followedPeter Wright out of the door and after Peter had collected Mr. Cornell'sbag, I got in Mr. Cornell's car and took it to the hotel garage."
The third was Peter Wright, the bellhop. "I carried his bag to the deskand waited until he registered. Then we went up to Room 1224. I openedthe door, lit the lights, opened the window, and stuff. Mr. Cornelltipped me five bucks and I left him there. Alone."
"I'm Thomas Boothe, the elevator operator. I took Mr. Cornell and PeterWright to the Twelfth. Peter said I should wait because he wouldn't belong, and so I waited on the Twelfth until Peter got back. That's all."
"I'm Doris Caspary, the night telephone operator. Mr. Cornell called meabout fifteen minutes after twelve and asked me to put him down for acall at eight o'clock this morning. Then he called at about seven thirtyand said that he was already awake and not to bother."
Henry Walton said, "That's about it, Mr. Cornell."
"But--"
The policeman looked puzzled. "What is the meaning of all this? If I'mto witness any statements like these, I'll have to know what for."
Walton looked at me. I couldn't afford not to answer. Wearily I said,"Last night I came in here with a woman companion and we registered inseparate rooms. She went into 913 and I waited until she was installedand then went to my own room on the Twelfth. This morning there is notrace of her."
I went on to tell him a few more details, but the more I told him themore he lifted his eyebrows.
"Done any drinking?" he asked me curtly.
"No."
"Certain?"
"Absolutely."
Walton looked at his crew. They burst into a chorus of, "Well, he _was_steady on his feet," and "He didn't _seem_ under the influence," and alot of other statements, all generally indicating that for all they knewI could have been gassed to the ears, but one of those rare guys whodon't show it.
The policeman smiled thinly. "Just why was this registered nursetravelling with you?"
I gave them the excuse-type statement; the one about the accident andthat I felt that I was still a bit on the rocky side and so forth. Aboutall I did for that was to convince the policeman that I was not a stablecharacter. His attitude seemed to indicate that any man travelling witha nurse must either be physically sick or maybe mentally out of tune.
Then with a sudden thought, I whirled on Johnny Olson. "Will you get mycar?" I asked him. He nodded after a nod from Walton. I said, "There'splenty of evidence in my car. In the meantime, let's face one thing,officer. I've been accused of spinning a yarn. I'd hardly be demandingwitnesses if I weren't telling the truth. I was standing beside MissFarrow when she signed the register, complete with the R.N. title. It'stoo bad that hotels have taken to using card files instead of the oldregistration book. Cards are so easy to misplace--"
Walton cut in angrily. "If that's an accusation, I'm inclined to seethat you make it in a court of law."
The policeman looked calm. "I'd take it easy, Mr. Cornell. Your story isnot corroborated. But the employees of the hotel bear one another out.And from the record, it would appear that you were under the eyes of atleast two of them from the moment your car slowed down in front of themain entrance up to the time that you were escorted to your room."
"I object to being accused of complicity in a kidnapping," put in theassistant manager.
"I object to being accused of mental incompetence," I snapped. "Why dowe stand around accusing people back and forth when there's evidence ifyou'll only uncover it."
We stood there glaring at one another. The air grew tense. The only onesin the place who did not have chips on their shoulders were thepoliceman and the certified stenographer, who was clicking her silentkeys in lightning manner, taking down every comment as it was uttered.
Eventually Olson returned, to put an end to the thick silence. "Y'car'soutside," he told me angrily.
"Fine," I said. "Now we'll go outside and take a look. You'll findplenty of traces of Miss Farrow's having been there. Officer--are youtelepath or perceptive?"
"Perceptive," he said. "But not in here."
"How far out does this damned dead area extend?" I asked Walton.
"About half way across the sidewalk."
"Okay. So let's all go."
We traipsed out to the curb. Miss Mason brought her little silent along,slipping the stand high up so that she could type from an erectposition. We l
ined up along the curb and I looked into my car with atriumphant feeling.
And then that cold chill congealed my spine again. My car was clean andshining. It had been washed and buffed and polished until it looked asnew as the day I picked it out on the salesroom floor.
Walton looked blank, and I whipped a thought at him: #Damned telepath!#
He nodded perceptibly and said smoothly, "I'm rather sorry we couldn'tfind any fingerprints. Because now, you see," and here he turned to thepoliceman and went on, "Mr. Cornell will now accuse us of having washedhis car to destroy the evidence. However, you'll find that as a generalpolicy of the hotel, the car-washing is performed as a standard service.In fact, if any guest parks his car in our garage and his car is notrendered spick and span, someone is going to get fired for negligence."
So that was that. I took a fast look around, because I knew that I hadto get out of there fast. If I remained to carry on any more argument,I'd be tapped for being a nuisance and jugged.
I had no doubt at all that the whole hotel staff were all involved inNurse Farrow's disappearance. But they'd done their job in such a waythat if the question were pushed hard, I would end up answering formalcharges, the topmost of which might be murder and concealment of thebody.
I could do nothing by sitting in jail. This was the time to get outfirst and worry about Farrow later.
So I opened the car door and slipped in. I fiddled with the so-calledglove compartment and opened it; the maps were all neatly stacked andall the flub had been cleaned out. I fumbled inside and dropped a coupleof road maps to the floor, and while I was down picking them up I turnedthe ignition key which Olson had left plugged in the lock.
I took off with a jerk and howl of tires.
There was the sudden shrill of a police whistle but it was stopped afterone brief blast. As I turned the corner, I caught a fast backwards digat them. They were filing back into the hotel. I did not believe thatthe policeman was part of the conspiracy, but I was willing to bet thatWalton was going to slip the policeman a box of fine cigars as a rewardfor having helped them to get rid of a very embarrassing screwball.