by Robert Bloch
I shook my head. Should I wait for the car to come down again and talk to the elevator boy, hoping he’d remember which way the man in the blue suit had gone? Or should I dash outside and try to find him?
I decided to get going. I started across the lobby, trying not to break into a run, and scooted past the entrance to the cocktail lounge. Something caught my eye as I went by. The back of a blue suit.
I stopped.
Mariner was sitting at the bar, all alone, way down at the end.
The sweat rolled down my sides as I walked into the place. I chose a stool about twenty feet away from him; there wasn’t anybody between us. In fact, outside of a couple off over in a booth, we had the whole joint to ourselves.
The bartender, a fat guy with a mustache, was pouring Mariner a drink. Cognac, from the looks of the glass. He saw me and came down to my end of the bar.
I ordered a beer and swivelled around on the stool so that I could get a good look at my man.
The waiter had certainly been right; Lon Mariner was “average-looking.” I didn’t get a clue from his ready-made clothes, and there wasn’t a hint of anything unusual in his ready-made face, either. He was just another guy.
The more I studied him, the worse I felt. I’d been sure that after I had a chance to get a close look at him, I could size him up and figure out the best way to approach him. But he just sat there, a bump in a blue suit on an overstuffed log. He didn’t seem to be enjoying his drink, he wasn’t listening to the radio, and he never looked around at the bartender or at me. He had about as much life as a window dummy, and he wasn’t nearly as handsome.
All at once he signaled for another drink. And when the bartender brought the bottle and poured, he slugged down the shot and told him to refill. Then, after he paid, he mumbled something and the bartender left the bottle standing there on the bar.
That told me something, at last. That, and the way he sat there, all stiff and frozen.
He was frozen, all right, because he was afraid. I recognized the symptoms, now. He was scared to death about something and even more scared that he’d show it. So he sat and drank.
I had my cue, now. I waited until he’d poured and downed his fourth drink. Then I glanced around, checking to see that the place was still almost empty, and slid off my stool. I walked down along the bar and stood next to him. He could see me in the bar mirror, and I noticed the way his fingers tightened around his empty glass.
“Mr. Mariner,” I said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
If he’d turned around and thrown the glass at me, that would have been one thing. If he’d turned pale, gasped, or slumped to the floor in a dead faint, that would have been another. But what he didn’t do was still more effective.
He didn’t move.
He’d been frozen before; now he was dead. He tightened up, all over, as if rigor mortis was setting in. I had the feeling he’d stopped breathing, just stopped completely.
“I want to talk to you, Mr. Mariner,” I murmured.
He didn’t turn his head and his lips never moved. But a sound came out of him, and then faint words.
“You must be mistaken. My name’s not Mariner.
I shrugged. “Of course it isn’t. But that’s the name you signed on the hotel register. That’s the name you’ve been using on all your business deals. I know.”
He reached out and spilled himself another drink. Not poured—spilled. I watched him do it, waited while he wavered the glass up to his lips and gulped. Then he whispered again.
“How did you find me?”
“That isn’t important,” I answered. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you for quite awhile.”
“Then I was wrong all along, wasn’t I? I thought I could get away with it. But they knew all the time, didn’t they?”
“I’m all alone, Mr. Mariner.”
“Yes. But they sent you.”
I hesitated, then decided how to play it. “Nobody sent me. This was my own idea. I’ve been studying your stock market operations for months. You see, I work for the firm you’ve been doing business with. And I wanted to talk to you about your methods.”
“My—methods?”
For the first time there was a recognizable expression on his face. You could almost call it a smile. He turned his head just a trifle and stared at me. “Then I was wrong. You’re just an—an ordinary citizen?”
“Very ordinary, I assure you. But I have an extraordinary curiosity about you. Or about any man who can do what you’ve been doing in the investment field. I thought we might discuss your methods.”
He was really smiling, now. He poured another drink, and his hand was perfectly steady.
