‘But I fell on the table and spilled your nice drinksss and now the cards are all muddled up.’
‘It’s all right.’
Claude suddenly brightens. ‘I know! I’ll go check with that lady in the lobbies. She can run it through the machines and tell me which card is which. I’m in room sissteen forty-two. What’s the room that are you are in, number-wise?’ Claude smooths down his hair and burps, but is too slow to cover his mouth with his hand. ‘That was disgusting. Sorry.’
‘Seventeen fifty-six.’
Claude burps again but this time pretends it didn’t happen. ‘What’s that?’
‘My room number.’
‘Oh! Fiffeen seveny-six! Got it.’
‘No no, seventeen fifty-six.’
‘Thasss what I said. Seventeen sissy-five—fiffy-six! One, seven, fiffy, six. Okay! I’ll go and check in the lobbies and then I’ll be back in a lobby—I mean a jiffy. Ha ha!’
‘Okay. Thank you. Are you sure?’
‘I exist! I mean ... I insist! Sorry for the inconveniences.’ Claude straightens a tie he isn’t wearing, finds his bearings, identifies the exit and veers towards it. His gait is unsteady but he tries his hardest to look dignified.
~ * ~
The Frenchman keeps it up until he exits the piano bar, then drops the act and heads for the ficus.
Billy is impressed, in spite of himself. ‘That was really something.’
Claude nods. ‘Thanks. Now it’s your turn. Room seventeen fiffy-six, I mean seventeen fifty-six. Here’s the card.’ He holds it out. ‘Be super quick.’
Billy looks at it, stunned. ‘I’m doing it?’
‘Yes. I have to go back in there and pretend I just lost this thing.’ He waggles the keycard.
‘What happens if he comes up while I’m in there?’
‘I’ll give you plenty of warning. Just keep your phone on and I’ll text you if he’s on the move.’
Billy nods and hesitantly takes the card. ‘Okay.’
‘Let me know the second you’re out of there.’
The Australian nods again and heads for the elevators.
~ * ~
The whole way up to Kurt’s room on level seventeen, Billy has only one question on his mind: can he go through with this. He is, after all, a cop who’s job it is to stop people doing exactly what he’s about to do.
He reaches the room and slides the card into the door.
Click. It unlocks and all his concerns fall away. He realises the Frenchman is right. If he successfully finds a piece of evidence that ties Kurt to the robberies then they will have saved a whole load of time and effort, and if he doesn’t, well, who cares?
He pushes the door open and walks inside, lets it hiss shut behind him as he moves down the short hallway and enters the dimly lit room.
‘Good God.’
What a slob.
The place is a pigsty. Actually that gives pigsties a bad rap. There are clothes and shoes and newspapers and food trays and empty glasses and half-full bottles of Pepsi Max strewn everywhere. Billy remembers Kurt was untidy but this is something else. The Austrian was from a rich family with hot and cold running help who constantly picked up after him. Part of the reason Kurt’s dad, who was actually his stepfather if memory serves, sent him to Oz was not just to improve his racing, but to make him more independent so he’d realise people wouldn’t always be around to pick up after him. Clearly it did not work. The room looks like it has been recently burgled. Twice. The upside is that Kurt will surely never realise anyone has been through the place.
Billy elbows a switch to turn on the overhead light then surveys the room. What is he looking for exactly? A Michael Schumacher helmet would be a great start, to confirm that it was in the bag seen on the security video earlier.
The Australian turns to the closet, which is half open, and takes in the large mound of dirty clothing heaped at one end, big enough to conceal a helmet. He delves into the clothing with both hands, hoping to touch the helmet’s polished ball of plastic.
His fingers hit a hard cool convex surface that could only be one thing. ‘It can’t be that easy.’ Heart racing, he pulls the dirty laundry aside.
‘Ba-baum.’ Family Feud sound for wrong answer. The top of the helmet displays a large Mercedes star. It’s not the one he’s looking for, must be one Kurt uses for his safety car duties.
‘Bugger.’ Billy returns the mound of clothes to their previous position and scans the room once more. Sure the joint looks like a bomb’s hit it but there’s not much to see beyond the clothing and room-service trays. He moves to an open Samsonite case on the far bench, but it’s almost empty. He searches its numerous interior pockets but finds nothing except an empty tube of toothpaste.
He goes over to the desk, checks to see if the pad has been used. No. He then opens the drawers. Nothing. He navigates to the right bedside table, checks the drawer, then does the same with the left side. Nada.
He crosses to the bathroom and enters. ‘Oh man.’ It’s large and even more untidy than the main room. Wet towels are everywhere, the bathtub is half full of cold water, the floor is damp and slippery and—Christ, what is that smeared on the mirror? He enters, rifles through the small wet pack beside the sink, finds nothing of interest, then withdraws to the main room, happy to be out of there.
