“Well, if he was registered here two weeks ago,” Sanford said, “chances are he’s still registered. Most of our guests are residents.”
“Do you keep stationery in the lobby here?” Carella asked.
“Sir?”
“Stationery. Is there any place here in the lobby where someone could walk in off the street and pick up a piece of stationery?”
“No, sir. There’s a writing desk there in the corner, near the staircase, but we don’t stock it with stationery, no, sir.”
“Is there stationery in the rooms?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about here at the desk?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
“Is there someone at this desk twenty-four hours a day?”
“Twenty-four hours a day, yes, sir. We have three shifts. Eight to four in the afternoon. Four to midnight. And midnight to eight A.M.”
“You came on at midnight, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any guests come in after you started your shift?”
“A few, yes, sir.”
“Notice anybody with blood on his clothes?”
“Blood? Oh, no, sir.”
“Would you have noticed?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you generally pretty aware of what’s going on around here?”
“I try to be, sir. At least, for most of the night. I catch a little nap when I’m not studying, but usually—”
“What do you study?”
“Accounting.”
“Where?”
“At Ramsey U.”
“Mind if we take a look at your register?”
“Not at all, sir.”
He walked to the mail rack and took the hotel register from the counter there. Returning to the desk he opened it and said, “All of our present guests are residents, with the exception of Mr. Lambert in two hundred and four, and Mrs. Grant in seven hundred and one.”
“When did they check in?”
“Mr. Lambert checked in — last night, I think it was. And Mrs. Grant has been here four days. She’s leaving on Tuesday.”
“Are these the actual signatures of your guests?”
“Yes, sir. All guests are asked to sign the register, as required by state law.”
“Have you got that note, Cotton?” Carella asked, and then turned again to Sanford. “Would you mind if we took this over to the couch there?”
“Well, we’re not supposed—”
“We can give you a receipt for it, if you like.”
“No, I guess it’ll be all right.”
They carried the register to a couch upholstered in faded red velvet. With the book supported on Carella’s lap they unfolded the note that Mercy Howell had received, and began to compare the signatures of the guests with the only part of the note that was not written in block letters — the words, The Avenging Angel.
There were 52 guests in the hotel. Carella and Hawes went through the register once, and then started through it a second time.
“Hey,” Hawes said suddenly.
“What?”
“Look at this one.”
He took the note and placed it on the page so that it was directly above one of the signatures:
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Different handwriting,” Carella said.
“Same initials,” Hawes said.
Detective Meyer Meyer was still shaken. He did not like ghosts. He did not like this house. He wanted to go home to his wife Sarah. He wanted her to stroke his hand and tell him that such things did not exist, there was nothing to be afraid of, a grown man? How could he believe in poltergeists, shades, Dutch spirits? Ridiculous!
But he had heard them, and he had felt their chilling presence, and had almost thought he’d seen them, if only for an instant. He turned with fresh shock now toward the hall staircase and the sound of descending footsteps. Eyes wide, he waited for whatever new manifestation might present itself. He was tempted to draw his revolver, but he was afraid such an act would appear foolish to the Gormans. He had come here a skeptic, and he was now at least willing to believe, and he waited in dread for whatever was coming down those steps with such ponderous footfalls — some ghoul trailing winding sheets and rattling chains? Some specter with a bleached skull for a head and long bony clutching fingers dripping the blood of babies?
Willem Van Houten, wearing his red velvet slippers and his red smoking jacket, his hair still jutting wildly from behind each ear, his blue eyes fierce and snapping, came into the living room and walked directly to where his daughter and son-in-law were sitting.
“Well?” he asked. “Did they come again?”
“Yes, Daddy,” Adele said.
“What did they want this time?”
“I don’t know. They spoke Dutch again.”
Van Houten turned to Meyer. “Did you see them?” he asked.
“No, sir, I did not,” Meyer said.
“But they were here,” Gorman protested, and turned his blank face to his wife. “I heard them.”
“Yes, darling,” Adele assured him. “We all heard them. But it was like that other time, don’t you remember? When we could hear them even though they couldn’t quite break through.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Gorman said, and nodded. “This happened once before, Detective Meyer.” He was facing Meyer now, his head tilted quizzically, the sightless eyes covered with their black glasses. When he spoke his voice was like that of a child seeking reassurance. “But you did hear them, didn’t you, Detective Meyer?”
“Yes,” Meyer said. “I heard them, Mr. Gorman.”
“And the wind?”
“Yes, the wind, too.”
“And felt them. It — it gets so cold when they appear. You did feel their presence, didn’t you?”
“I felt something,” Meyer said.
Van Houten suddenly asked, “Are you satisfied?”
“About what?” Meyer said.
“That there are ghosts in this house? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To ascertain—”
“He’s here because I asked Adele to notify the police,” Gorman said.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because of the stolen jewelry,” Gorman said. “And because—” He paused. “Because I’ve lost my sight, yes, but I wanted to — to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind as well.”
“You’re perfectly sane, Ralph,” Van Houten said.
“About the jewelry—” Meyer said.
“They took it,” Van Houten said.
“Who?”
“Johann and Elisabeth. Our friendly neighborhood ghosts.”
“That’s impossible, Mr. Van Houten.”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because ghosts—” Meyer started, and hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Ghosts… well, ghosts don’t go around stealing jewelry. I mean, what use would they have for it?” he said lamely, and looked at the Gorman for corroboration. Neither of the Gormans seemed to be in a substantiating mood. They sat on the sofa near the fireplace, both looking glum.
“They want us out of this house,” Van Houten said. “It’s as simple as that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they said so.”
“When?”
“Before they stole the necklace and the earrings.”
“They told this to you?”
“To me and to my children. All three of us were here.”
“But I understand the ghosts speak only Dutch.”
“Yes, I translated for Ralph and Adele.”
“And then what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you discover the jewelry was missing?”
“The instant they were gone.”
“You mean you went to the safe?”
“Yes, and opened it, and the jewelry was gone.”