The hotel was just like I remembered it, leaning carelessly against the overpass. The plainclothes policeman and the dog had gone, of course, but the garbage cans were still there, spitting their leftovers into the gutter. It was after three and already it was getting dark, the sun sliding behind the horizon like a drunk behind a bar. An old man carrying two plastic bags full of junk stumbled past, on his way from one nowhere to another. A cold wind scattered the litter across the street. Depressing? Well, it was five days to Christmas and I was pretty depressed myself.
I went into the hotel. Jack Splendide was sitting behind the counter where I’d found him on my first visit. He was reading a dirty paperback. It was so dirty, you couldn’t read half the words. It looked like somebody had spilled their breakfast all over it. He was still sucking a cigar—probably the same cigar, and he hadn’t changed his shirt either. The last time he’d changed that shirt I probably hadn’t been born.
“Hello,” I said.
“Yeah?” He really knew how to make a guy feel welcome.
“I want a room.”
“How long for?”
“One hour.”
He frowned. “We only rent by the night. Fifteen dollars. Sixteen dollars with a bed.”
I’d managed to grab all Herbert’s cash before we parted company and now I counted out the money on the counter. Splendide took it, then stood up, reaching for the key.
“I want Room thirty-nine,” I said.
“Suppose it’s taken?”
I gestured at the hooks. “The key’s there,” I said. “Anyway—who needs it? The room doesn’t have a lock.”
“This is a class hotel, kid.” He was offended. The cigar waggled between his teeth like a finger ticking me off. “You don’t like it, you can check in someplace else.”
I didn’t like it. But I had to go through with it. “Just give me the key,” I said.
He argued a bit more after that. I thought he was holding out for more money, but of course he was keeping me waiting on purpose. That was what he had been told to do. In the end he let me have the key—like he’d been intending to all the time. I should have been smart enough to see right through his little act, but it had been a long day and I was tired and . . . okay, maybe I wasn’t as smart as I thought.
Anyway, he gave me the key and I climbed up the stairs to the fifth floor, then along the corridor to Room 39. It was only when I’d opened the door and gone in that I began to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. It was unlikely that the room had been cleaned since the dwarf’s death—it was unlikely that the rooms at the Hotel Splendide were ever cleaned—but the police would have been through it with a fine-tooth comb. But now that I was here, it wouldn’t hurt to have a look. And I had paid.
I began with the drawers. There was a big, asthmatic chest of them. They groaned when I pulled them open and the brass rings rattled. But apart from a bent safety pin, a moth-ball, and the moth it had killed, they were empty. Next I tried the table. That should have had two more drawers, but somebody had stolen them. That just left the bed. I went and sat on it, remembering how Johnny Naples had lain there with that red carnation blossoming in the buttonhole of his shirt. He had sat in this room. He had lived in it. He had worked out the location of a five-million-dollar fortune in it. And he had died in it.
The traffic thundered past about six feet away from the window. It was still a mystery how Johnny Naples had ever managed to sleep here at all.
My eye was drawn to a wastepaper basket in one corner. It was a green plastic thing, so broken and battered that it should have been in a wastebasket itself. I leaned across and flicked a hand through the rubbish that lay in the bottom. There wasn’t much: two potato-chip bags, the wrapper from a chocolate bar, a couple of dead batteries, and an empty pack of cigarettes. I was about to leave it when I remembered. It wouldn’t have meant anything to the police—that was why they’d overlooked it—but it meant something to me. Back in the office, the day it had all started, the dwarf had smoked Turkish cigarettes. And this was a Turkish cigarette pack. It had belonged to Naples.
I plucked it out of the wastepaper basket and opened it, hoping . . . I don’t know . . . for a telephone number scrawled on the inside or something like that. What I got was even better. It was a shower of paper: little white squares that had been neatly torn up. I knelt down and examined the scraps. Some of them had writing on them, parts of words written in blue ink. I slid them across the carpet with a pointed finger, putting the jigsaw puzzle back together again. It didn’t take me long before I had it: five words in English with what I guessed were the Spanish translations written beside them.
DIGITAL PHOTODETECTOR LIGHT-EMITTING DIODE
Frankly, they were a disappointment. Why had Johnny Naples written them down? I was certain they had to be connected with the Maltesers. That would explain why, after he’d torn the paper up, he’d taken the extra precaution of hiding them in the cigarette pack. He’d have flushed them down the toilet if the hotel had toilets. It was the Spanish translations that helped me figure it out. Suppose Johnny Naples had come across the five words in his search for the diamonds. His English was good, but it wasn’t that good. He might not have understood them. So he’d have written them down to look up later.
The only snag was, I didn’t understand them either. Obviously, they were something to do with science, but science had never been my strong point. If you met my science teacher, I think you’d know why. I don’t think science was his strong point either.
I scooped the pieces up and put them in my pocket. I’d searched the drawers, the table, and the wastepaper basket. That left just the bed. I tried to look underneath it, but a wooden rim running down to the carpet made that impossible. It was one of the oldest beds I had ever seen, a monster of thick wood and rusty springs with a mattress a foot and a half thick and about as comfortable as a damp sponge cake. It took all my strength to heave the thing up on its side, but I was determined to look underneath. Not that there was much to discover: a yellowed copy of the Daily Mirror, one slipper, and about ten years’ worth of accumulated dust.
But it was the bed that saved my life.
I was just about to set it down when I heard the window shatter and at the same time a car roared away.
Something dark green and about the size of a softball had flown into the room. It took me about one second to work out that it wasn’t a dark green softball and another second to throw myself to the ground. The grenade hit the bed and bounced back toward the window. Then it exploded.
I should have been killed, but I was already hugging the floor and there was this great wall of springs and mattress between me and it. Even so it was like being inside a cherry bomb on New Year’s Eve. Suddenly it seemed that the whole room was on fire—not just the room, the very air in the room. The floor buckled upward like a huge fist, pounding me in the stomach. The explosion was so loud I thought it would crack open my skull. All this happened at once, and at the same time I was seized by the shock wave and hurled back, twisting in the air, and finally thrown out of the room, my shoulders slamming into the door and carrying it with me. I was unconscious by the time I hit the floor. I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Maybe ten minutes. It could have been ten days.
I woke up with a mouth full of splinters and two hysterical opera singers screaming in my ears. Actually, there weren’t any opera singers, but that’s what it sounded like. My clothes were torn to ribbons and I could feel the blood running from a cut above one eye. Other than that, I seemed to be in remarkably good health for someone who had just been blown up. There would be plenty of bruises, but there were no broken bones. I stood up—one bone at a time—and leaned against a wall for support. The wall slid away. There was too much dust and smoke in the air to see. I stood where I was, waiting for things to settle down a bit before I made any sudden move.