A Series of Unfortunate Events Collection: Books 1-13 with Bonus Material

by Lemony Snicket

  “That’s an interesting question,” Klaus replied, which is another very safe answer.

  “I’m glad you find it interesting,” Ernest or Frank replied, which was an equally safe answer to Klaus’s safe answer. Then he turned to the bellgirl. “I’ll show you the newsstand in Room 168,” he said, and disappeared with the newspapers into the crowd, leaving the Baudelaires alone, standing at the desk and staring out to sea.

  “I think that was Ernest,” Violet said. “His comment about the hotel’s safety sounded very sinister.”

  “But he didn’t seem alarmed by the story in The Daily Punctilio,” Klaus said. “If Ernest is an enemy of V.F.D., he’d be on the watch for us. So that man was probably Frank.”

  “Maybe he just didn’t recognize us,” Violet said. “After all, few people recognize Count Olaf when he’s in disguise, and his disguises aren’t much better than ours. Maybe we look more like concierges than Baudelaires.”

  “Or maybe we don’t look like Baudelaires at all,” Klaus said. “As Kit said, we’re not children anymore.”

  “Nidiculous,” Sunny said, which meant something like, “I think I’m still a child.”

  “That’s true,” Klaus admitted, smiling down at his sister, “but the older we get, the less likely it is that we’ll be recognized.”

  “That should make it easier to do our errands,” Violet said.

  “What do you mean by that?” asked a familiar voice, and the Baudelaires saw that either Frank or Ernest had returned.

  “What my associate meant,” Klaus said, thinking quickly, “is that it would be easier for us to start our work as concierges if you explained how the hotel is organized.”

  “I just said I would do that,” said Frank in an annoyed voice, or Ernest in an irritated one. “Once you understand how the Hotel Denouement works, you’ll be able to perform your errands as easily as you would find a book in a library. And if you can find a book in a library, then you already know how this hotel works.”

  “Expound,” Sunny said.

  “The Hotel Denouement is organized according to the Dewey Decimal System,” Frank or Ernest explained. “That’s the same way books are organized in many libraries. For instance, if you wanted to find a book on German poetry, you would begin in the section of the library marked 800, which contains books on literature and rhetoric. Similarly, the eighth story of this hotel is reserved for our rhetorical guests. Within the 800 section of a library, you’d find books on German poetry labeled 831, and if you were to take the elevator up to the eighth story and walk into Room 831, you’d find a gathering of German poets. Understand?”

  “I think so,” said Klaus. All three Baudelaires had spent enough time in libraries to be familiar with the Dewey Decimal System, but even Klaus’s vast experience in research did not mean he had committed the entire system to memory. It is not necessary, of course, to memorize the Dewey Decimal System in order to use a library, as most libraries have catalogs, in which all of the books are listed on cards or on a computer screen to make them easier to find. “Where can we find the catalog for the Hotel Denouement’s services?”

  “Catalog?” repeated either Frank or Ernest. “You shouldn’t need a catalog. The entire 100 section of a library is dedicated to philosophy and psychology, and so is the first story of our hotel, from the reception desk, which is labeled 101 for the theory of philosophy, to the concierge desk, which is labeled 175 for the ethics of recreation and leisure, to the couches over there, which are labeled 135, for dreams and mysteries, in case our guests want to take a nap or conceal something underneath the sofa cushions. The second story is the 200s, for religion, and we have a church, a cathedral, a chapel, a synagogue, a mosque, a temple, a shrine, a shuffleboard court, and Room 296, which is currently occupied by a somewhat cranky rabbi. The third story is the social sciences, where we have placed our ballrooms and meeting rooms; the fourth story is dedicated to language, so most of our foreigners stay there. The 500s are dedicated to mathematics and science, and the sixth story is dedicated to technology, from the sauna in Room 613, which stands for the promotion of health, to Room 697, which is where we keep the controls for heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. Now, if the seventh story stands for the arts, what do you think we would find in Room 792, which stands for stage presentations?”

  Violet wanted to tie her hair up in a ribbon to help her think, but she was afraid of being recognized. “A theater?” she said.

  “You’ve obviously visited a library before,” the manager said, although the children could not tell if he was complimenting them or getting suspicious. “I’m afraid that’s not true of all of our guests, so when they are in need of any of our services, they ring for a concierge instead of wandering around the hotel by themselves. In the next day or so, you’ll probably walk through every section of the hotel, from the astronomy observatory in Room 999 to the employees’ quarters in the basement, Room 000.”

