The Mourner p-4 Page 10

  There were too many things he hadn’t thought of, too many things he couldn’t foresee. Even in the mechanics of everyday living he was hampered by the fact that he was so brand new to the United States, and nothing here corresponded exactly with its counterpart in Klastrava. The trains he’d been on he’d had to change twice were unlike those at home; only one class of carriage an open, uncompartmented third-class type, but with upholstered seats of a first-class style. There had been no ticket booth at the entrance to the platform; tickets were taken by uniformed conductors on the train itself. From the important difference of language and currency down to the appearance and customs of restaurants, everything was subtly and jarringly strange. He had to feel his way, groping from one situation to the next, certain that everyone he met must know that he was a foreigner. In Klastrava a foreigner as obvious as he would have been under official surveillance long before this. He knew the United States was much more lax but he couldn’t just blunder along this way for ever, carrying a suitcase full of unexplainable money and hoping for the best.

  The currency was beginning to seem more real to him now, and he was beginning to understand why he’d had so much trouble with the old man. Most Americans were suspicious of fifty-dollar bills. He had managed with some difficulty to spend three of them, getting smaller bills in change, and he was using small bills and coins now, hoping they would last until he’d figured out what to do with the rest of the money. He realized, belatedly, that if he’d offered the old man a ten-dollar bill instead of a fifty, there might have been no trouble.

  It all depended on whether or not he was given time to get his bearings. He needed it, and at least in the beginning he was going to need assistance. Which meant Bett Harrow, and the statue. Bett Harrow could help him if she chose, and the mourner should put him in the debt of Bett Harrow’s rich and influential father. That was all he needed.

  His taxi finally reached the canopy, and the rear door was jerked open. The cab driver was paid and tipped as was the doorman. A bellboy carried his suitcases the one on the left containing the money, the one on the right the mourner wrapped in clothing to the desk and he too was tipped. The respectful but haughty clerk looked him in the eye. “Your name, sir?”

  Name?

  In panic, Menlo heard himself saying, “Parker, Auguste Parker.”

  Why did they want his name, before he’d so much as asked for a room? And why had he said Parker? On the way over from the railroad station he had invented an alias to use in signing the hotel register, but the abruptness of the question had thrown the name right out of his mind. So he had blurted out Parker’s without thinking, adding his own first name, and in the back of his mind the suspicion that he was going to fail loomed just a little larger.

  The clerk had a drawer full of five-by-seven file cards. He looked at several and frowned. “I don’t seem to find your reservation, Mr Parker.”

  Menlo was not that much of a traveller. His infrequent jaunts in the past had always been in an official capacity; such problems as hotel reservations had always been taken care of by the Ministry. Coming to the United States, he had been checked into a Washington hotel by the Klastravian embassy officials.

  But now he was travelling on his own, and he was doing things all wrong. “I don’t have a reservation. I only want a”

  “No reservation?” The clerk seemed unable to believe it for a second or two. Then a sudden frost hit him. “I’m terribly sorry, but we’re quite full up. You might try one of the hotels downtown; perhaps they could help you.”

  Menlo and his suitcases were shunted aside. The fat man’s face reddened with anger, but there was nothing he could do. He was no longer Inspector Menlo. He was now merely a hunted refugee, alone and uncertain. Even a hotel clerk could treat him disdainfully with impunity.

  After a minute he went back to the desk again, and caught the attention of the clerk. “Elizabeth Harrow,” he asked, “what room?”

  The clerk looked. “Twelve twenty-three.”

  “And I may call from where?”

  “House telephones to your left, sir.”

  The minute he reached for his suitcases a bellboy materialized, but he shook his head angrily and the bellboy went away. There was a point at which hesitancy and confusion could no longer be borne, when what was needed was a sharp, sudden show of aggressive certainty. He had pussyfooted long enough; it was not his style. He would put up with it no longer.

  He even took offence at the bored tone with which the switchboard operator responded. His own voice was authoritative and brisk as he gave Bett Harrow’s room number. But there was no response; she was apparently not in her room.

  He slammed the receiver down with annoyance, turned, caught the bellboy’s eye. The boy hurried over, and Menlo pointed imperiously at his suitcases.

  “I wish to check this luggage. Are there facilities?”

  “Yes, sir. Right over there by”

  “You may take the luggage, and bring me the claim check.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He lit a cigarette. He had discovered a brand that combined the superior American tobacco with an adaptation of the Russian cardboard mouthpiece. There was an annoying wad of cotton or some foreign substance wedged down into the cardboard tube, but it didn’t alter the taste much. It would do.

  When the boy returned with a square of numbered red plastic, Menlo tipped him a quarter and asked for the restaurant. The boy pointed it out, and Menlo marched resolutely through the wide doorway. He had come into the hotel looking soft and fat and slump-shouldered, but now he was his formal self again, carrying his bulk with lithe dignity.

  He had steak, an American specialty. His table was next to a huge glass window overlooking the beach, and as he ate he watched the hotel guests there. A few were swimming, but most were merely walking about aimlessly or lying on pneumatic mattresses. A depressing number of women, all in bright-coloured bathing suits, were stout and middle-aged and ugly, but here and there was a tall and beautiful one, and these he watched with pleasure and a feeling of anticipation.

