Ghost of a Chance (14 page)

“Do you get a room,” Jeff asked, “If you’re delightful?”

“I wouldn’t turn you away for anything in the world. Please follow me. I’ll show you to your room.”

Our room on the second floor was a box-like place, completely standard. There was a double bed, one high chest, one low chest, one ash tray, one glass, one bottle opener. The one bridge lamp did little to cheer up the room. I moved to the window.

The Lodge was a U-shaped building. Our room, in the main part of the hotel, was in the base of the U. From the window I could see the two dark, apparently uninhabited wings stretch away to my right and left. It had started to snow. The large flakes dropped like white stones in the still air of the court, but beyond the enclosure a wild wind was blowing the snow almost horizontally. It was nature operating at two speeds. I was grateful for the roof that was over our heads.

A chambermaid, openly annoyed at her extra duty, arrived immediately to make up our bed. When Jeff offered to help her she thawed, but when she discovered the job would take twice as long with his assistance, she froze again. I took over. Jeff gave her fifty cents and handed me a quarter. The door closed behind her.

“Let’s go,” Jeff said.

Our room was number nineteen. We walked down the wide corridor to the room numbered twelve. Jeff knocked and there was no answer. He looked at me.

I said, “She told the manager she was going to take a nap. Maybe she is.”

“If you were Sally Kennedy, would you be calm enough to take a nap?”

“No. I got the impression from her on the train that she wouldn’t ever sleep again. You’re right.”

Jeff put his hand on the knob and turned it. The door moved open a few inches. He called Sally Kennedy’s name through the opening. There was no response. We stood looking at each other. Then Jeff shook his head impatiently.

“We’re being foolish, Haila. Nothing could have happened.”

“But we’ve got to find out.”

“Yes.”

Jeff took a quick breath and pushed wide the door. Then we were standing in Sally Kennedy’s room. It was like ours, the same size, the same furnishings. On a bureau there were toilet articles. In a slightly ajar closet I saw the long red flash of a dress or negligee. Sally had unpacked. I looked at the bed. It was rumpled. She had at least made an attempt to rest. But, now, she was not in the room.

“Well,” I said.

“She could have got back down to the lobby,” Jeff said, “during those few minutes we were in our room.”

“Yes, she could have, but…”

“She wanted a drink, Haila. She needed one. She went down to the bar.”

“That sound all right. Let’s go to the bar.”

The fire had been fanned into a cheerful blaze, more lamps had been switched on; now the lobby was a picture of warmth and contentment. Crowding the hearth were two elderly ladies, one knitting, the other crocheting. On a davenport a young woman slowly turned the big cloth pages of a picture book for a yellow-haired, pigtailed child. There was another woman scribbling postcards at a writing table in a corner.

The crocheter smiled and nodded at us. We smiled and nodded back as we hurried to the bar. Sally wasn’t having herself a drink. It took but a glance to cover the taproom, the three high-backed booths, the row of tiny tables before the long, built-in wall seat, the bar that angled across a front corner of the room. Behind the bar a boy, about the same age as twenty year old Bourbon, was throwing ice into a cocktail shaker. He had the place to himself.

An archway broke the fourth wall of the taproom and joined it to the dining room. We moved toward the opening and looked through. Only five or six of the many tables in the spacious room were linen-covered and set. The waiter, who still had full possession of the room, was now filling water goblets.

“There might be a sun porch,” I said, “or a library. Maybe Sally is…”

“Mary,” Jeff said. “It’s Mary Thompson now.”

As we went back through the bar toward the lobby, the boy spoke to us. “Dinner will be soon.”

“Thanks,” Jeff said. “Do you know Miss Thompson to see her?”

“Miss Thompson? Yeah.”

“Have you seen her? Do you know…”

“This drink is for her.” The barboy poured a daiquiri into a glass, pushed the glass forward on the bar. “Miss Thompson was just here. She asked me to have this drink ready for her. She’ll be right back.”

“Jeff,” I said, “we can wait for her here.”

“You wait. I’ll see if I can find her.”

“Darling! Sit down.”

“I’d rather not.” Jeff was frowning. “You order me something.”

I watched Jeff hurry out into the lobby, then I climbed onto a stool at the bar and order two old fashioneds. The boy made them quickly, quickly excused himself. He was doing double duty tonight. When he wasn’t needed at the bar, he had things to do in the kitchen. If I wanted him, I was to ring that there bell, please. He ducked under the bridge-door of the bar and ran to the kitchen, whipping off his clean white coat as he went.

