Warren was hoping to find time after the morning service to search for the journal, but he was delayed by guests asking for a million different things:
DESTRUCTION WAS EVERYWHERE
“Is there a wrench I can use?”
“Can someone unlock this door?”
“Do you have a map of the grounds?”
Evidence of destruction was everywhere. Vases were smashed, canvases were torn, vents were wedged open and tossed carelessly aside. If Warren had been annoyed by Annaconda’s destruction, the disarray caused by the new guests nearly drove him mad! They lacked all restraint. A man had used a claw hammer to chip through a bathtub. A woman with a trowel was excavating the front lawn. Another woman had stepped into one of the holes, and now she complained of a twisted ankle. With every new crisis, Warren felt himself growing angrier and angrier. His father always treated guests politely regardless of the circumstances, but this was ridiculous!
The final straw came when Warren found guests vandalizing the hedge maze. At first it seemed harmless enough: a few people hopelessly lost had clawed through the brambles in an attempt to escape. But soon everybody was hacking at branches and slashing shortcuts through the shrubbery. A few were even digging trenches to crawl underneath.
Warren heard the roar of a motorized saw and rushed to the center of the maze. There he found a lumberjack about to slice through a beautiful specimen bush.
he cried, throwing himself in front of the blade.
“Outta my way!” growled the man.
“I’ve had quite enough!” Warren said. “If you want to cut through the hedges, you’ll have to go through me first!”
For a moment, the lumberjack seemed to consider the idea–but then he thought better of it. “Crazy kid,” he snarled and stalked off.
Warren exhaled with relief. His victory was small, but it was a victory nonetheless. He exited the maze and returned to the hotel, where he proceeded to clean up one mess after another. At this rate, he’d never have a chance to search for the Eye.
Warren was sweeping plaster on the fourth floor when Petula approached in a rush. “This is awful,” she said. “Your guests are running wild!”
“It’s worse than awful,” said Warren. “Every time I start looking for the journal, I’m interrupted by–”
But again he was interrupted, this time by a loud clatter. Down the hall, the gentleman jeweler was fighting the fur-bedecked barbarian; the former had dared slap the latter across the cheek with his elegant white gloves. The barbarian retaliated by grabbing the jeweler, raising him over his head, and throwing him into a grandfather clock. The ancient family heirloom smashed to the floor.
Just then the library door opened and out ran a group of teenagers. Mr. Friggs chased after them, shaking his cane and yelling unintelligibly through toothless gums. Warren and Petula helped him back into the room and then barricaded the door with a chair. Petula plucked the missing dentures off the floor, brushing them off before returning them to their owner.
GUESTS RUNNING WILD
“This is terrible! Just terrible!” said Mr. Friggs, tears springing to his eyes. “I’ve been guarding the library all day! My precious books!”
Warren looked around in dismay. The room had always been cluttered, but it was an organized sort of clutter that seemed to make sense, at least to its occupant. Now the place was in shambles, torn books and loose pages scattered all about.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Friggs,” Warren said. “I’m doing my best to control the situation, but I can’t be in a hundred places at once.”
“Your father would be heartsick to see what has become of his beloved hotel! It’s a travesty!” cried Mr. Friggs. Warren and Petula helped him into his chair and made him a cup of tea. Normally the beverage was just the thing to soothe his jagged nerves, but today he was too distressed. “If this madness goes on much longer, the whole place will be ruined!”
“Don’t worry,” Warren said with renewed determination. “I’m going to find the journal, and I’m going to find the Eye, and I’m going to get our hotel back to the way it used to be!”
“I just hope it’s not too late,” Mr. Friggs muttered, gazing into his chipped teacup.
“Stay here and keep the door locked,” Warren said. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Upon leaving the library, Petula turned to Warren. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll probably think this is a little strange,” he said, “but there’s someone I like to talk to whenever I have a problem.”
