Odds On: A Novel

by Michael Crichton

  Cynthia regarded Peter with less distaste than disinterest. She had been pleasantly but thoroughly exhausted by Jean-Paul the day before, and this morning she had no stomach for men. Miguel had unloaded this panting kid on her, and she resented it—though only mildly. She felt everything mildly today; she lacked the strength for strong emotions.

  “Would you like a drink?” Peter asked. His eyes were shining. Cynthia thought he looked as if he wanted to scratch his crotch.

  “Jesus, no,” she said. The very idea of drink was horrible.

  “Perhaps some lemonade? Coffee?”

  What was the matter with this boy, anyway? Did he think he had to pour liquid down her or she would walk away?

  “Come join me at the pool,” she said wearily. He leaped up, and together they walked outside to the pool. Peter brought the rest of his double bourbon with him. They found two chairs on the grass, some distance from some squealing, splashing brats who had temporarily monopolized the pool. Cynthia noticed idly that a four-year-old boy was trying to strangle his little sister. Good for him, she thought.

  She flopped down in a chair, shut her eyes, and turned her face up to the sun. Peter sat beside her, making fidgeting, restless sounds.

  “Cigarette?” he asked.

  She smelled tobacco near her nose. She was very sensitive to smells this morning. “No thanks.”

  His lighter clicked; he was lighting one of his own. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”

  “No, no.” A far, conscientious corner of her mind told her to talk to him, but she simply wasn’t up to it. Not this morning. Besides, he was so crashingly, nervously dull. Like a pregnant hummingbird, she thought, suspended above a pink carnation.

  My God, she thought, am I still high?

  The sun warmed her face and shoulders, and she relaxed. Peter was talking to her in his scratchy, tense voice; she ignored him. She began to feel beautifully warm. In a few moments, she was asleep.

  Jencks was sitting at a table on the fourth-floor terrace, drinking his morning coffee. The wrinkled old woman was talking to him as she sipped tea and peeled one banana after another.

  “It’s so very pleasant here,” she was saying. “Don’t you agree? I have always felt that spending time in a hotel such as this is rather like returning to the womb, in a manner of speaking. You understand my point, I’m sure; you seem an intelligent young man. What did you say you did?”

  “I’m an industrial programmer,” Jencks said.

  “Is that television?”

  He smiled. “No, computers.”

  “How fascinating!” Her face darkened as she popped a large chunk of banana into her wrinkled mouth.

  “Gone bad?” he asked.

  “No, it’s just fine. Lovely fruit in Spain, you know. It’s just … did you mention this computer business to me before?” She seemed very concerned. “I am afraid my memory isn’t all that it used to be. Age hath its compensations, but a good memory isn’t one of them.”

  “I can’t remember,” Jencks said, knowing perfectly well that she had not asked his occupation earlier. “Just woke up. I’m always half-asleep for the first two hours of the day.”

  “Like a zombie,” Miss Shaw said, cackling. Her jowls quivered, and little flakes of talcum powder and rouge were shaken free.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he said.

  “No, of course not. Excuse me, I keep forgetting you Americans are so literal. You must learn to take yourselves less seriously. It’s the result of the atom bomb, I expect,” she said. “Do you enjoy your computers?”

  “Yes, actually. They can do incredible things.”

  “So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard. I confess it’s quite beyond me. Although,” she said, “I understand that shipping companies now use computers to tell them when to send boats to pick up the banana harvest. Now that’s progress, and don’t think I’m unappreciative. I adore bananas.”

  “Delicious,” Jencks said. “Are you staying here long?”

  “Not long. Just through the weekend. I’m on my way back to Brighton to visit my maiden sister. I’m maiden, too, but I don’t let it bother me. Not at my age. How long are you staying?”

  “About a week,” Jencks said. “I’m not sure.”

  “And then you return to the United States? I’ve never been, myself.”

