The bathroom was smaller than it seemed. Tiled in large squares of mirror, none of which matched reflections perfectly with their neighbors, it created a fractured, surreal multiplicity of images--maroon porcelain pedestal sink, commode and built-in bathtub; black octagon-tiled floor and--surprise!--a silver-leafed ceiling that softly echoed the reflections below.
Temple went to the sink and turned a massive porcelain handle.
Water flowed, not fast, but it flowed. She guessed that even the original plumbing to this suite had been left intact during the remodeling.
The water washed away her blood, its brightness lost against the sink's maroon bowl.
Temple pinched forefinger and thumb together and hoped the pressure would stop the bleeding. She wasn't half done here and it would be tacky to drip blood on the furnishings.
Presumably that grisly privilege would be left to the ghost of Jersey Joe Jackson when, and if, he decided to show himself.
Leaving the bathroom light on. Temple moved back to the bedroom and opened the blinds at its two windows. She turned to face twin beds covered in chartreuse satin . . . and one of them was doubly upholstered, since Midnight Louie was now sprawled in jet-black array on the becoming back-ground.
''Oh, you think you look like the cat's pajamas on that poison green color, don't you?" she chided Louie, glad nevertheless for his company.
''Now. The silver dollars were hidden in a mattress. If I were going to hide something as large as an architectural plan, a mattress would do fine."
Temple squatted by the twin bedframe bare of lounging cat to pull up the coverlet. The white cotton sheets were scratchy. No ironing-free miracle-fiber blends in the forties, and no color but white.
She untucked the generous bottom sheet--no fitted sheets then, either--and grimaced to unveil a modern-looking mattress. Digging the sheet free around the bed, she finally revealed an appalling labeclass="underline" Beautyrest. She doubted that brand dated to the forties, and doubted even more that this cloud pattern fabric did. Nothing leafy, green, or jungle like about it.
Louie squeaked a protest when she jerked the bottom sheet free on the neighboring mattress to find the same disgusting, spanking new, modern-day fabric. When Jill and Johnny had discovered what they had been sleeping on--a mound of stolen silver dollars, and what were they doing in this supposedly never-rented room anyway?--the old mattress covering must have shredded. Van von Rhine, tiptop hotel manager that she was, had replaced it with a new one, and its mate, so the two beds, however unused, would match.
Temple made obeisance to the beds--and indirectly to Midnight Louie, who had not moved so much as a hair as she wrestled the linens--then retidied the sheets.
She rose and studied the bedroom, finally going to a bureau. She jerked open its reluctant drawers in turn. Each was lined with the living room wallpaper. Under each lining was bare wood.
She returned to the bathroom, gazing pensively at its accouterments and herself lost in a sea of semblances. No place to hide paper here; besides, it would have rotted by now.
That left the living room.
Midnight Louie anticipated her by jumping off the bed and trotting back to the main room.
Temple followed, wondering what had stirred his sluggish soul.
She entered the room just in time to hear a faint clicking. Aha! Superior feline hearing strikes again.
Temple eyed the open blinds at the windows, welcoming the bold bars of light striping the floral carpeting. No self-respecting spirit would deign to appear against such a well-lit background. Then her own ears traced the snick-snick sound to its source.
The keyhole. Someone very physical was attempting to break and enter.
Louie stood by the door, stretching his considerable length up it until his paw patted the doorknob, which was beginning to tremble preparatory to turning.
Temple looked around. No place to run, no other exit. No place to hide. She darted to Louie's side and flattened herself against the wall, hoping the cat would divert whoever entered long enough for her to brush by and escape.
Unless it was a hotel maid. The rooms were amazingly dust-free.
While Temple stood in closer communion with the atrocious wallpaper than she would have wished, Louie retreated from the door and gave a welcoming meow.
Traitor!
The door swept open at last, ending the suspense and nearly smashing Temple behind its solid bulk.
Keys jingled. Someone moved a couple steps into the room. Temple held her breath, wishing she'd brought the shield of her tote bag from the office below.
The form pushed farther into the room as Louie turned around in the middle of the carpet and flopped heavily on his side, Good distracting tactic, Louie! Play the friendly pussycat.
Temple edged around the door and stopped as the intruder turned.
"What are you doing here?" they shrieked at each other in unsettled unison.
Van von Rhine put one hand to her breastbone and one to her pale blond French twist.
Temple wasn't sure whether she was more protective of her heart rate or her hairdo.
"You!" she exclaimed. "I'd heard Chef Song mention that the blinds were open in this room.
They're never open."
"So you came up, alone, to investigate?" Temple sounded as incredulous as she felt.
''Apparently you did too."
''Apparently . . . not. I'm the disturber of the dust, the barer of the blinds."
"Why?"
"I had a wild idea."
"That's what you're paid for, but why have them in this suite, of all places?"
"Because, of all places, this is the one where Jersey Joe Jackson was liable to hide something. He'd done it before."
"Hide what?"
"The missing original plans to the basement."
"Why do they matter?"
"I don't know that they do, but I decided to take a look for myself."
Van's piercing blue eyes flicked to the doorknob. "How did you get in?"
"Pass key." Temple flourished her open sesame.
"How did you get a key? They're only kept in my office."
"Yancy got one from a helpful Fontana brother."
"Which one?',' Van's voice was sheer steel.
"Who can say for certain with Fontana brothers? Listen, what's so awful about my trying to track down a lead from the past? I'm supposed to dream up a dynamic new theme for this hotel.
I have to dig deep for that."
"Not here." Van looked around, then clasped her hands over her bare upper arms and shuddered. "It truly is haunted. I can hardly bear being here, but in a sense, I'm the guardian of this place. There's nothing here, Temple, but things we shouldn't disturb."
''Did you replace the mattresses?''
Van looked startled. ''Yes, but how--"
"Then there's nothing in them. What about the old ones?"
"Destroyed. They were broken down."
"Did anybody examine them first?"
"Of course. After the silver dollars came tumbling out, you can imagine that every spring and piece of cotton batting was torn apart."
"So it never was there."
"This . . . missing plan, you mean? It's only the basement, after all, and that was extensively remodeled two years ago."
"Why is it the only floor plan missing?"
"Because it wasn't important!" Van answered, exasperated.
"Or because it was the only important one."'
"Can we leave?"
"This place really makes you nervous."
"Doesn't it spook you?"
"No," Temple replied stoutly, completely forgetting her earlier heebie-jeebies, another vivid forties expression.
She turned to regard the room again. "Only the bedroom bureau drawers are big enough to hold an architectural plan, and they don't. The closet is dead space, empty as a tomb. Sorry,"
she added as Van shivered again. "The desk is too small for anything. The only possible other place to look would be inside the walls. After all, Jersey Joe built this place. He could have easily concealed something in the construction."