The door had just stopped swinging behind him when two gentlemen sauntered into the taproom. One was a big, portly man with an amazing shock of pure white hair—a country squire. I looked to see if there was a riding crop in his hand; there wasn’t, but there should have been. His companion was as tall as he, but trimmer, not so well fed. His hair was still dark, but he looked older than the other, perhaps in his early sixties. He was a bit of a dandy, very polished, very urbane. It was he who rang the bell. It was the squire who shouted, “Yo, boy!”

The kitchen door burst open, in flew the juvenile, frantically quickchanging into his bar costume. He was pleased to see these two. “Hello, Mr. Merrill. Hello, Mr. Trask.”

“Evenin’, James,” the dark one said. “We’ll have…”

“I know, Mr. Trask, I know! An Irish whiskey straight for you and a Scotch and soda for Mr. Merrill.”

“Correct, Jimmy,” Mr. Merrill said. “Just a splash of soda.”

He and Mr. Trask went to the wall bench and surrounded one of the small tables. Jimmy ducked behind the bar and went to work. I sipped at my drink. I found myself staring at the cocktail beside me, still standing untouched at the bar, as if I were a bulldog set to watch it, as if I expected it to disappear. I was being hypnotized by a daiquiri. I wrenched my eyes from Sally Kennedy’s drink and looked out into the lobby.

The two needleworkers were still hugging the fire, the mother continued to turn pages for her child, the postcard writer had not moved. And they were still the only occupants of the room. My eyes went back to the daiquiri. I wondered what would happen if it weren’t claimed in thirty days. I wondered where Jeff was. I slowed down the rhythm of my sipping at my old fashioned. I had had nothing to eat for twenty some hours. I heard Mr. Merrill and Mr. Trask converse over their drinks, without meaning to listen. Their voices became background music to my vigil.

“I never liked her,” Trask was saying. “No voice.”

“But a figure,” Merrill said.

“Yes, a figure. I’ll grant you that. But no voice.”

“A beautiful face!”

“A beautiful face, yes. But no voice.”

“She had poise, rare poise.”

“Poise enough. But no voice.”

“You, Trask, seem to demand a voice in a woman.”

“Not in a woman, my dear Merrill, just in a singer.”

I had to get down off my stool to reach Jeff’s old fashioned. Standing there, I finished it in one gulp. I put down the empty glass and regarded the daiquiri. But daiquiris and old fashioneds didn’t mix. At least, not in me. Besides, if Sally Kennedy came back and found her drink gone, she might be annoyed. I wanted her to come back, but I didn’t want her to be annoyed. I returned to my stool.

High heels clacked on the hard floor outside the taproom. I swung around. It wasn’t Sally Kennedy. It was a small woman, a mouse of a woman. Her eyes were large dark pools in her pale face. Her nose was powdered, her cheeks looked as though they had been pinched to make them rosy. Her dress was a frilly evening gown, but as modest as a Girl Scout’s uniform. She stopped a few feet from the two gentlemen, as if she were afraid to intrude but wanted so much to be welcomed by them.

They welcomed her. They rose and placed a chair for her. Trask gallantly marveled at how well she looked. She flushed from her pearl necklace to the artificial gardenia in her brown hair.

“I thought I would dress for dinner,” she said.

“Quite right that you should,” said Trask.

“I love to dress for dinner.”

“Any woman who looks as well as you…”

Jeff came into the room. He was alone. He shook his head at me, shrugged his shoulders. He sat down on the stool beside mine and picked up my glass. He didn’t seem to notice that it was mine, nor that it was empty.

“Darling,” I said, “she ordered a cocktail. She’ll come back here to drink it.”

“But where is she now?”

“Any number of places. With the manager… in his office or…”

“Yes,” Jeff said. “I’m being an alarmist again.”

He looked back at the trio by the wall. Trask was getting to his feet and the little lady was imploring him not to bother. She sprang out of her chair and darted to the bar. Her fingers curled around the cocktail glass that stood there.

“Wait!” I said involuntarily. “That… that’s Mary Thompson’s drink!”

“Yes,” the little lady said. She looked at me with puzzlement. “Yes, I’m Mary Thompson. That’s my name.”

She carried her glass away, to the table.