  “No, then I’m going to Rome. Consultation with some Italian industrial firms. Computers are just getting a foot in the door there.”

  “Yes, but they’re getting a foot in the door everywhere. Soon we shall all be a series of little holes on somebody’s file card. I find that prospect depressing, frankly. Are you married?”

  “No,” Jencks said. He displayed just the right amount of embarrassment about the subject. Normally, people would notice his discomfiture and drop the subject immediately.

  “You should be,” Miss Shaw said. “A bright young man like you needs a wife. You must have a very good job, in a field with a future.” She looked at him over her tea, awaiting confirmation.

  “I just haven’t gotten around to it, I guess.”

  Miss Shaw shook her head, as if to say it was quite beyond normal comprehension.

  “How did you come here?” Jencks asked. It seemed unlikely that she would drive herself.

  “My chauffeur,” Miss Shaw said. “Marvelous chap, simply gorgeous, though a bit messy as a person. French, you know. That may account for it. But he drives well.”

  “Unusual in a Frenchman. What kind of car is it?”

  “Oh, one of those American Continentals. The houseboats. I detest it, of course, but it is so comfortable. Simply divine, the seats. And I’ve had it fitted out with a portable teapot, so I’m quite at home.”

  Clearly, Jencks thought, this was a woman to investigate further. He considered how to maneuver discussion to the subject of rooms.

  “Do you have a nice room?” Miss Shaw asked.

  “Fine, thanks, though it doesn’t face the sea.”

  “What a pity. Although if you’re high up, you have a nice view over the wooded hills. When I was here the last time, they put me on the third floor, and it was very pleasant indeed.” Again, she looked at him for confirmation.

  “I’m on the second floor,” Jencks said. “Where are you?”

  “Second floor as well. Fancy that. What number are you?”

  “205.”

  “Ah, well, we’re hardly neighbors, Mr. Jencks. I’m 257.

  They laughed. Miss Shaw had a twinkle in her eye.

  “Do you know—if you’ll excuse me—I think that you are a little bored and restless. Is that true?”

  “Well,” Jencks said, “yes.”

  “What you need is something to pep you up, get your blood moving. A different experience. A little excitement.”

  “True,” Jencks said, thinking of Jenny. Then of the robbery.

  “Something new and daring.”

  “I agree.”

  “Something unusual, out of the way.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Well,” said Miss Shaw, leaning close. “I’ll tell you.”

  Annette was happy. The world seemed to her pleasant and optimistic; her work was fascinating; her clothes looked well on her; the staff was not loafing as much as usual; the guests were relatively quiet and uncomplaining. Though she arrived an hour late for work, she had breezed through the usual morning paperwork, humming to herself. The doorman gave her a knowing look, which she returned with a wide and genuine smile. She was happy—unreasonably, incredibly happy.

  But it was a surprise to see Mr. Bonnard waddle up to the desk shortly before noon. He had never appealed to her—she found him physically unattractive and intellectually uninteresting, which made for a good business relationship between them. She did not know much about his private life, except that his wife had died during the war, and that he had been married to hotels ever since. On his days off, he drove south toward Barcelona, returning late at night. Nobody knew what he
did, and Annette had never inquired.

  “Miss Dumarche,” he said, rather stiffly, “I will not be taking the day off.”

  She had never known him to do such a thing before. “Is it anything to do with the hotel?”

  “No.” He reconsidered that. “Well, not exactly. To be completely honest, I awoke this morning with a—a premonition. Something is going to happen, I’m sure of it.”

  “I see.” What could she say? It was hard enough to keep from laughing. At times, he really was an absurd little man.

  Mr. Bonnard rubbed his fingers. He seemed genuinely distressed. “I do not normally have such feelings, but this one was unusually compelling. I feel that I should not leave today; nor, in fact, for the rest of the weekend. So,” he said, breathing deeply and standing as straight as he could, “I will be in my office as usual. By the way, what have you heard recently about the guests?”