  He ate a leisurely meal, and lingered at the table afterwards to smoke a cigarette over a third cup of coffee. It was mid-afternoon, a slack time in the restaurant, so no effort was made to hurry him. When at last he paid his check, he took a chance and proffered one of the fifty-dollar bills. He was terrified of running short of the smaller bills, again, and surely here a fifty-dollar bill wouldn’t seem unusual. The waiter didn’t seem to react at all, but took the bill and soon returned with a little tray full of change. In this country, he noted, a waiter’s tip was not automatically added on to the bill at home it was a standard 10 per cent but was left to the discretion of the diner. To be on the safe side he left a 15 per cent tip instead of 10, and strolled back out to the lobby.

  Menlo crossed to the house phones and called Bett Harrow’s room again, and this time she was there. “Good afternoon, my dear, this is Auguste.”

  He hoped she would recognize him by the first name alone. He didn’t want to mention his full name, in case the switchboard operator was listening in.

  There was the briefest of hesitations. “Well, I’ll be damned. You did it.”

  “You expected less?”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the lobby. I would like to talk with you.”

  “Come on up.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a bank of elevators across the way. He went over and was swooped up to the twelfth floor, where the corridor was uneasily reminiscent of Dr Caligari’s cabinet, the walls and ceiling painted in bright primary colours, the carpeting wine red. He found the door marked 1223 and knocked.

  She opened the door almost immediately, smiling at him in amusement. “Come in, come in. Tell me all about it.”

  “In due time. It is more than pleasant to see you again.”

  She was wearing form-fitting plaid slacks and a pale-blue halter. Her feet were bare, and the toenails were painted bright red. This struc
k him as ludicrous it was as though she were wearing a flowing moustache but he refrained from any comment. Still, it was unfortunate; the golden American goddess with scarlet toes. A bit of the glamour was destroyed for him for ever. Inside her shoes, had the airline stewardess too had scarlet toes? Sad.

  She closed the door behind him. The room looked like a more expensive version of the motel room in Washington. There was the same cheap bright-plastic look to everything.

  “To tell you the truth,” she said, as they both sat down, “I didn’t expect to see you again. I thought Chuck would eat you up.”

  “Chuck? Ah yes. Parker, you mean.”

  She shrugged. “He calls himself Chuck Willis sometimes. That’s the way I think of him.”

  “Under any name,” he replied, smiling, “he did not eat me up. As you can see.”

  “I hope you didn’t leave him alive anywhere,” she said. “I think he’d be a bad man to have for an enemy.”

  “We need have no fears in that respect.”

  She shook her head in slow amazement. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Auguste. Auguste? Don’t you have a better name than that?”

  “I am sorry. Only the one name.”

  “It’s too ridiculous to call you Auguste. And you’re no Augie.”

  “A minor problem,” he said, feeling annoyance that she should find his name ridiculous. “I suggest we table it for the moment. I have the statue.”

  “I just can’t get it through my head. You really did kill Chuck and take the statue? What about the other one, that friend of Chuck’s?”

  “Both of them. It is a closed issue. The past has no lasting fascination for me. It is the immediate future which now concerns me. I should like to meet your father.”

  “I know, you want to sell him the statue. Twenty-five thousand?”

  “Perhaps not. Possibly there is something he can do for me that would be more valuable.”

  “Like what?” She seemed at once more alert.

  He considered his words carefully. “In a sense,” he said, “I am in this nation illegally. My visa was for a short time only, and good only in Washington. It is my intention to remain in this country, therefore I will need papers. Your father is a well-to-do and influential man. It is not impossible that among his contacts is someone who can furnish me with the appropriate forged papers.”

  “I don’t know if he can help you. If he can, is that all you want?”

  “One small matter in addition. I have in my possession a rather substantial sum in cash, American. I would prefer not to carry this around with me. Your father perhaps could aid me in placing it in a bank or some other safe repository?”

  “How much is a large sum?”

  “I have not counted it as yet, but I believe it is approximately one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Her eyes widened. “My God! Did you take that away from Chuck too?”

  “If you mean was it his money no, it was not.”

  “All right. Anything else?”

  “One more small matter. I had no reservation, and cannot obtain a room here.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  She went to the phone, spoke to someone at length, and finally hung up. She turned to Menlo. “All set. It’s on the wrong side of the hotel no view of the ocean but it’s a room. You can pick the key up downstairs. I told them your name was John Auguste, is that all right?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “My father isn’t in Miami now, but I will call him. He should be able to get here by tomorrow. I’ll let you explain to him exactly what you want. I’ll tell him Chuck Willis is dead, and that someone else has the statue and wants to sell it.”

  “Very good.” Menlo got to his feet. “I do thank you.”

  “Where are you going?” She seemed displeased. “You’re all business now, is that it?”

  “I have been travelling, dear lady. I should like to shower, to rest, and to don fresh clothing. I had intended to ask you to dine with me this evening, to allow me to make some small gesture of appreciation for your assistance.”

