Part 14 (1/2)

VIII

I'd put in for an eight o'clock call, but my sleep had been so sound and perfect that I was all slept out by seven-thirty. I was anxious to get going so I dressed and shaved in a hurry and cancelled the eight o'clock call. Then I asked the operator to connect me with 913.

A gruff, angry male voice snarled out of the earpiece at me. I began to apologize profusely but the other guy slammed the phone down on the hook hard enough to make my ear ring.

I jiggled my hook angrily and when the operator answered I told her that she'd miscued. She listened to my complaint and then replied in a pettish 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 I couldn't dig a foot through this area. I waited impatiently until she re-made the connections at her switchboard and I heard the burring of the phone as the other end rang. Then the same mad-bull-rage voice delivered a number of pointed comments about people who ring up honest citizens in the middle of the night; and he hung up again in the middle of my apology. I got irked again and demanded that the operator connect me 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, G.o.ddammit,” 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 Was.h.i.+ngton. I saw her register, I went with her and the bellhop to her room, Number 913, and saw her installed. Then the same 'hop took me up to my room in 1224 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 after midnight.”

”I know all about me. I was there and did it myself. And if I registered at four after midnight, Miss Farrow must have registered about two after midnight 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 past there may have been--”

”Forget the past. What about the character in 913?”

The registration clerk returned and informed me coldly, ”Room 913 has been occupied by a Mr. Horace Westfield for over three months, Mr.

Cornell. There is no mistake.” His voice sounded professionally sympathetic, and I knew that he would forget my troubles as soon as his telephone was put back on its hook.

”Forget it,” I snapped and hung up angrily. Then I went towards the elevators, walking in a sort of dream-like daze. There was a cold lump of 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 and hit my body a few inches above my belt like a pellet of icy hail. My face felt cold but when I wiped it with the palm of a shaking hand I found it beaded with an oily sweat. Everything seemed unreally horrifying.

”Nine,” I told the elevator operator in a voice that sounded far away and hoa.r.s.e.

I wondered whether this might not be a very vivid dream, and maybe if I went all the way back to my room, took a short nap, and got up to start all over again, I would awaken to honest reality.

The elevator stopped at Nine and I walked the corridor that was familiar from last night. I rapped on the door of Room 913.

The door opened and a big stubble-faced gorilla gazed out and snarled at me: ”Are you the persistent character?”

”Look,” I said patiently, ”last night a woman friend of mine registered at 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 hauled and I went in fast. His breath was sour and his eyes were bloodshot and he was angry all the way through. His other hand caught me by the seat of 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 this room, see?”

He whirled, carrying me off my feet. He took a lunging step forward and hurled me onto the bed, where I carried the springs deep down, to bounce up and off and forward to come up flat against the far wall. I landed sort of spread-eagle flat and seemed to hang there before I slid down the wall to the floor with a meaty-sounding Whump! Then before I could collect my wits or myself, he came over the bed in one long leap and had me hauled upright by the coat lapels again. The other hand was c.o.c.ked back level with his shoulder it looked the size of a twenty-five pound sack of flour and was probably as hard as set cement.