She placed the daiquiri on the
table She started to seat herself and then changed her mind. She turned and took a half-step back toward us. Her great dark eyes were wide, her mouth was open. Mary Thompson was completely baffled. She said to me, “What did you mean?”

“Forgive me, please,” I said. “I thought…”

“This is my drink. I ordered it.”

“I’m sure you did, but…”

“I don’t know you,” she said, “and you don’t know me. I don’t see how you could… without my knowing you. But you said that this was my drink… and you didn’t know that I was Mary Thompson. I… I don’t understand.”

“There are two Mary Thompsons,” I said, “and…”

“Oh, there are lots of Mary Thompsons. It’s a very common name. But I’m the only Mary Thompson here at Chappawan Lodge. I’m afraid that I don’t understand at all.”

She wanted very much to understand. It was very important to her. But I wasn’t the girl to clear up the matter. There was a thing or two I didn’t understand myself.

“Jeff,” I said, “help me.”

He took over. He walked toward the little lady. “Miss Thompson,” he said, “are you from New York?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed, as if he were accusing her of not being from there. “I live in Washington Heights. On Riverside Drive.”

“You arrived here this afternoon?”

“Yes! I often come up here to the Lodge. I like it up here. It’s lovely in the winter.”

“You’re in room 12?”

“I always have room 12! It’s my room!”

“See here, young man!” Trask said sternly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jeff said. “I don’t mean to upset Miss Thompson, but…” He hesitated for a second, then plunged on. “My wife and I were to meet a friend of ours up here. And we thought that, for some reason of her own, she had registered as Mary Thompson. Be-cause that was the last name in the book and she had arrived just a moment before we did. But it seems she didn’t register at all.”

“Impossible!” Merrill cried. The country squire was outraged. “Everyone who comes to a hotel must register. Law of the land.”

“Our friend,” Jeff said, “didn’t register.”

“Then,” Merrill said, “she didn’t take a room.”

“We saw the manager showing her to a room.”

“Really, young man,” Trask murmured. “Now you’re accusing Mr. Kramer, our good host, of breaking a law of the land.” His emphasis on “law of the land” twisted it into a jibe at Merrill. “I’m certain that Mr. Kramer will have an explanation of his guilt. If guilty he be.”

The waiter walked through the taproom tinkling a small bell. It was unnecessary for him to go on to the lobby. Before he was out of the bar the two elderly ladies, the mother and child, the postcard writer were streaming past us to the dining room. In their wake came Mr. Kramer. He was boiling over with good will, the shepherd about to feed his flock.

“Dinner,” he cooed. “Dinner is served.”

Trask and Merrill hesitated only a second, then their appetites won out over their curiosity. They each offered an arm to little Miss Mary Thompson and escorted her into the dining room. Kramer beamed at us.

“I see,” he said, “that you found your friend, Miss Thompson. Good!”

Jeff explained our mistake to him. He explained that it was a Miss Sally Kennedy we were looking for. He told Kramer that we must see her immediately. He was emphatic about it.

“Who is it?” Kramer asked. “The name again, please?”

Jeff repeated it, loudly, clearly.

Kramer shook his sleek head. “Are you under the impression that there is someone named Sally Kennedy stopping here?”

“Forget about the name,” Jeff said. “Maybe she did give you a phoney, after all. We want to talk to the pretty red-haired girl who got here just a moment before we did.”

“A pretty red-haired girl?”

“You showed her upstairs to her room.”

“I did?”

“Yes, we saw you. Which room did you take her to?”

“Why, the room where I take all pretty red-haired girls! My room, of course!” He laughed; he was delighted with his little joke. “And I’ve locked the door. And swallowed the key!”

Jeff said a nasty word to Mr. Kramer; Mr. Kramer was shocked and hurt.

“Oh,” he said, “I see.”

“What do you see?”

“It’s quite all right for you two children to have fun, but when I want to play…”

“Where is Sally Kennedy?”

Kramer stopped smiling. His voice was suddenly cold. “There is no Sally Kennedy staying here. I did not show her to a room. You could not have seen me showing her to a room.”

“You were going upstairs with her when we came in.”

“I was already upstairs when you came in. I saw you arrive from an upstairs window. Now, please be good enough to have some dinner. And, if you insist, we’ll discuss this afterwards. Over some rather good brandy I happen to have.” He was smiling again. “You two! How you do carry on! Come, I’ll show you to your table.”