  Annette shrugged. In truth, she had heard nothing, and she had thought little about the hotel in the last few days. She was pleasantly distracted. “Nothing much.”

  “Any news about 313?”

  “She seems to be a very warm young woman.”

  “You mean she is sleeping around?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Professional?”

  “I don’t know. She is checking out on Monday.”

  “And what about all the single men?”

  Annette smiled. “They seem to like her.”

  “This is no time for levity,” he said, scratching his thinning hair. “I am most concerned, Miss Dumarche. Most concerned. I feel something terrible is about to happen. We must prevent it.”

  “Of course,” Annette said, feeling ridiculous.

  “Be sure you notify me if anything happens,” he said vaguely, and walked off toward his office.

  Annette was frankly puzzled.

  “What’s got into him?” the switchboard girl asked, as Bonnard left.

  “I don’t know. He’s worried about something.” She rapped her desk with a pencil. It was strange, completely unlike him. Mr. Bonnard was not a worrier; he prided himself on his efficiency, on his control of the situation.

  “Did he receive any calls this morning?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” the switchboard girl said. “One came at 7 a.m. I put it through to his room. It was long distance from Barcelona.”

  “And?”

  The switchboard girl looked hurt. “And what?”

  “You listened in, didn’t you?”

  “Please,” the girl said, in a shocked voice.

  Annette snorted impatiently.

  “I was too busy,” the girl finally said. “Three other calls came in right afterward. I had to put them through.”

  “So you have no idea what the topic of conversation was?”

  “No,” the girl said, “I don’t.”

  “Was it a long call?”

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  It must have been quite a call, Annette thought, if Mr. Bonnard had canceled his day off.

  Jean-Paul groaned, and rolled over in bed toward the phone. He picked up the receiver, dropped it, picked it up again. He was having trouble seeing. “Hello?”

  “Clumsy,” Miss Shaw snapped.

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you expect to lie in bed all morning?”

  Even over the phone, her voice was sharp. He looked down at himself, and saw he had fallen asleep with all his clothes on. He was a mess.

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Earn your salary.”

  The phone was dead. He winced as he discovered a pounding headache and stumbled into the bathroom to find his aspirin.

  Sitting in an armchair in his room, Jencks looked up. An envelope was being slipped under his door. He opened it and found Bryan’s list. He wondered briefly why he hadn’t come in, but Bryan would have a good reason, whatever it was …

  Probably that girl, he thought, smiling to himself. A thorough researcher, Bryan. He took the new list and ticked the rooms off against the master sheet. There were no duplications. That was encouraging.

  Mr. Bonnard looked up from his desk at Annette, who had just stepped into his office. “A Mr. Jencks to see you,” she said in Spanish. “A guest.”

  Mr. Bonnard raised his eyebrows, asking silently if it concerned a complaint; he seemed nervous, on edge. She shook her head and stepped back, allowing an enormous American to walk into the office. He was not really so tall, just big, heavyset and broad-shouldered, with the bunched muscles of an athlete. His face had the coarseness which Mr. Bonnard associated with athletes—gross ones, like weight-lifters and boxers.

  Mr. Bonnard stood and extended his hand. “How do you do?” Bonnard expected a bone-crushing grip, but received none. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to a padded, tan leather chair. His office was small, and so he had made certain that it was furnished in light colors, to make it appear larger. He did it not out of vanity, but simply to be comfortable. He spent a good deal of time in his office.

  Jencks sat down and beamed a broad, slightly foolish smile. “I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “that I think you’re running a damned fine little hotel here.”

  Mr. Bonnard was startled, and his face must have shown it.

  “You do understand English, don’t you?” Jencks asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for your compliment, Mr. Jencks.”