As they descended the stairs to the Hall of Ancestors, Warren braced himself for even more destruction. But to his immense relief, he saw that the gallery had mostly been spared. Paintings were removed from their hooks and some of the paper backings were shredded, but none of the portraits had been harmed beyond repair.
Beginning with the painting of Warren the 1st, Warren the 13th walked down the hallway and carefully rehung each one. His forefathers seemed to glare back in dissatisfaction. Warren the 1st had always looked stern and angry, but today even jolly Warren the 6th’s goofy smile seemed pained.
“Who are these people?” Petula asked.
“These are my ancestors,” Warren explained. “Warren the 1st designed the hotel, and Warren the 2nd built it. Warren the 3rd and all the other Warrens took care of it during their lifetimes. Now it’s my turn.”
At last Warren reached the portrait of his father. Warren the 12th was lying facedown on the floor, the frame’s paper backing slashed and ripped open; no doubt someone was hoping to find the treasure tucked inside. Warren gently lifted the portrait and turned it around, bracing for the worst. He was relieved to see his father’s kindly face intact.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Warren whispered softly. “Things are so crazy and I don’t know what to do. I wish someone would give me a clue.”
The portrait stared back with caring, patient eyes.
“That’s odd,” Petula said.
“I know it’s strange,” Warren said, feeling embarrassed, “but sometimes talking to him makes me feel better.”
“Not that, silly. This!” Petula was pointing at the portrait of Warren the 2nd. “This is the man who wrote the journal, right?”
“Yes. His father was a military general, but he was an architect.”
The portrait showed Warren Jr. seated at his desk, his arm resting casually on a pile of papers. He wore a quizzical expression and his hair stuck out at odd angles. Wireframe glasses were propped on the bridge of his long nose, giving him a wizardly air.
“Look at the portraits side by side,” Petula said. “Doesn’t it look like Warren the 1st is pointing at Warren the 2nd?”
Warren scurried over and examined the paintings more carefully. Petula was right: the hand of Warren the 1st was tucked inside his jacket, with his index finger aimed decidedly in the direction of Warren the 2nd.
“It could just be a coincidence,” Petula said. “It might not mean anything–”
“No, I think it does,” Warren murmured, concentrating hard. “I think he’s trying to show us something. Warren the 1st is pointing at the desk of Warren the 2nd!”
Warren had admired the portrait hundreds of times without ever noticing the desk or the document lying atop it. He stepped even closer and realized the paper was an architectural drawing of the hotel. He stepped closer still, nearly pushing his nose against the canvas.
A PECULIAR PORTRAIT
A VALUABLE CLUE
Right there, drawn on the blueprints of the hotel, was the picture of an eye! It couldn’t possibly be a coincidence.
“The legends have been true all along!” Petula exclaimed. “The Eye really is hidden somewhere in the hotel!”
“But where?” Warren asked. He knew every inch of the building but didn’t recognize the room with the eye. And nothing on the blueprints was labeled. “We’re running out of time. The guests are tearing the place apart. Sooner or later one of them is bound to find it!”
Petula
pointed to a little heart drawn in the center of a room adjacent to the eye. “Remember the riddle?” She recited the first two lines from memory:
“When the Heart of the Warren hears
The tone played by the rightful hand,
The All-Seeing Eye will appear.”
“The Eye must be hidden next to the Heart of the Warren,” he said.
But he was still no closer to solving the puzzle. Where in the hotel was the Heart of the Warren?
“What’s this other shape?” Warren asked, pointing to the squiggle. “It looks like a star.”
“Maybe it’s a smudge?” Petula said. “Like the artist made a mistake and tried to cover it up.”
Warren didn’t think so. Every detail in the painting was perfectly rendered. His ancestors had left him a clear and deliberate clue. If it was a splotch or a squiggle, it had to mean something.
arren and Petula arrived in the kitchen to find Chef Bunion positively frantic. “Let me guess,” he said, looking at Petula disapprovingly. “You’re here to complain about my cooking!”