  “Is that where we sleep?” Klaus asked.

  “Well, you’re on duty twenty-four hours a day,” Ernest said, or perhaps it was Frank. “But the hotel gets very quiet at night, when the guests go to sleep, or stay up all night reading. You can nap behind the desk, and when someone rings for you it will serve as an alarm clock.”

  Frank stopped talking, or perhaps it was Ernest, and quickly looked around the room before leaning in close to the Baudelaires. The three siblings nervously looked back at Ernest through their sunglasses, or maybe it was Frank. “Your positions as concierges,” he said in his unfathomable tone, “are excellent opportunities for you to quietly observe your surroundings. People tend to treat the hotel staff as if they are invisible, so you will have the chance to see and hear quite a lot of interesting things. However, you should remember that you will also have many opportunities to be observed. Do I make myself clear?”

  This time it was Violet who needed to give a safe answer. “Hmm,” she said. “That’s an interesting question.”

  Either Frank or Ernest narrowed his eyes at the oldest Baudelaire, and seemed about to say something when the Baudelaires suddenly heard some loud, piercing ringing sounds. “Aha!” the manager cried. “Your work has begun!”

  The siblings followed Ernest or Frank around to the other side of the desk, and Frank or Ernest pointed to a vast network of tiny bells, each no larger than a thimble, which lined the back of a desk where knobs for drawers might otherwise be. Each bell had a number on it, from 000 to 999, with one extra bell that had no number at all. This extra bell was ringing, along with the bell numbered 371 and the bell numbered 674.

  “Ring!” cried either Ernest or Frank. “Ring! I shouldn’t have to tell you the bell’s your signal. We can’t keep our guests waiting for even an instant. You can tell which guest is ringing by the number on the bell. If the number written on the bell was 469, for example, you would know that one of our Portuguese guests required assistance. Are you paying attention? The bell marked 674 indicates our associates in the lumber industry, as the number 674 means lumber processing or wood products in the Dewey Decimal System. We can’t make enemies out of important guests! The number 371 indicates educational guests. Please be nice to them, too, although they’re much less important. Respond to all of our guests whenever you hear that ring!”

  “But what does that unmarked bell refer to?” Klaus asked. “The Dewey Decimal System doesn’t go higher than 999.”

  The manager frowned, as if the middle Baudelaire had given him the wrong answer. “That’s the rooftop sunbathing salon,” he said. “People who sunbathe aren’t usually interested in library science, so they’re not picky about the salon’s location. Now, get moving!”

  “But where shall we go first?” Violet said. “Guests have requested assistance in three places at once.”

  “You’ll have to split up, of course,” Frank or Ernest replied, as unfathomably as ever. “Each concierge will choose a guest and hurry to their location. Take the elevators—they’re at 118, for force and energy.
”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said another bellboy, tapping Ernest or Frank on the shoulder. “There’s a banker on the phone who wants to speak to one of the managers right away.”

  “I’d better get to work,” the manager said, “and so should you, concierges. Off with you!”

  “Off with you” is a phrase used by people who lack the courtesy to say something more polite, such as “If there’s nothing else you require, I must be going,” or “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave, please,” or even “Excuse me, but I believe you have mistaken my home for your own, and my valuable belongings for yours, and I must ask you to return the items in question to me, and leave my home, after untying me from this chair, as I am unable to do it myself, if it’s not too much trouble.” The children were not pleased to be dismissed so rudely, nor were they pleased to learn that their employment as concierges would involve such a complicated organizational method in an immense and confusing hotel. They were not pleased that they had not been able to discern which manager was Frank and which was Ernest, and they were not pleased to learn that The Daily Punctilio was alerting the city’s citizens to the Baudelaires’ arrival, and that someone might recognize them at any moment and have them arrested for crimes they had not committed. But most of all, the Baudelaires were not pleased by the notion of splitting up and doing separate errands in this perplexing hotel. They had hoped to perform their duties as concierges and flaneurs together, and with each step toward the elevators they grew more and more unhappy at the idea of leaving one another behind.

  “I’ll go to the rooftop sunbathing salon,” Violet said, trying to be brave. “Klaus, why don’t you take Room 674, and Sunny, you can take Room 371. We’ll all meet up at the concierge desk when we’re done.”

