“This is made out for the suite,” he said. “I just want the bill for my room. I have nothing to do with Mr. Kusitch. He will pay for his own room.”
“I’m sorry, sir! It is not the practice to separate the rooms in the accounting. The suite was engaged in the names of yourself and your friend.”
“Very well. I’ll pay half. You can collect the rest from Kusitch.”
“Pardon, sir. Your friend seems to have gone on ahead of you. You yourself handed in his key. We assume, of course, that you will make yourself responsible for the full amount.”
“I’m not responsible for Mr. Kusitch in any way.”
“But you occupied the suite, sir. The amount is not much more than our usual tariff for room and bath.”
“No doubt it’s reasonable, but I don’t know how much money I’ve got left.”
It was ridiculous. The girl at the counter was listening, taking in the whole farcical scene, no doubt with a smirk of amusement on her smug face. He did not dare to look into the mirror. He knew his face was getting redder, and part of the hot blood was a rising indignation at the behaviour of Kusitch. It was clear enough now why Kusitch had skipped, but he wasn’t going to get away with it, by heaven! The amount of the whole bill might be insignificant, but he’d exact the full half of it from Kusitch. Policeman, was he? Well, we’d soon see about that!
He was turning out his pockets like a boy in a sweet shop, putting the money on the desk in front of him-francs, some paper drachmas, his lucky penny. The whole lot didn’t amount to a half of what was needed.
By now the other clerk was there with Miss Meriden’s bill, and she, too, was putting money on the counter; but from a well-stocked wallet. He was within the range of a delicate perfume that probably came from something in her open handbag, a perfume that would have cost her more per ounce than the whole amount of this wretched hotel bill.
He surveyed his collection of currency and pulled out his pocketbook, and then, as he opened the worn pigskin, he sighed with relief. Instead of one, he had two traveller’s cheques left, and they were plenty. He signed them, and the polite clerk took them to the caisse.
The girl was still at the counter. He kept his eyes lowered. He caught a glimpse of her hands moving beside him, reaching for her receipt, tucking it away, closing her bag. And her hands were something of a shock to him. They were fine hands, strong and capable, but they suggested a worker rather than one who lived in decorative idleness. They were cared for, obviously, but were marked by cuts and scars. The right thumb wore an adhesive bandage. The left forefinger had a blue bruise under a broken nail, as if it had received a whack with a hammer.
He had, perhaps, two seconds to notice these curious details. Then the hands were withdrawn, and he was aware that she had left the counter. He looked up and saw her back, a receding image in the mirror, followed by the porter with her valise. A mirror on the opposite side of the foyer returned a reflection of her approach, and he saw her serene face again with its corona of red-gold hair. He continued to stare after she had gone, seeing himself reflected back and forth. The place had more mirrors in it than the Palace of Versailles. Someone must have had a mania for…
He remembered suddenly the doubly-reflected picture of Kusitch stooping in the corner of his room, shoving the manila envelope under the carpet. He hoped Kusitch hadn’t forgotten that envelope, because it probably contained his money and the man was going to need it to pay his share of the confounded bill.
“Your taxi, monsieur.”
He followed the porter. He saw Ruth Meriden again as her cab drove away from the hotel, and in another moment his own cab started as if in pursuit.
There was quite a crowd at the terminal building. He checked the number of his plane and found the official who was dealing with the passengers. Flight 263-that was the designation. The girl was the fourth person ahead of him, and there was still no sign of Kusitch.
Andrew was still the last in the line when he reached the desk. He asked about Kusitch.
“Kusitch?” The official looked at his passenger list. “I’ve no one of that name.”
“But you must have,” Andrew protested. “It’s the ten o’clock plane to London, isn’t it?”
“Certainly, sir. Flight two-six-three.”
“Then Mr. Kusitch is a passenger. We travelled together from Athens yesterday. We reserved seats for this morning as soon as we heard the night plane for London was grounded. Kusitch must be on your list. He has the seat next to mine.”
Andrew became vehement. The official shook his head, then hesitated.
“Perhaps there has been a cancellation,” he suggested. “Just a moment. I’ll find out.”
He picked up a telephone, pressed a button, and made his inquiry. He spoke to Andrew, holding a hand over the receiver.” That’s right, sir… P. G. Kusitch. He cancelled his reservation. The seat has been given to Major Bardolph.”
Andrew felt anger rising. What sort of damn-fool game was the fellow playing? Skipping out of the hotel with his bill unpaid, leaving his things in the bathroom.
“When did the man cancel his seat?”
The official passed on the question and transmitted the answer to Andrew.
“Last night, sir. He telephoned.”
“But that’s impossible. I’m sure he never left his room. He was in bed, asleep.”
“Nevertheless…”
Andrew began to feel a little sick. He pressed a hand on the desk before him. “Please,” he said. “Can you find out the time your people got the message?”
The official put through the additional inquiry. There was a short wait. Then he announced: “Our record says twenty-two thirty-three hours. Monsieur Kusitch telephoned in person.”
“Ten-thirty!” Andrew shivered as if a blast of cold air had touched him. “At ten-thirty I was with Mr. Kusitch in a cafe, drinking coffee and cognac. He definitely did not telephone.”
“But surely, sir? He has not come to claim his seat. That proves that he must have cancelled it.”
Andrew gazed at the man incredulously. He had a queer feeling in his stomach and icy fingers seemed to be pressing him in the small of the back. He put both hands on the desk and leaned heavily.
“I was with Kusitch all the evening,” he asserted. “From seven o’clock on he was scarcely out of my sight. We left the hotel together and did not get back till after midnight. Kusitch never went near a telephone in that time.”
“Possibly he had someone pass on the message for him?”
“No. He never had the slightest intention of giving up his seat in the plane. He was anxious to get to London as soon as possible.”
“Then where is he, sir?” “I don’t know. The last I saw of him, he was in bed…”
He broke off, suddenly recalling the sounds in the night. He had interpreted them so amusingly. He had imagined the comical figure of Mr. Kusitch falling out of bed and climbing back again. That was a laugh, a good laugh. He heard the bedsprings creaking. Again he felt the cold touch at the bottom of the spine. He had known fear more than once in his life, but this was a different kind of fear. He pulled himself together, shaking away the sickness, and in the instant he knew what he had to do.
“There’s something wrong,” he told the official. “You’d better make full inquiries about that phone call. I’m going back to the hotel. Can you switch my seat to the afternoon plane?”
“But, Dr. Maclaren, the bus is about to leave for the airport.”
“This is serious. It may be very serious indeed. If you can’t put somebody else in my seat, I’ll have to pay an extra fare.”
“Some people are waiting, but at this late hour it is very difficult.”
“Can you get me on an afternoon plane?”
“There’s a vacancy on Flight seven-four-nine, two-thirty.”
“All right. Find out about that telephone call. The police may want to know.”