“It’s okay, Chef,” Warren said. “This is my friend Petula. She’s helping me with a search.”
“And I would never complain about your cooking!” Petula added. “I had one of your omelets this morning and it was delicious!”
The compliment worked wonders. “Please, forgive me,” Chef Bunion said, taking a deep breath. “I’m under a great deal of stress. Most of our guests are simply awful! They insult my food even as they demand more, more, more! Then they come in here raiding my pantries for so-called treasure! I’d like to put them on a strict all-porridge diet!”
“That wouldn’t be much of a punishment,” Warren said. “Even your porridge is pretty tasty.”
“Well, it’s the cinnamon,” Chef Bunion said proudly. “Just a pinch in every pot and the flavor is transformed.”
“I love cinnamon,” Petula said. “I’m going to try the porridge tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll serve you a special bowl of it myself,” Chef promised. “Nice and warm!”
All the praise improved Chef’s mood tremendously, and he began preparing dinner with his usual care and good humor. “Now what’s this about a search?”
“We’re looking for an old journal,” Warren said. “A leather-bound book with pages falling out. I don’t suppose you’ve seen it?”
“As a matter of fact,” Chef said, tapping his chin with a spatula, “I may have seen it yesterday morning, during the breakfast you missed. A rather odd fellow was reading just such a book. I remember him well because of the bandages. Wrapped up like a mummy, he was.”
Warren cried.
Chef shrugged. “I didn’t catch his name.”
“The night he arrived,” Petula said, “he must have followed you into the hedge maze and stolen it!”
“We need to search his room,” Warren said. But then he remembered he hadn’t escorted Paleface and didn’t know which room was his. “We’ll check the logbook. Let’s go to the front desk.”
“Hold on,” Chef Bunion said. “You won’t get very far on an empty stomach.” He passed a fragrant bowl of thick orange-colored liquid under Warren’s nose, then offered a serving to Petula. “Roasted pumpkin soup with extra cinnamon for my good friend Warren the 13th and Petula, my new favorite guest!”
A FRAGRANT SOUP
Warren and Petula slurped their soup as quickly as possible, then hurried upstairs to the lobby. They found Uncle Rupert standing behind the check-in desk, counting stacks of money and looking very pleased.
“Hello, my boy!” he said cheerfully. “I do say, I’m beginning to see the benefits of running a hotel. All of a sudden the business is quite profitable!”
“You might want to be a little more careful,” Warren suggested. “I’m not sure I’d trust all these guests.” Given their destructiveness, Warren wasn’t sure he trusted any of them.
“Don’t worry about that, my boy!” Rupert said, making fists and jabbing them like a boxer in the ring. “If anyone tries any funny business, I’ll show them who’s boss!”
Petula seemed unimpressed with Rupert’s macho display. “May we see the logbook?” she asked.
Rupert blinked slowly, as if noticing her for the first time. “And who may I say is asking?”
“This is my friend Petula,” Warren said.
“Oh! Young romance blooms!” Rupert exclaimed. “No doubt you’ve seen the happiness shared by Annaconda and myself, and you long for a love as great as ours!”
“Ugh! No!” Warren cried. “We just want to see the logbook!”
“Come again?” Rupert asked. “The log-what?”
“That doesn’t bode well,” Petula muttered under her breath.
Warren ducked behind the desk and rooted in the drawers until he located a tattered book embossed with the word “Log.”
“Oh, that old thing!” Rupert said. “What do you need that for?”
Warren ignored his uncle’s question and began flipping through the pages while Petula peered over his shoulder. “It’s blank!” she said.
“Not exactly,” Warren said. Rupert may not have bothered to record any guest names or room numbers, but he’d been writing plenty. The pages were filled with hearts and flowery doodles twining around the name “Annaconda” written in loopy script.
THE LOGBOOK
Rupert snatched the book away. “Stay out of my diary!” he exclaimed.