“Well, I don’t know—”
He was confident once more, ready to brush me off. I knew how to handle that.
“Listen, Mr. Mariner. I’m not the nosey type, but you’ve already told me enough so that I know you’re in some kind of trouble. You don’t exactly welcome publicity, do you? I mean, you wouldn’t want any stories in the papers about mysterious millionaires, or men traveling under assumed names who have secret methods of beating the stock market. I could go to the phone right now and call the reporters—”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Of course I wouldn’t. Because you’re going to talk to me, instead. Just me. And if you can tell me what I think you can, I’ll have every reason to keep my own mouth shut in the future, just the way you do. There it is, Mr. Mariner—my cards are on the table. I want in.”
“All right. We’ll talk.”
“Good.”
“But not here. Not like this. In my room.”
“Fine. Let’s go up.” I waited for a moment, then repeated it louder. “Let’s go up.”
But he wasn’t listening to me.
He wasn’t looking at me, either. He was staring into the bar mirror. I followed his glance.
Behind us, in the doorway of the cocktail lounge, stood a tall blonde. She had, among other things, the biggest pair of eyes I’d ever seen. She was worth looking at for a number of reasons, but her eyes were what held me.
The eyes held Mariner, too. He looked at her and his mouth opened and closed, and he froze up again. Really froze.
She didn’t smile, and she didn’t say anything, and she didn’t even come closer. She just gave him that long look and then she beckoned.
Mariner stood up. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “I must go now. I have an engagement.”
“What about our talk?” I said.
“Oh, yes. Suppose we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning, in my room?”
I grabbed his arm. “You wouldn’t try to pull a sneak, now would you? Remember what I said about the reporters.”
“I remember.”
“All right, see you at ten, then. But no funny business. I mean it, Mr. Mariner.”
“I promise.”
And then he was walking over to her, following her out of the place. I watched them go, saw them head across the lobby in the direction of the elevators. He couldn’t find an exit that way, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t looking for one—not with that tall blonde on his arm. In a way I didn’t blame him for canceling his appointment and putting me off until tomorrow. If a blonde like that ever beckoned to me, I’d cancel my appointments, too. I doubt if I’d be ready to see anyone even at ten the next morning.
But I’m still the suspicious type. I waited a few minutes, then got up and went out to the desk. The Room Clerk on duty was my ten-buck boy.
I leaned across the counter and flipped a bill his way, very quietly.
He palmed it, just as quietly. “Yes, sir?”
“About Mr. Mariner,” I said. “He didn’t check out, did he?”
“No party by that name checked out, no sir.”
“Well, in case he does, any time between now and tomorrow morning, I want you to call me. And right away, before he gets past the desk here.”
“Certainly, but—”
“But what?”
&
nbsp; The clerk was frowning. “I don’t believe we have a party by that name here at the hotel.”
I knew how to frown, too. “What do you mean, you don’t have such a party? Lon Mariner, in Suite 701. You’re the guy who tipped me off about him in the first place.”
“I am? You must be mistaken, sir.”
“Now, look—”
“You look, sir.” The clerk flipped through the registration list. “Here’s our guest-entries for the past week. No Mariner, is there? Are you sure you have the right name?”
“Am I sure? You showed me, yesterday. Give me that!” I grabbed and squinted. I saw my own name, and ran my eyes along the signatures above it. Paige, Stein, Tenn, Klass, Phillips, Graham—no Mariner.
“What kind of a business is this?” I was getting a funny feeling in my stomach. “Who’s in Suite 701?”
“Let’s look at the card-file. Over here, sir.” He stepped to the next cage, where the billing entries were kept. He pulled out a yellow card. “Suite 701 has been vacant all week,” he told me. “Just rented it tonight. Party named Fairborn. Here, see for yourself.”
The funny feeling spread from my stomach upwards. My heart was pounding.