He stands and thinks. ‘Come on. There must be something.’
Think.
Okay. When they were teenagers Kurt hid magazines under his bed. They weren’t anything risqué, just copies of F1 magazine. The Austrian wrote notes in the margins when he was struck by a specific insight from the interviewed driver or engineer or designer or team principal, in the hope that the information might somehow make him quicker on the track. As he didn’t want anyone else reading them he slid them under his bed. It was hardly a fortress of security but it gave Kurtster piece of mind, even though Billy always read the mags, including the scribbled margin notes, which were generally self-evident, sometimes trite, but occasionally contained a pearl of wisdom.
‘Under the bed.’
It can’t be that easy.
Every time he says ‘It can’t be that easy’ it turns out that it can’t so he’s not going to say it anymore. He’ll just think it and hope for the best. He moves to the bed, clears away another room-service tray, takes a knee and pushes his right hand under the bed, swings it back and forth.
Nothing.
He lies down on the carpet, gets his arm as far as he can under the bed. His fingers touch something hard. He grasps it, pulls it out. It’s an iPad in a leather case. Makes perfect sense. Kurt’s still hiding magazines under the bed but now he’s reading them on a screen. Billy wonders if he still makes notes. He won’t be able to write them in the margins but he will be able to tap them into the notes app. The Australian flaps open the case and the iPad blinks to life. He swipes the screen and launches the notes app.
It’s empty, except for one page that contains a list of letters and numbers. Billy studies them but they make no particular sense. He pulls out his iPhone, photographs the page—and the phone buzzes in his hand. He glances at the screen. It’s a text message from Claude. Just three words: Get out now.
‘Christ.’ Billy moves to the door, looks out through the peephole to make sure there’s no one out in the corridor. ‘Dammit.’ A young woman from housekeeping has parked her cart outside. She’s preparing to clean the room directly opposite.
Billy taps a text message into his phone.
~ * ~
Claude’s phone buzzes and he looks at the screen: How long do I have?
The Frenchman glances up at the elevator’s indicator as it climbs towards level seventeen. He had drunkenly explained to Kurt that he’d somehow lost his card in the lobby. Kurt was perfectly nice about it and just asked for another from reception, which the guy behind the desk promptly provided. Claude tried to delay the Austrian by offering to buy him a drink as recompense but K
urt politely declined and hopped into an open elevator, saying he was tired and needed to get some shuteye.
‘Merde.’ The Frenchman taps a text message into his phone.
~ * ~
Billy’s phone buzzes and he reads the screen: Maybe a minute.
Christ, that’s not bloody long.
Billy looks out the peephole again. The lady from housekeeping is still there, leaning against her cart, eating a Mars bar and sipping a bottle of water, both items once destined to be eye-wateringly expensive snacks in a bar fridge no doubt. If he stepped outside now she would see him.
Would it matter?
It could. She might know he’s not the nice Austrian guy who’s been staying in this room, or then again she may have no idea and just smile.
What should he do?
The peephole is blocked by Kurt’s face.
Fuck!
Click. The door unlocks.
I guess the decision has been made for me.
Billy backs up. Where does he go? Into the closet? Under the bed? Inside the bathroom? None are fantastic choices.
The door swings open.
Closet, bed or bathroom?
What’s it going to be, big fella?
~ * ~
The bathroom.
Billy picked the bathroom. He thought Kurt would probably look for clothes in the closet, which ruled out that spot, and he was sure to grab the iPad from under the bed so hiding there wasn’t a goer. After almost no consideration at all Billy decided the bathroom was the best bet.
He hides behind the fully open door, pressed against the tiled wall, a rack that holds a stack of fluffy white towels right beside him. This is going to work out just fine. He’ll wait until Kurt falls asleep then quietly let himself out and no one will be the wiser —
Kssshhh. Water blasts as the shower is turned on.
Son of a bitch.
Billy looks at the towel rack and the stack of fluffy white towels that sits upon it. Kurt will need one of those bastards to get dry, and that means he’ll need to pull the door away from the wall to gain access and expose his old Aussie mate in the process. Not good.
The sound of the shower’s water changes and the Australian realises that Kurt is now inside the cubicle. The bathroom quickly fills with steam because he didn’t turn the extractor fan on.
What do I do?
The Australian now has, at most, a three-minute window before Kurt will need to get his hands on one of those damn towels.
Hold on.
The room is steaming up fast. Billy gets an idea. He gingerly eases the door aside, drops into a low crouch and peeks around the edge of the door. He can’t see anything. It’s like the moment before Titanic hit the iceberg. The room is completely fogged up.
Excellent.
