He opened his leather two-suiter that sat on the dresser and felt along the lining for the compartment. It opened without a sound and he removed the black .357 Magnum revolver and held it up to the light.
The game was starting again: He looked at the person in the mirror — a man with a gun and a gray face and merciless eyes — and watched him like a stranger.
There were six bullets in six chambers.
He had refused to use automatic pistols since the time a .45 jammed on him at an awkward moment in Amsterdam. Actually, he did not like any sort of pistol. Or the death he always brought.
He slid the pistol onto his belt, attached by a small metal clip protruding at the side of it.
He wondered how Denisov had managed to kill Blatchford. Pistol? Knife? His hands. Probably his hands; it had to be quick and sure.
The bullets in the chambers had flattened heads which made them somewhat inaccurate beyond forty yards. But in the close game Devereaux played, they would be sufficient. They would tear at the flesh like dumb, blinded animals.
Three things to be done before he called Hanley again.
He slipped on his brown corduroy jacket and left the room; in a minute he stood in the hotel cocktail lounge. It was empty and a fat woman stood behind the bar.
“I was supposed to meet a man here last night—” Devereaux began.
The words had a cathartic effect on the woman’s speech; she began to babble: “About what time, sir? I was on late ’cause Red Boylan was ill. You’d be talkin’ to Red Boylan any other day, but he got somethin’ last night. I think it was the fish — don’t touch the fish, I tol’ him, but Boylan is fond after fish, it’s almost unnatural and—”
No. No. No one came in. No man who looked like O’Neill. No one after eleven P.M. Business was so slow that—
Devereaux extricated himself from the monologue and crossed the lobby again to the street.
O’Neill had not come to the hotel; perhaps because he did not expect Devereaux to return to it either.
His instincts were in charge now; he hailed a cab and slid inside, giving the address of the hotel on Royal Avenue. The second part of the matter involved Elizabeth.
When he asked for her at the desk, the clerk looked carefully in box 602 for the key and then said she was not in. Devereaux nodded and went back across the lobby to the hotel bar while the clerk watched him. He ordered a vodka drink but did not sip it; when the clerk turned, he went to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor.
All Devereaux’s movements now were contained and economical. Walking down the dark, old-fashioned corridor, he counted the numbers on the doors. Her room. He stood still and listened. The silence was as heavy as the damp, cold air; nothing was as quiet as a hotel corridor in afternoon. He removed a piece of thick wire from the copper bracelet on his wrist and inserted it into the lock. In a moment, the door sprung open as though it were surprised. Without a sound.
The bed had been made. He closed the door behind him.
Her suitcase was on the desk. He went to it. Opened it. Empty. Felt along the seam. Felt nothing. He took a pocketknife from his coat and flicked it open. Felt the bottom of the suitcase and slit the lining neatly with the edge of the knife. There was a compartment. He stared at it for a moment. Empty. He closed the suitcase lid.
He went to her bed and picked up the top mattress and slid it off the box springs. Her passport was wedged between the top and bottom mattresses. He picked it up and flipped it open. Elizabeth stared at him. There was a stamp on the first page. Ethiopia, 1971; Taiwan, 1972; Republic of Korea, 1972; United Kingdom, 1973. He looked through all the pages. Every year marked by stamps of countries. He placed the passport in the pocket of the drab raincoat.
He lifted the box spring and felt along the bottom of it. Nothing.
He opened the drawers of the nightstand: a Guide to Belfast and the North of Ireland; Gideon Society Bible; nothing.
He went to the closet and opened the door. His body moved in a kind of fury, without sound — even without breath. He felt along the top shelf. Scattered the dust with his fingers. Nothing.
He examined her coat. Felt in the pockets and along the lining of the coat. Touched something. He opened the knife again and tore the seam wide, like a surgeon. He removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills which had been folded into the seam at the bottom of the coat. He put them in his pocket.
Two pairs of shoes on the floor of the closet. He picked them up and took the heels off — prying them off with the knife. Solid heels. Nothing. He threw them back on the closet floor.
He examined the buttons of the coat. Solid. He flicked the knife shut and put it in his pocket.
He went into the bathroom.
Lipstick. Hand cream. Shampoo in a plastic container. He smelled the shampoo. Smelled her. He poured the shampoo into the sink and looked again at the bottle. Nothing.
He opened the jar of hand cream and slowly scooped it all out. Nothing.
He threw the jar into the wastebasket.
He opened the medicine cabinet. A little purse. He opened it and dumped everything onto the counter next to the washbowl.
A green plastic case, oval-shaped. He opened it. A rubber diaphragm inside. He took it out and examined it and placed it back in the plastic case.
A tube of anti-sperm vaginal gel. He squeezed out the tube slowly. He put it down.
There were four tampon sticks. He opened the wrapper of each and examined both sides of the wrapper for writing. He tore the cotton sticks apart.
Nothing.
He took the lipstick tube and opened it. Her color. But he did not think about her; he did not see her in these things. He was a morgue attendant, cataloguing the artifacts of the dead.
Taking a piece of toilet paper, he pulled the lipstick out of the tube. Then he ground it slowly. Nothing. He threw it into the toilet. He looked inside the tube. Nothing.
He went to the shower curtain and examined it, felt along the seam at the bottom.
Nothing.
He went back into the gloom of the bedroom and felt behind the dresser mirror. He moved the dresser out and examined the backing. He pried off a loose piece of trim. Nothing.
Going to the television set, he opened the back. The dust lay evenly and thickly over the tubes and circuits.
Nothing.
Finally, he stood at the window and looked into the gloom of the darkened bedroom. His face was impassive, clerklike: He looked slowly over the room, imagining little squares superimposed on his vision of the room as though the room were a photograph. He examined each square before going on to the next. He had neglected nothing.
He sat down in the chair by the window, took out his pistol, and put it on the desk next to the chair. He sat, waiting, in the darkness.
The door opened slowly. She felt along the wall for the light switch before stepping into the room.
Afraid of the dark.
She found the switch. He heard its ugly click. Two lamps blazed on, the one at the bed and the one on the desk. She was half turned away from the room as she entered and pushed the door closed behind her. He had an instant to look at her again.
She was beautiful. He had, in two days, forgotten how tall Elizabeth was, how her body carried her fullness. Her legs were full and oddly graceful. He remembered. He looked at her. But nothing showed on his face; the things he felt were hidden.
Just an instant. And then she turned into the room. Saw him but only saw in that moment a human presence. She was frightened; her face went pale. When she knew it was him, she started to speak but then she saw the room.
“What?” It was all she could say.
She saw the pistol on the desk. He had not moved to touch it. He sat still.
“What?”
She leaned against the door, afraid to step into the chaos of the room. She saw her closet door opened. Saw the mattress on the floor, tangled in bedsheets. Saw the drawers of her dresser opened, her clothes heaped on the floor.