  Jencks relaxed in his chair and smiled again. “Not at all. I don’t mind telling you, I can appreciate the kind of job you people are doing here. From a professional standpoint, I mean. I’m an insurance salesman. It is easy for me to see how well you’re handling your possible risks at the Reina. I’m very pleased to see it. I believe in telling people what I think, and not just when I have a complaint. I complain about bad service and sloppy management, but fair’s fair. I wanted you to know that in my book, you’re doing a damned fine job. Damned fine.”

  He seemed suddenly embarrassed, as if he had run out of words. Filling the silence, Mr. Bonnard said quickly, “You’re kind to take the trouble to say so. And I hope you will not hesitate to inform us of any lapses in the treatment you receive here. It has always been my personal belief that a customer does a hotel a disservice if he does not report any irregularity.”

  Jencks nodded, and stood. It was an inane conversation, but necessary for his purposes. He did not understand why Bonnard was so nervous, but perhaps he was always nervous.

  “I’ll certainly do that,” Jencks said. “And I’ll certainly recommend this hotel to all my friends.” He held out his hand and said, “Oh, one thing. Can you handle large parties—banquets, things like that?”

  Behind him, the door opened.

  “There’s your answer, Mr. Jencks,” Bonnard said.

  Jencks turned to face a policeman, swarthy and grim looking.

  AFTERNOON, JUNE TWENTIETH

  JENCKS FELT A SICK, twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was impossible; they couldn’t know, couldn’t have discovered. This couldn’t be happening to him.

  He clenched his teeth and faced Bonnard. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Bonnard looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “Outside,” the policeman said, nodding over his shoulder to the door.

  “What did he say?” Jencks asked Bonnard, although he understood perfectly well.

  “He wants you to leave. He and I have some business to discuss. You see, an important government official is giving a party tomorrow—his daughter’s wedding reception, to be exact—and I have—”

  “Outside,” the policeman said again, placing a firm hand on Jencks’ shoulder. Jencks shrugged it off, still pretending fury though relief was flooding through him.

  “How can you sit still for this? It is an outrage. It is—”

  “Mr. Jencks,” Bonnard said wearily, “you are in Spain. In certain cases, we must make allowances. I will be most happy to speak further with you, but now …” He gestured
toward the door.

  “All right,” Jencks said, pushing past the cop and slamming the door behind him. He went directly to the bar, ordered a vermouth, and took it to a side table. It was only then that he allowed himself to react to the situation. He shivered violently for several seconds, then knocked back his drink. That was a close call. He had very nearly given himself away in a moment of shock.

  The drink calmed him, and he began to think more rationally, his mind returning to calmness. Official reception or not, their project could proceed as planned; his visit to Bonnard’s office had accomplished what he had hoped. He had seen the interior of the office and satisfied himself that nothing had been rearranged, no furniture had been shifted. He would easily find his way through that office in the dark on Saturday night.

  Bryan came in, looking just as desperate as Jencks had some minutes before. He got a drink from the bar and brought it over to Jencks’ table.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this,” Jencks said. “We don’t know each other, remember?”

  “Cops,” Bryan said. “Cops all over the place. In the halls, all over the lobby, behind the desk checking the guest register. What the hell is it?”

  Jencks explained what he knew, but Bryan did not seem satisfied.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “I don’t like it one bit.”

  “We have nothing to worry about. They’ll be checking the guest list for politicals. We’re not in that category.” Jencks paused. “Are we?”

  “Not me,” Bryan said. “Not Miguel, either. But I don’t like it anyway.”

  “Finish your drink.”

  Jencks sat for some minutes in silence, thinking. At last, he said, “Later this afternoon, stop by the desk and say you’ve heard a rumor about an official reception. Find out when it’s being held, and anything else you can about it.”

  “I’m meeting her for drinks this afternoon,” Bryan said.

  “Good,” Jencks said. “That will be perfect.”

  What the hell, Miguel thought. Cops all over the place. What kind of a deal was this? He looked down the second floor hallway. He had just stopped by Jencks room in the hope of catching him in—he wanted to know about all these cops. Cops made him nervous.