“Of course you are, darling,” purred Esmé, and turned to Geraldine Julienne with a smile one mother might give another at a playground. “Carmelita has been a tomboy lately,” she said, using an insulting term inflicted on girls whose behavior some people find unusual.
“I’m sure your daughter will grow out of it,” Geraldine replied, who as usual was speaking into a microphone.
“Carmelita Spats is not my daughter,” Esmé said haughtily. “I’d no sooner have children of my own than I would wear modest clothing.”
“I thought you adopted three orphans,” Geraldine said.
“When it was in,” Esmé hurriedly added, using her usual word for “fashionable.” “But orphans are out now.”
“Then what’s in?” asked Geraldine breathlessly.
“Planning cocktail parties in hotels, of course!” crowed Esmé. “Why else would I let a ridiculous woman like yourself interview me?”
“How wonderful!” cried Geraldine, who appeared not to realize she had just been insulted. “I can see the headline now: ‘ESMÉ SQUALOR, THE MOST GLAMOROUS PERSON EVER!’ Wait until the readers of The Daily Punctilio see that! When they read about your career as an actress, financial advisor, girlfriend, and cocktail party hostess, they’ll get so excited that some of them will probably have heart attacks!”
“I hope so,” Esmé said.
“I’m sure my readers will want to know all about your stylish outfit,” Geraldine said, holding her microphone under Esmé’s chin. “Will you tell us something about those unusual glasses you’re wearing?”
“They’re sunoculars,” Esmé said, patting her strange eyewear. “They’re a combination of sunglasses and binoculars. They’re very in, and this way I can watch the skies without getting the sun in my eyes—or the moon, if something should happen to arrive at night.”
“Why would you want to watch the skies?” Geraldine asked curiously.
Esmé frowned, and Violet could tell that the stylish woman had let something slip, a phrase which here means “said something she wished she hadn’t.” “Because birdwatching is very in,” she said unconvincingly, a word which here means “clearly telling a lie.”
“Wait until the readers of The Daily Punctilio hear that!” gasped Geraldine. “Will all the guests at your cocktail party be wearing sunoculars?”
“No matter what the guests are wearing,” Esmé said with a smirk, “they won’t be able to see the surprises we have in store for them.”
“What surprises?” Geraldine asked eagerly.
“If I told you what they were,” Esmé said, “they wouldn’t be surprises.”
“Couldn’t you give me a hint?” Geraldine asked.
“No,” Esmé said.
“Not even a little one?” Geraldine asked.
“No,” Esmé said.
“Pretty please?” Geraldine whined. “Pretty please with sugar on top?”
Esmé’s silver-coated lips curled thoughtfully. “If I give you a hint,” she said, “you’ll have to tell me something, too. You’re a reporter, so you know all sorts of interesting information. Before I reveal my special hors d’oeuvres for Thursday’s cocktail party, I want you to tell me something about a certain guest at this hotel. He’s been lurking around the basement, plotting to spoil our party. His initials are J. S.”
“Lurking around the basement?” Geraldine repeated. “But J. S. is—”
“Esmé!” Carmelita screamed from the swimming pool, interrupting at just the worst moment. “That concierge is just standing there, when she’s supposed to be at my beck and call! She’s nothing but a cakesniffer!”
Esmé turned to Violet, who was used to being called a cakesniffer after all this time. “What are you waiting for?” she snarled. “Go get whatever that darling little girl wants!”
Esmé twirled around and marched away, and Violet was glad to see that the villainous girlfriend’s outfit had two more lettuce leaves than had been visible from the front. The eldest Baudelaire was sorry to stop performing her flaneur errands and begin her duties as a concierge, but she stepped to the edge of the swimming pool, walking carefully on the tilted roof of the hotel and peering into the clouds of steam. “What is it you want, miss?” she asked, hoping Carmelita would not recognize her voice.
“A harpoon gun, of course!” Carmelita said. “Countie said that I can’t be a ballplaying cowboy superhero soldier pirate without a harpoon gun.”
“Who’s Countie?” Geraldine asked.
“Esmé’s boyfriend,” Carmelita said. “He thinks I’m the most darling, special little girl in the entire world. He said if I used my harpoon gun properly he would teach me how to spit like a real ballplaying cowboy superhero soldier pirate!”
“I can see the headline now,” Geraldine said into her microphone. “‘BALLPLAYING COWBOY SUPERHERO SOLDIER PIRATE LEARNS TO SPIT!’ Wait until the readers of The Daily Punctilio see that!”
“I’ll fetch you a harpoon gun, miss.” Violet promised, ducking to avoid the attendant’s spatula, which was overturning a sunbathing woman.
“Stop calling me ‘miss,’ you cakesniffer!” Carmelita said. “I’m a ballplaying cowboy superhero soldier pirate!”
