Stairs led down to a basement.
At the bottom of the stairs was another door. Joe opened it and found himself in a narrow cellar with a low ceiling. A man was sitting at a table, mostly obscured by the newspaper he was reading. A single naked light bulb burned overhead, a string hanging from it. An electrical cord spiraled down from the fixture to an electric ring at the man's elbow. A kettle was steaming and there was also a chipped teapot and several battered metal cups. Joe dropped into a chair and brushed off the dirt he had picked up in the courtyard.
Bletchley?
The man continued to read his newspaper, hidden behind it.
That's right.
What went off up there?
Oh, just a popper. Of course it could have been a bomb.
Of course. But is that your standard welcoming procedure?
You might call it that.
Why the game?
It's not a game, they just like to know whether you're on your toes or not. There's no room for amateurs out here.
On my toes, is it? And what did they expect after sending that crazed item to pick me up at the airport?
The man known as Bletchley peered over his newspaper at Joe, only one of his eyes showing. There seemed to be tears in his eye and there was something wrong with his expression, something very wrong.
But his head disappeared again and Joe didn't have time to make out what it was.
Is he crying? wondered Joe. Why is he hiding like that?
Vivian must have been in an expansive mood this morning, said the man known as Bletchley. He's an old music-hall trooper, an actor by profession, and he can put on quite a show when he has a mind to.
Perhaps you caught his fancy, or perhaps he's just bored these days. Cup of tea for you?
Thanks.
The teapot disappeared behind the raised newspaper.
How many sugars?
None.
It is just sugar.
I'm sure, but I don't take any.
Get your share through the drink, do you?
Something like that.
A metal cup, a hand pushing it, appeared from around the side of the newspaper. The hand was that of an old man, which the voice wasn't. A withered hand, trembling slightly. Joe reached for the cup and sipped, burning his lips on the metal. He held the cup away and blew on it.
Did you have all the rooms up there wired?
No, just two. The rear rooms on the first two floors. If you'd jumped out the front of the hotel on the first two floors you'd have taken a chance of breaking a bone on the cobblestones in the alley, and if you'd jumped from higher up, front or back, you almost certainly would have broken a bone, quite possibly your neck. But I didn't imagine you'd want to do that, so I didn't imagine you'd be anywhere but where you were.
Well that makes sense, said Joe.
Yes it does. Now I assume you'll want to get some sleep after your trip. These stairs in front of you will let you out in another alley. Follow your hose around to the left and you'll be back at the corner where you started. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?
No.
That's good. They wouldn't want that to happen before you even got started.
And that makes sense too. Tell me, is this cellar your regular office or just one of your forward supply depots in the field?
The newspaper rustled but the man's head didn't appear. For a moment there was silence at the table.
Unfriendly innkeeper, thought Joe.
Listen, said the voice from behind the newspaper. There's no reason for you to take this personally, but you might as well know from the beginning that you're nothing special to me. I don't know who you are or what your assignment is, and I don't care. That's not my job. I do what's required of me and the Monastery expects you to do the same. If my orders include wiring a door, I wire it. And if you're looking for fellowship, you can try your luck on the streets like anybody else. With me, business is business. Understood?
Fair enough, said Joe.
Good. I'll meet you here at nine o'clock this evening.
Joe tried his tea again but the metal cup was still too hot. He stood.
Know a man named Stern by any chance, Bletchley?
Not personally, all of that's much too high-level for me. I just chair the Monastery's arrival and departure committee. Pleasant dreams.
Joe started toward the stairs. When he was halfway up he turned and looked back at the raised newspaper.
Oh by the way, could you see that this wallet is returned to Vivian? There's not much of interest in it but he may be wanting it back all the same. And who might Cynthia be?
One of Bletchley's eyes appeared above the newspaper.
Who might what be?
This little lovely by the name of Cynthia. There's a slip of paper hidden in the lining of the wallet with her name and telephone number on it.
Who cares?
I don't know, I thought you might. The telephone number is almost the same as one I was given for emergency contact. I mean it wouldn't do, would it, to have one of your music-hall performers dallying with one of your secretaries, without you knowing about it. Of course it's all in the committee family, but I would imagine Papa would like to know what's going on in his family by way of a little incest. Insofar as it affects Monastery business, I mean, no other reason. I'll just leave the evidence on the step here so you can take a look when you're finished with the personal columns.
The man known as Bletchley said nothing. His withered hand trembled slightly and his single eye, rapidly blinking back tears, continued to glare over the top of the newspaper as Joe leapt up the last few steps and closed the cellar door behind him.
***
Once outside, Joe walked a short distance and stopped in a patch of morning sunlight. He leaned against a wall and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.
From the Viv to the Bletch, he thought, heaven help us. But at least things ought to get better. Have to, you'd think, after starting out like this.
By the time Joe was walking back through the front door of the hotel he was whistling happily. An unusual occurrence in the Hotel Babylon, perhaps, for Ahmad immediately looked up from his newspaper.
Beautiful morning, said Joe.
Ahmad stared at him, an astonished expression on his face.
You people are amazing, he murmured.
Joe smiled.
We are? Why do you say that?
Because of your disguises. I could have sworn your exact double just walked in here.
Joe's smile broadened.
This double of mine, he headed upstairs, did he?
First floor rear. No more than five or ten minutes ago.
Badly in need of some whiskey, was he, when last seen passing in front of your counter?
Ahmad held up a bottle.
Here it is. I was just going to take it up.
Well there's no need for both of us to make the trip, said Joe. I'll see that he gets it all right. He and I have some talking to do.
Joe took the bottle as Ahmad studied him, perplexed.
Wait a minute, said Ahmad. Are you really that other one's double, or are you the same man?
That depends, replied Joe. We both happen to occupy the same head but that doesn't mean we think alike all the time, or even most of the time. That one upstairs tends to listen a lot and keep his thoughts to himself, while me, I'm not like that at all.