“But that’s Mariner’s suite,” I said. “Little middle-aged guy, with a blue suit. You must have seen him going through the lobby just now, with a big blonde—”
The clerk shook his head. “No, sir, I didn’t.”
“But he was just in the bar; I talked to him.”
“I’m sorry, sir—”
I turned my back and ran for the elevator. By the time I got to the seventh floor, my heart was in my mouth; and it wasn’t from the fast ride, either.
I went down the corridor, right to 701, and banged on the door. My heart was in my mouth, but I could still talk. And when the door opened, I did.
“Mr. Mariner,” I said. Then my voice trailed off. I was looking at the blonde with the big eyes. And she was looking at me.
“You have the wrong room, I believe.”
“I don’t. Where’s Mariner?”
“Who?”
“The guy in the blue suit. You came up here with him less than half an hour ago. This is his room.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, but you’re mistaken. This is my room. I’m Miss Fairborn.”
“But I saw you two together—”
The big eyes narrowed. “Now, wait a minute. I’ve been in this room ever since I arrived this evening. I don’t know what you’re talking about. If you doubt my word, you can check with the desk downstairs.”
“I already did. But I know you and Mariner were together, I saw him leaving the bar with you.”
“Ah. The bar. You were drinking there.”
“Never mind that stuff. I’m not drunk! What’d you do with Mariner?”
The door opened a trifle more. A man put his head out behind Miss Fairborn. He was a big man, with steel-gray hair, and he didn’t look like Mariner at all. He looked like trouble.
“What goes on here?” he demanded.
Miss Fairborn shrugged. “I don’t know. Some drunk looking for a friend. You’d better handle him, Harry.”
“Glad to.”
But I wasn’t being handled. I backed away. “All right,” I said. “So I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”
Harry started to say something, and then stepped aside. I recognized the waiter, Joe Franscetti. He was coming out, wheeling a service table.
I waved at the three of them. “Excuse it, please,” I muttered. “I’ll go quietly.”
And I went, around the corner, hearing the door close behind me. I stood there, waiting until Joe Franscetti caught up with me. He wheeled his table along, head down. I stepped out and grabbed his elbow.
“What gives?” I asked. “Where’s Mariner?”
“Who? What’s that again, mister?”
“I asked where’s Mariner? The guy in 701?”
“But I just come from there. You saw me. There’s this dame and her boyfriend, they just had dinner.”
“I know. Only that’s Mr. Mariner’s room. You served him all last week, you said so. Remember?”
“Mister, are you all right?”
“Of course I am. But everybody else has gone crazy. Now look here, you told me about Mariner yourself. The brown-haired guy in the blue suit, the one who only tipped a buck. Prime rib rare, Waldorf salad.”
“Mister, that room’s been vacant all week. I never saw anyone like you say, and I never saw you before, either. You better lie down, you don’t look so good.”
I knew how I looked, but there was no sense wasting time. There was still the bell-captain; he’d know if a certain bellboy was on duty.
Downstairs I went. I found the bell-captain. My boy was on, tonight, and I caught him over in a corner of the lobby. This time I decided to make another investment.
“Here,” I said, waving the bill under his nose. “This is a hundred bucks, see it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now I’ve no idea what they might have paid you to clam up, but I’ve got a hunch they didn’t go higher than twenty. So you might as well sell out to the highest bidder.”
“I don’t follow you, sir.”
“It’s very simple. Yesterday you and I had a little talk together. I was asking you questions about a man named Lon Mariner. In Suite 701. You described him to me, said he never went out except while the maids were cleaning up. Right?”
His eyes watched the hundred-dollar bill as it waved under his nose. Then he shook his head.
“Sorry, sir. I don’t remember anything like that. I mean, I couldn’t have told you such a thing, because 701 was vacant until this evening. I know for a fact—I took the party up myself just a few hours ago. A big blonde.”
The hundred went back into my pocket and I headed back into the bar. It was still deserted, and the fat bartender came right over.