  “You’re a strange man,” she said.

  “Is eight o’clock acceptable?”

  “Why not?”

  He bowed. “I shall see you then.”

  She walked him to the door and even barefoot she was a good two inches taller than he. She opened the door and stood holding the knob. “You don’t even try to kiss me.”

  Menlo was surprised. It was true that she had granted him her favours in the hotel in Washington, but he had thought then that it was only because Parker had rejected her. Could it be that she actually found him attractive? He was shorter than she, and unfortunately overweight, and possibly twenty years her senior.

  But it couldn’t be the money; she was already rich.

  Surprised, not quite sure what to make of her, he said, “You must forgive me. I have been, as I say, travelling. I am somewhat weary. And also, I must confess, my mind has been occupied with my own predicament. This evening, I trust you will find me more gallant.”

  “This evening,” she replied, “you can tell me all about how you got the upper hand with Chuck. That I’ve got to hear.”

  “I will tell all. Until this evening, then.”

  He bowed his way out and took the elevator back down to the lobby. He didn’t approach the same clerk, but another one, giving the name Bett Harrow had invented for him. John Auguste. It would do as well as any. The clerk handed him the key, and a bellboy went to reclaim his luggage.

  He had intended to bathe first, but once the bellboy had left the room he found his curiosity could wait no longer. How much exactly didhe have in the suitcase?

  When he opened it on the bed, loose bills spilled out on all sides. Hundreds, fifties, some twenties. With a flutter in his chest, as though he were standing too close to the edge of a cliff and looking over, he sat down on the bed and began to count. His weight depressed the mattress, tilting the suitcase, and another little shower of bills fluttered to the bedspread.

  He made a little game out of it. First, he separated the bills into three piles, by denomination. Then, beginning with the hundreds, he sorted them into stacks, twenty-five bills in each.

  Seven hundred fifty-three hundreds.

  Four hundred twenty-two fifties.

  And one hundred seventy-four twenties.

  Ninety-nine hundred, eight hundred eighty dollars. $99,880.00. Nine nine comma eight zero decimal zero zero. In the currency of his native land, three million, one hundred ninety-six thousand, one hundred sixty koter.

  Oh, and more. In his wallet was eight hundred and fifty-three dollars. In his coat pocket, five hundred more. He had spent, coming down, he estimated approximately a hundred dollars.

  Grand total: One hundred and one thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars!

  He sang gaily in the shower. In English.

  5

  HE WAS awakened the next afternoon on the beach by a funereal man in black who asked if he was Mr John Auguste.

  He opened his eyes, but immediately closed them again, against the glare of the sun. He had seen only the funereal man in black, in silhouette, bending over him, blotting out part of the sky.

  Mr John Auguste? Some mistake. I am Auguste Menlo. The similarity of

  No!

  He sat bolt upright, not sure for a second whether he’d actually said the words aloud or merely thought them. But the funereal man in black was still standing there, bowed, patient, waiting for an answer. With all the riot of colours on the beach, he looked like someone’s odd idea of a joke.

  Menlo said, “Yes, I am John Auguste.”

  “You are wanted on the house phone, sir. By the blue entrance, phone number three.”

  “Thank you.”

  The funereal man in black went away. He was wearing highly shined black oxfords, which sank into the sand at every step. He walked slowly and cautiously because of this, and looked like the Angel of Death. Menlo got up from the pn
eumatic mattress and followed him.

  It was Monday afternoon, a little before three, and the hotel beach was jammed. All of yesterday’s checkins were already there, plus all the lay-overs from the week before. Menlo had to cut a meandering path through them to get to the phone.

  He was wearing maroon boxer-style bathing trunks. He looked ridiculous, and knew it, but he also realized he looked no more ridiculous than half the other men on the beach. His flesh had reddened from exposure to the sun, and it was just as well he’d been awakened. A little longer, and he would have had a painful burn. Tomorrow he would have to get some of that suntan lotion he smelled everywhere on the beach.

  Already he was beginning to feel at home. Sunshine and warmth. A pneumatic mattress to lie on, and occasional beautiful girls in skimpy white bathing suits to ogle. Plus, of course, the one beautiful girl to go to bed with. After last night with Bett Harrow, this day of sleep and warmth and contentment was more than a luxury; it was a necessity. There was a twenty-year difference between them, and by approximately one o’clock that morning it had begun to show.

  He smiled to himself, plodding through the sand towards the hotel. What a way to exercise the weight away, eh? Sweat it away by day beneath the hot sun, sweat it away by night beneath the cool sheets.

  To the left of the blue entrance were the telephones, a row of five mounted on the wall, with soundproof barriers between them, sticking out like blinkers on a horse. Menlo went to number three and picked up the receiver. “Auguste here.”

  “This is Ralph Harrow.”

  “Ah! Mr Harrow!”

  “I’m told you have something to show me. If it’s convenient, you could bring it up now. Top floor, suite D.”

  Bring it? Not quite so soon, Menlo thought. “Ah, I am sorry. It isn’t, ah, completely ready to be shown; not quite yet. But perhaps I could come and discuss the situation with you? In one hour?”