  “We’ll be able to observe more this way,” Klaus said hopefully. “With the three of us on three separate stories, we can find the impostor much more quickly.”

  “Unsafe,” Sunny said, which meant something along the lines of, “I’d rather not find the impostor if I’m all by myself.”

  “You’ll be safe, Sunny,” Klaus said. “This hotel is just like a large library.”

  “Yes,” Violet said. “And what’s the worst thing that can happen in a library?”

  The two younger Baudelaires did not answer her, and the three concierges stood in silence for a few moments, gazing at a small sign posted near the elevators’ sliding doors. When one pair of doors finally opened, the children stepped inside and pressed the appropriate buttons for their guests’ locations, and as the small elevator began to rise, the children remembered the elevator shaft at 667 Dark Avenue, which it had been necessary to climb up and down several times. The Baudelaires had learned the worst thing that could happen in an elevator shaft, which was being thrown down one by a villainous girlfriend. The Baudelaires had learned the worst thing that could happen at a lumbermill, which was being forced to cause a violent accident through the sinister power of hypnotism. And the Baudelaires had learned the worst thing that could happen at a school, which was meeting some dear friends, only to have them dragged away in a long, black automobile. The orphans learned what the worst thing was at a herpetologist’s house, and what the worst thing was in a small town, and at a hospital, and at a carnival, and at the peak of a mountaintop, and in a submarine, and a cave, and within the currents of a rushing stream, and inside the trunk of a car and in a pit full of lions and in a secret passageway and many, many other sinister places they preferred not to think about at all, and throughout all these perils they had encountered, and the countless other perils besides, they had always found a library of some sort or another, where the children managed to discover the crucial information necessary to save their skins, a phrase which here means “keep them alive for the next terrible chapter in their lives.” But now the Baudelaires’ new home was a library—a strange one, of course, but a library nonetheless—and as the elevator took them silently through the library toward their separate destinations, they did not like to wonder what the worst thing was that could happen at a library, particularly after reading the first four words on the small, posted sign. IN CASE OF FIRE, the sign read, and as the Baudelaire orphans went their separate ways, they did not like to think of that at all.

  NOT A CHAPTER

  As I’m sure you’ve noticed, most of the history of the Baudelaire orphans is organized sequentially, a word which here means “so that the events in the lives of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire are related in the order in which they occurred.” In the case of the next three chapters, however, the story is organized simultaneously, which means that you do not have to read the chapters in the order in which they appear. In chapter four, you may find the story of Violet Baudelaire’s journey up to the rooftop sunbathing salon, and the unpleasant conversation she had occasion to overhear. In chapter five, you may read about Klaus’s experience with certain members of the lumber industry, and a sinister plot that was devised right in front of his nose. And in chapter six, you may see the result of my research into Sunny’s dreadful visit to Room 371 and to a mysterious restaurant located on the ninth story. But because all of them occur at the very same time, you need not read the chapters in the sequence four-five-six, but can read them in any order you choose. Or, more sensibly, you could simply skip all three chapters, along with the seven chapters that follow them, and find some other sequential or simultaneous thing with which to occupy your time.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  When the elevator finally reached the roof, and the doors slid open to allow her to exit, Violet Baudelaire had two reasons to be grateful that her concierge disguise included sunglasses. For one thing, the rooftop sunbathing salon was very, very bright. The morning fog, so thick when the Baudelaires arrived on Briny Beach, had disappeared, and the rays of the afternoon sun beat down on the entire city, reflecting off every shiny object, from the glistening waters of the sea, which splashed against the opposite side of the hotel, to the surface of the pond, which had settled since Violet had thrown the stone. All along the edge of the roof were large, rectangular mirrors, tilted like the hotel itself, catching the blinding light of the afternoon sun and bouncing it onto the skin of the sunbathing guests. Ten sunbathers, their bare skin coated in thick, sticky lotion, lay without moving on shiny mats arranged around a heated swimming pool, which was so warm that clouds of steam were floating up from the surface. In a corner was an attendant, his eyes covered in green sunglasses and his body covered in a long, baggy robe. He was holding two enormous spatulas, such as might be used to flip pancakes, and from time to time he would reach out with a spatula and flip over one of the sunbathers, so that their bellies and backs would be the same shade of brown. The spatulas, like the mirrors and the mats and the pool, reflected the light of the sun, and Violet was glad her eyes were shielded.