“Yes?”
“Remember me?” I asked. “I was in here earlier this evening.”
“That’s right.”
Well, at least he admitted I had been here. Now I was ready to try for double or nothing. “Remember the guy I was talking to?”
Silence.
“He left before I did, with a blonde.”
“A big blonde?” The bartender brightened. “Sure, she was in here just a couple minutes ago. I served her a—I forget just what.”
“She was in here before then, looking for this guy in the blue suit. He sat down at the end of the bar, drinking cognac. I spoke to him. Then she came along and they left together. Now do you recall him?”
The bartender shook his head. “I didn’t see them. I didn’t see you talking to anyone, either. You were all alone.” He wiped the bar. “What’s the matter, sir? You don’t look so good.”
“I don’t feel so good,” I told him. “Go away.”
He went away and I sat there. No use talking any more. He wouldn’t remember. None of them remembered. But I did.
I remembered an old English movie they keep reviving on television. The Lady Vanishes. This dame sees another dame and talks to her, and later everybody swears she doesn’t exist. Of course she does; she’s been kidnapped by spies.
Then there’s the yarn that pops up every now and then about the woman in the hotel room; she disappears, too. I guess it started way back in the 1890s—it was supposed to have happened in Paris, during some kind of International Exposition. Turned out the woman had cholera and they hushed everything up in order to avoid a panic when she died. They even repapered her room overnight.
Come to think of it, I’d read a lot of detective novels with the same idea. And usually there was a dame involved, and a spy or murder plot.
Somehow I couldn’t swallow it in connection with Mariner. Spies don’t play the market. And I didn’t think he had cholera, either, or even Asiatic flu.
But he was scared.
That I remembered. He’d been scared when I talked to him, wondering if they had sent me. So who were they! The Syn
dicate, maybe? He’d recognized the blonde, and gone along quietly. Gone along up to the suite, where the gray-haired man named Harry was waiting. He’d gone along, even though he was scared to death.
Scared to death. Was that it? Had they killed him?
It didn’t seem logical, from any angle. You don’t kill the goose that lays five million golden eggs. You can’t get away with it, even in Chicago, in a swank hotel.
But they had gotten away with something. And that was the screwiest part of it. They’d made everybody forget Lon Mariner had even existed, including people who’d seen him just a little while before he vanished. They’d removed his name from the registry, and even from the billing cards. Was it just bribery? I doubted it, somehow. You can’t take such chances. Sooner or later somebody would come looking for Mariner and put on the pressure. Clerks, waiters, bellboys couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut when the heat was on. Somebody would come, and someone would sing. Bribery wasn’t good enough.
How about threats? That might work. But the people I’d just talked to didn’t seem frightened. They were just puzzled. It was as if they actually believed that Lon Mariner had never existed.
That was the point I kept coming back to.
Why was it so important to make sure nobody believed there had ever been such a man?
And how had they managed the trick? If the deal involved murder, then certainly the killers would be more interested in concealing their presence than the presence of the victim. Yet the blonde had registered openly, showed herself around. She’d even come back here to the bar, probably while I was out in the lobby, and talked to the bartender. He said she ordered a drink from him, he couldn’t remember what.
He couldn’t remember—
I got a flash. A flash of those enormous eyes, and the two of them in here, all alone. The blonde leaning over the bar and telling him he couldn’t remember. Not bribing him, not threatening him, but telling him. Hypnotizing him into forgetting.
Wild?
Perhaps, but I was wild now, too. When plain facts don’t make sense, you’ve got to look for something fancy. And hypnotism works. It works fast, under the right conditions, with the right operators. That blonde would be the right operator. She could get close to the clerk or the bellboy; they’d look—being men—and they’d listen. And the waiter, Joe Franscetti, had been right up there in the room with her, serving a meal. That left the bartender to deal with. So she slipped down here and slipped him a mental Mickey.