“That’s not a diary!” Warren said. “It’s for recording the names of the hotel’s guests! The log is supposed to tell us which room each person is staying in.”
“But that’s so much work!” exclaimed Rupert. “We have so many rooms with so many guests, I’d be writing all afternoon!”
“Oh, never mind,” Warren said. “Just tell us what room you gave to Paleface. You know, the weird guest who’s all bandaged up and had only a small red satchel? Remember?”
“Of course I remember. Room 842,” Rupert said.
“Thank you,” Warren said, heading for the stairs.
“Or maybe it was 248,” added Rupert.
“Okay,” Petula said to Warren. “I’ll check 842 and you check 248.”
“Unless I’m confusing him with the barbarian,” Rupert continued, “in which case he’s in Room 371.”
Warren and Petula stared at him in disbelief.
“Or perhaps Room 516 or 615, I always mix those two up.” Rupert removed a pencil tucked behind his ear and began writing in the logbook, scribbling daisies around Annaconda’s name. “Or maybe 156? I feel certain there was a six … ”
Warren and Petula plodded up the stairs to the hotel’s second floor.
“Your uncle might be the most foolish person I’ve ever met,” Petula said.
“He’s just lovesick is all,” Warren said. “We’ll have to search every floor, but if we work together, it shouldn’t take long.”
Petula was skeptical. “How many rooms are there?”
“A hundred and thirteen,” Warren said. “And every one must be occupied because the key rack is empty.”
They decided to split up. Warren took the odd-numbered floors and Petula took the even-numbered floors, and the search lasted most of the afternoon. Warren told each guest that he was part of the hospitality staff. “I’m just checking to see if everything is satisfactory,” he’d say, but of course nothing was satisfactory anymore about the Warren Hotel. Every guest had a long list of complaints, and each problem sent Warren scrambling to find a solution.
The farmers in Room 330 protested that the beds were too lumpy. When Warren investigated, he discovered potatoes stuffed under the mattresses. “I think I’ve found the problem,” he said, but the farmers were insulted. They claimed that at home all their mattresses were used for potato storage, and sleeping in the beds was as comfortable as lying on a cloud.
MORE COMPLAINTS
The hobo in Room 504 had made a small fire in the middle of his room. When he answered the door, a plume of smoke
curled into the hallway. Warren ran to fill a bucket with water to extinguish the flames, then explained to the man that fires were not permitted in the hotel. The hobo complained that he was cold, so Warren showed him how to turn on the heat.
The safari family was staying in Room 702. The chubby boy took one look at Warren, grabbed his cork gun, and leapt out the door. Warren ran down four flights of stairs and then hid himself in a rusting suit of armor. He waited silently until the boy passed, then emerged from his refuge and resumed his search.
Every new room revealed different signs of destruction. Beds were not only unmade but entirely dismantled. Wardrobes were overturned, nightstands upended. Carpets were peeled back, revealing sharp tacks that pricked Warren’s feet through the soles of his shoes. Bathtubs had been shoved into bedrooms so that guests could peer down drainpipes. It took all of Warren’s concentration to stay on task. He simply logged everything in his sketchbook and planned to return later to make the repairs.
It was late by the time Petula and Warren finished their search. They compared notes and realized neither had found any sign of Paleface or the missing journal.
“Now what?” Petula said. Circles had formed under her tired eyes.
Warren was exhausted, too. “I guess we get some sleep and try again in the morning. We’ll run into him sooner or later.”
“Unless he left altogether,” Petula said.
Warren’s hopes fell. He hadn’t thought of that.
Glumly, he said good-night and began making his way to the attic and his tiny cramped room. He paused on the sixth-floor landing, halted by the sound of a loud thump! Curious, he crept out of the stairwell and into the adjoining hallway. Most likely it was just another guest wreaking havoc. Tired as he was, Warren was eager to put a quick stop to the mischief.
Warren the 13th and The All-Seeing Eye: A Novel Page 7