Fetching objects for people who are too lazy to fetch them for themselves is never a pleasant task, particularly when the people are insulting you, but as Violet walked back to the elevator and pressed the button for it to arrive, she was not thinking about Carmelita’s atrocious behavior. She was too preoccupied, a word which here means “wondering what exactly Esmé Squalor and Carmelita Spats were doing at the Hotel Denouement.” The two unsavory females knew full well about V.F.D. and the plans for Thursday’s gathering, but the eldest Baudelaire did not believe for a minute that all they were planning was a cocktail party. As the doors slid open and Violet stepped inside, she wondered why Esmé was using her sunoculars to search the skies. She wondered what Carmelita wanted with a harpoon gun. She wondered how Esmé knew about the impostor J. S., who was apparently lurking around the basement of the hotel. But most of all, she wondered where Count Olaf—or, as Carmelita liked to call him, “Countie”—was hiding, and what treachery he was planning.
Violet was thinking so hard about her observations as a flaneur that it was only when the elevator doors shut that she remembered her errand as a concierge, and realized that she had no idea where to find a harpoon gun. Harpoon guns are not part of the usual equipment provided by a hotel, and the only time Violet had seen such a device was in Esmé Squalor’s own hands, back when she was disguised as a policewoman at the Village of Fowl Devotees. Even if the Hotel Denouement had thought to keep such a thing in the building, Violet could not imagine where she might find it in the Dewey Decimal System without a catalog. She wished Klaus were with her, as the only number of the Dewey Decimal System she knew by heart was 621, which labeled her favorite section, applied physics. With a glum sigh, the eldest Baudelaire pressed the button for the lobby.
“You’re asking me for help?” cried either Frank or Ernest, when Violet managed to find him. The lobby of the Hotel Denouement was even more crowded than when the Baudelaires had arrived, and it took Violet a few minutes before she could find the familiar figure of the volunteer or his villainous brother. “I’m the one who needs help,” he said. “An astonishing number of guests have arrived earlier than expected. I have no time to be a concierge helper.”
“I realize that you’re busy, sir,” Violet said. She knew that calling a person “sir” can often help you get what you want, unless of course the person is a woman. “A guest has requested a harpoon gun, and I don’t know where to find one. I wish the Hotel Denouement had a catalog.”
“You shouldn’t need a catalog,” the manager said. “Not if you’re who I think you are.”
Violet gasped, and either Frank or Ernest took one step closer to her. “Are you?” he asked. “Are you who I think you are?”
Violet blinked behind her sunglasses. There are people in this world who say that s
ilence is golden, which simply means that they prefer a calm and peaceful hush to the noise and clutter of the world. There is nothing wrong with such a preference, but sadly there are times when a calm and peaceful hush is simply not possible. If you are watching the sun set, for instance, silence may permit you to be alone with your thoughts as you gaze at the darkening landscape, but it may be necessary to make a loud noise to scare off any grizzly bears that may be approaching. If you are riding in a taxi, you might prefer silence so you can study your map in peace, but the occasion may require you to shout, “Please turn around! I think they’ve driven through those hedges!” And if you have lost a loved one, as the Baudelaires did on the fateful day of a fire, you may wish very dearly for a long period of silence, so you and your siblings can contemplate your puzzling and woeful situation, but you may find yourself tossed from one dangerous situation to another, and another, and another, so that you begin to think you will never find yourself in a calm and peaceful hush. As Violet stood in the lobby, she wanted nothing more than to be silent, so that she might further observe the man standing next to her, and discover if he was a volunteer, to whom she could say, “Yes, I’m Violet Baudelaire,” or a villain, to whom she could say, “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she knew that she could not not hope for a calm and peaceful hush in the chaos of Hotel Denouement, and so rather than remain silent she answered the manager’s question as best she could.
“Of course I’m who you think I am,” she said, feeling as if she were talking in code, although in a code she did not know. “I’m a concierge.”
“I see,” said Frank or Ernest unfathomably. “And who is requesting the harpoon gun?”
“A young girl on the roof,” Violet said.
“A young girl on the roof,” the manager repeated with a sly smile. “Are you sure a harpoon gun should be given to a young girl on the roof?”
Violet did not know how to answer him, but fortunately this appeared to be one of the times when silence is in fact golden, because at her silence, Frank or Ernest gave the eldest Baudelaire another smile and then turned on his heel—a phrase which here means “turned around in a somewhat fancy manner”—and beckoned Violet to follow him to a far corner of the lobby, where she saw a small door marked 121. “This number stands for epistemology,” he explained, using a word which here means “theories of knowledge” and looking hurriedly around the lobby as if he were being watched. “I thought it would be a good hiding place.”
Frank or Ernest took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door, which swung open with a quiet creak to reveal a small, bare closet. The only thing in the closet was a large, wicked-looking object, with a bright red trigger and four long, sharp hooks. The eldest Baudelaire recognized it from her stay in the Village of Fowl Devotees. She knew it was a harpoon gun, a deadly device that ought not to be in the hands of anyone, let alone Carmelita Spats. Violet did not want to touch it herself, but as the manager stood at the door gazing at her, she could think of no other choice, and carefully removed the device from the closet.