  But there was another reason the eldest Baudelaire was grateful for the sunglasses, and it had to do with the person who was waiting impatiently by the doors to the elevator. This person was also wearing sunglasses, although these were much more unusual. Instead of lenses, there were two large cones sticking out from the eyes, getting wider and wider until they stopped, as wide as dinner plates, several feet in front of the person’s face. Such a pair of glasses might have concealed the identity of the person who was wearing them, but they were so ridiculous that Violet knew there could be only one person so obsessed with being fashionable that she would wear such ridiculous eyewear, and Violet was grateful that her own identity was concealed.

  “Here you are at last,” said Esmé Squalor. “I thought I’d never see you here.”

  “Pardon me?” Violet asked nervously.

  “Are you deaf, concierge?” Esmé demanded. Her scornful frown was lined with silver lipstick, as if she had been drinking molten metal, and she pointed an accusing finger with a long, silver nail. The nails had been filed into individual shapes, so that each hand spelled “E-S-M-É,” with the thumbnail carved into
the familiar symbol of an eye. The letters were painted to match Esmé’s sandals, which had long, frilly straps that ran around and around the notorious girlfriend’s bare legs like centipedes. The rest of Esmé’s outfit, I regret to say, consisted of three large leaves of lettuce, attached to her body with tape. If you have ever seen the bathing garment known as the bikini, then you can guess where these pieces of lettuce were attached, and if you cannot guess then I advise you to ask someone of your acquaintance who is not as squeamish as I am about discussing the bodies of villainous women. “Glamorous people like myself don’t have time to be nice to the deaf,” she snarled. “I rang the concierge bell more than two minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting the entire time!”

  “I can see the headline now,” crowed another voice. “‘UNBELIEVABLY GLAMOROUS AND BEAUTIFUL WOMAN COMPLAINS ABOUT HOTEL SERVICE!’ Wait until the readers of The Daily Punctilio see that!”

  Violet was so relieved not to be recognized that she hadn’t noticed who was standing next to Count Olaf’s treacherous girlfriend. Geraldine Julienne was the irresponsible journalist who had printed so many lies about the Baudelaires, and she wasn’t happy to see that the reporter had become one of Esmé’s sycophants, a word which here means “people who enjoy flattering people who enjoy being flattered.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Violet said, in as professional a tone as she could muster. “The concierges are particularly busy today. What is it you require?”

  “It’s not what I require,” Esmé said, “it’s what the adorable little girl in the pool requires.”

  “I’m not an adorable little girl!” Yet another familiar voice came from the direction of the heated pool, and Violet turned to see Carmelita Spats, a spoiled and unpleasant child the Baudelaires had first encountered at boarding school, who had gone on to join Count Olaf and Esmé Squalor in performing treacherous deeds. “I’m a ballplaying cowboy superhero soldier pirate!” she cried, emerging from a cloud of steam. She was wearing an outfit as ridiculous as Esmé’s, though thankfully it wasn’t as revealing. She had on a bright blue jacket, covered with shiny medals such as are given to people for military service, which was unbuttoned to reveal a white shirt that proclaimed the name of a sports team in curly blue letters. Stapled to the back of her jacket was a long, blue cape, and on her feet were a pair of bright blue boots with spurs, which are tiny wheels of spikes used to urge animals to move more quickly than they might otherwise prefer. She had a blue patch covering one of her eyes, and on her head was a blue triangular hat with a skull and crossbones printed on it—the symbol that pirates use while prowling the high seas. Carmelita Spats, of course, was not on the high seas, but had managed to drag a large, wooden boat to the rooftop sunbathing salon so she could prowl a high swimming pool. On the bow of the boat was an ornately carved figurehead, a word which here means “wooden statue of an octopus attacking a man in a diving suit,” and there was a tall mast, stretching up toward the sky, which held a billowing sail that had the insignia of an eye matching the one on Count Olaf’s ankle. The eldest Baudelaire stared for a moment at this hideous figurehead, but then turned her attention to Carmelita. The last time Violet had seen the unpleasant captain of this boat, she was dressed all in pink, and was announcing herself as a tap-dancing ballerina fairy princess veterinarian, but the eldest Baudelaire could hardly say whether being a ballplaying cowboy superhero soldier pirate was better or worse.