He inches around the door and moves towards the spot where the doorway is. He moves slowly but surely, doesn’t make any sudden movements. This is working out beautifully. He’ll be out of the bathroom, through the front door, down the hallway, into the elevator, back to his own room and in his jammies before Kurt’s even lathered up —
The shower shuts off.
Oh come on.
Billy freezes, then realises that’s the opposite of what he should be doing. He should be moving fast. So that’s what he does. He gets going —
Thunk. His head thumps into something extremely hard. He extends his hand, touches the object he hit. It’s the sink.
The sink ?
He’s got himself all turned around in the fog and crawled in the wrong direction. The doorway is on the opposite side of the room to the sink but he can’t see it because of the Titanic fog —
Creak. The shower door swings open.
Click. A switch is flicked.
Whirrr. A buzz fills the room.
Kurt just turned on the bloody extractor fan! It spools up and quickly clears the air. Billy still can’t see that much now but he will in a matter of moments, and so will Kurt. The Australian needs to get out of here but he just doesn’t know where Kurt is and he’s not going anywhere until he does —
Kurt cuts through the fog right in front of him, naked as a guy who just got out of a shower. He walks past from left to right, just a metre away. He’s heading for those fluffy white mofos.
The Titanic fog has cleared just enough for Billy to see the outline of the doorframe on the opposite side of the bathroom.
Time to go.
He moves fast. For the first three steps everything progresses swimmingly, then his left foot lands in a puddle of water and shoots out from under him. His arse hits the tiles but he’s moving so fast that he skids across the floor, out the door and into the hallway —
Thwump. He slams into the opposite wall and it’s surprisingly loud. He turns. The front door is right there. He hears frenzied movement in the bathroom as he scrambles to his feet, takes two steps, grabs the doorknob and twists it —
Christ, the lady from housekeeping!
He can’t worry about that now. He wrenches the door open—and sees the cart is there but the woman is not, thank God. He bounds outside and pulls the door closed behind him.
‘Hey!’ As the door clicks shut he hears Kurt’s Schwarzeneggerian voice.
Legs pumping, Billy sprints down the hallway. The only problem is he’s not sure where is he sprinting to. Five metres away the Australian sees a T-junction where two corridors intersect.
Do I turn left or right?
He hears the door open behind him. Kurt is going to step out of his doorway, see Billy running and realise he was just in his room.
Left or right?
He reaches the T-junction and turns left.
Damn.
It’s a dead end. There’s nothing but a panoramic observation window with a view of twinkling city lights beyond. He was hoping for firestairs.
I should, have gone right.
He’s trapped. And worse, he can hear Kurt’s footsteps as he sprints along the hallway towards him. The sound gets closer quickly. He’ll arrive in ten seconds.
Billy looks around, sees a panel in the wall, half the size of a door, marked with a fire hose symbol.
~ * ~
Kurt reaches the T-junction and looks around. There’s nobody there. He sees a panel in the wall to the right. It’s slightly ajar, like it’s been opened but couldn’t be closed properly from the inside. He moves to it, reaches out, grabs the panel’s recessed brass loop and yanks it open —
There’s nothing inside but a hydrant and a large reel of flat fire hose. He looks around again, confused.
~ * ~
Billy stares down at Kurt through a thin crack between the foam ceiling tiles and holds his breath. He used the top of that hydrant’s door panel to climb up, pushed the tile aside, slid into the narrow cavity in the ceiling, grabbed an air-conditioning conduit for balance, and hid. The only problem occurred when he kicked the door panel closed but it didn’t completely shut.
Kurt is dressed only in a towel. Billy glimpses the tattoo on his forearm. It looks very similar to the one he saw on the golf course. The Austrian stays rooted to the spot below, clearly trying to work out where the guy who was just in his room went. That’s fine with Billy, as long as he doesn’t get any bright ideas and look up —
Kurt looks up.
Shit.
Billy holds his breath. It’s like his old mate is staring directly at him.
Christ, he’s bloody worked it out.
A long moment passes—then the Austrian looks down and walks away.
~ * ~
Billy enters his hotel room. The door that adjoins the next room is open. The Frenchman pokes his head around it expectantly. ‘I did my best to delay him.’
Billy glares at him as he kicks off his shoes. ‘“I’ll give you plenty of warning.” I believe those were your words.’
‘What can I say?’
‘Sorry? How about sorry? Sorry would work nic
ely.’
‘It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Of course it wasn’t. It’s never your fault.’ Billy shakes his head then turns and slumps onto his bed. ‘That was horrible.’
‘What happened?’
~ * ~
‘You were in the ceiling for an hour?’
‘I wanted to be sure he wasn’t waiting around the corner for me to climb down.’ Billy stares at the picture he took of Kurt’s iPad that now fills his MacBook screen. The list of numbers and letters reads:
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