“Be very careful with this,” the manager said in an unfathomable tone. “A weapon like this should only be in the hands of the right person. I’m grateful for your assistance, concierge. Not many people have the courage to help with a scheme like this.”
Violet nodded silently, and silently took the heavy weapon from Frank or Ernest’s hands. In silence she walked back to the elevators, her head spinning with her mysterious observations as a flaneur and her mysterious errand as a concierge, and in silence she stood at the sliding elevator doors, wondering which manager she had spoken to, and what precisely she had said to him in her coded, quiet response. But just before the elevator arrived, Violet’s silence was shattered by an enormous noise.
The clock in the lobby of the Hotel Denouement is the stuff of legend, a phrase which here means “very famous for being very loud.” It is located in the very center of the ceiling, at the very top of the dome, and when the clock announces the hour, its bells clang throughout the entire building, making an immense, deep noise that sounds like a certain word being uttered once for each hour. At this particular moment, it was three o’clock, and everyone in the hotel could hear the booming ring of the enormous bells of the clock, uttering the word three times in succession: Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
As she boarded the elevator, the harpoon gun heavy and sinister in her gloved hands, Violet Baudelaire felt as if the clock were scolding her for her efforts at solving the mysteries of the Hotel Denouement. Wrong! She had tried her best to be a flaneur, but hadn’t observed enough to decode the scheme of Esmé Squalor and Carmelita Spats. Wrong! She had tried to communicate with one of the hotel’s managers, but had been unable to discover whether he was Frank or Ernest. And—most Wrong! of all—she was now taking a deadly weapon to the rooftop sunbathing salon, where it would serve some unknown, sinister purpose. With each strike of the clock, Violet felt wronger and wronger, until at last she reached her destination, and stepped out of the elevator. She dearly hoped her two siblings had found more success in their errands, for as she walked across the roof, avoiding a spatula as it flipped the guests on their mirrored mats, until at last she could hoist the harpoon gun into Carmelita’s eager and ungrateful hands, all the eldest Baudelaire could think was that everything was wrong, wrong, wrong.
CHAPTER
Five
When the elevator reached the sixth story, Klaus bade good-bye to Violet and stepped out into a long, empty hallway. The hallway was lined with numbered doors, odd numbers on one side and even numbers on the other, and large ornamental vases, too large to hold flowers and too small to hold spies. On the floor was a smooth, gray carpet that muffled each of the middle Baudelaire’s uncertain steps. Although Klaus had never set foot in the Hotel Denouement before today, walking down the hallway gave him a familiar feeling. It was the feeling he had whenever he entered a library with an important problem to solve, suspecting that somewhere within the library’s collection of books was the perfect answer to whatever question was foremost on his mind. He had this feeling when he and his siblings were living just off Lousy Lane, and he solved the murder of Uncle Monty with crucial information he discovered in a herpetological library. He had this feeling when he and his siblings were deep in the ocean, and he managed to dilute the poison infecting Sunny by finding a significant fact in a mycological library belonging to Fiona, a young woman who had broken Klaus’s heart. And as he stood in the hallway, gazing at all of the numbered doors that stretched out as far as his eyes could see, Klaus Baudelaire had the feeling again. Hidden somewhere in this hotel, he was sure, was something or someone that could answer all the Baudelaires’ questions, solve all of the Baudelaires’ mysteries, and put an end at last to all the Baudelaires’ woes. It was as if he could hear this answer calling to him, like a baby crying at the bottom of a damp well, or an alarm clock ringing underneath a heap of damp blankets.
Without a catalog, however, Klaus had no idea where such a solution might be, so he made his way toward his concierge errand in Room 674, hoping that whatever he would observe as a flaneur might bring him closer to unraveling the Baudelaires’ list of misfortunes. When he stopped in front of the numbered door, however, it appeared that he was only adding another misfortune to this woeful list. Smoke was pouring out of the gap between the door and the floor, spreading out across the hallway like a sinister stain.
“Hello?” Klaus called, knocking on the door.
“Hello yourself,” called back a voice that sounded slightly familiar and utterly unconcerned. “Are you one of those concertinas?”
“I’m a concierge,” Klaus said, not bothering to explain that a concertina is a kind of accordion. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Of course you can be of assistance!” the voice called back. “That’s why I rang for you! Enter at once!”
Klaus, of course, did not want to enter a room that was filled with smoke, but working, even for the purpos
es of secretly observing the mysteries of a hotel, usually means doing things you do not want to do, so the middle Baudelaire opened the door, releasing an enormous amount of smoke into the hallway, and took a few hesitant steps into the room. Through the smoke he could see a short figure, dressed in a suit of shiny green cloth, standing at the far end of the room, facing the window. Behind his back he held a cigar that was clearly responsible for all the smoke wafting past Klaus into the hallway. But Klaus did not care about the smoke. He hardly even noticed it. He merely stared in dismay at the person standing at the window, a person he had hoped he would never see again.
A Series of Unfortunate Events Collection: Books 1-13 with Bonus Material Page 136