Getting out had become an urgent priority. I left the kitchen and backtracked the way I had come. At the cul-de-sac leading to the fire stairs I paused. Then I went into the small hallway and, avoiding the lethal bare patches on the wire in an effort not to be electrocuted, reached up and unscrewed the light bulb. I needed time to think. Mentally bidding Mr. Rat to keep his distance, I leaned against the door and listened to the water drip.
At least I'd learned what people meant when they used "basement" as a verb. Now what I needed was to unbasement myself as quickly as possible.
In the class-conscious twenties, a hotel like the Borzoi wouldn't have subjected its guests' sensibilities to the sight of the help, people largely lacking in real style, coming and going. That meant there had to be a service entrance or two at street level, and also, since so many of the poor souls had slaved in the basement, there had to be a service elevator. And since I'd pretty much exhausted the territory to the left, it had to be to the right. Where the lights were.
I'd moved only a few steps when I heard voices. I was learning to back up very quickly, and I did it now, heading for what had become the friendly, rat-filled darkness of my cul-de-sac.
Huddled against the fire door, I watched three people pass from right to left. The first was a short, fat man dressed in drab, loose clothes. The other two were in quasi-military uniforms, faintly Italian in their spit-and-polish, and calf-high boots. As they passed, the man in the lead stared hopelessly at the floor but the man in the middle looked back, away from me, said something, and laughed. It wasn't a contagious laugh. Virulent, maybe, but not contagious.
The third man laughed too. He was carrying a bucket.
Judging from the woebegone demeanor of the man in the lead, they were probably heading for the kitchen to pop another simp on the barbie. What the hell, I figured, and followed.
But they weren't going to the kitchen. They turned left at the short corridor leading to the air conditioner. I edged along the far wall until I could see the cooling unit and the three figures in front of it.
The man who had laughed pulled open the hinged door in the duct and made an extravagant after-you-Alphonse bow. The fat little man bowed his head submissively, and the one with the bucket lifted it and poured its contents over the bowing man. Then the bowing man got onto his hands and knees and crawled into the duct.
"A little cooling-off period," said the one who had laughed. It seemed like a well-worn joke, but the wind-chill factor in that duct must have been something for even a dry man to reckon with.
"Thank you," said the one in the duct. He sounded like he meant it. There are more ways of being crazy than there are of being sane.
The joker closed the door, and I made a beeline for the first closet and counted to a hundred very slowly. Water dripped regularly onto my head. When I shifted my position it dripped onto my shoulder and my head. I shifted back.
I didn't hear anything outside. I eased open the door and sloshed quietly back to my cul-de-sac. The place had probably become too familiar, too safe by contrast to the rest of the labyrinth. I was backing into it when I felt something move behind me. An arm went quickly around my throat, cutting into my windpipe, and the light went on.
The guy behind me had to be the one with the bucket. And the one with the laugh, the one in front of me, was my old friend Needle-nose.
Chapter 17
"Well, gee," I said through my constricted throat. "Hi."
He didn't seem to recognize me. The guy behind me tightened his chokehold to keep his interest up.
"I'm lost," I said in a voice that sounded like Daffy Duck.
Needle-nose smiled, not a pretty sight, and lowered his hand from the light bulb. "You certainly are," he said. His eyes were a pale gray, flecked with brown. They weren't smiling. They flicked to meet the eyes of the one behind me, and the forearm relaxed a little. "Perhaps there's something we could help you find." His voice was very soft, almost girlish. The gray eyes were extravagantly fringed with sable lashes.
"I don't know," I said. "A Burger King?"
"A Burger King." He considered the answer very seriously.
"I'd kill for a Whopper," I said.
He gazed at me in the gloom. The light bulb above us swung back and forth in a tiny arc. Then the sharp tip of his nose quivered and his eyes narrowed slightly. I lowered my head as far as I could against the restraining arm, throwing my face into shadow, and hoped he'd come closer for a better look.
When he did, I kneed him in the balls.
Surfing a tidal wave of pure adrenaline, I snapped my head back against the face of the man behind me. I heard a crack as the back of my head struck his nose, and the arm around my neck loosened. I grabbed the arm and shoved it straight up, up toward the, frayed electrical wire with the bulb hanging from it.
He must have realized what I was going to do, because he didn't choke me with his free hand or try to dig a finger into my eye. Instead, he grabbed at his own arm and tried to yank it down. He didn't make it.
I felt a numbing jolt as I leapt back. The man's whole body convulsed and jerked. Sparks flew from the wire. Then the man collapsed, taking the wire with him. Luckily for the rest of us, since we were all standing on the same wet floor, the wire snapped. The corridor went dark.
I heard a damp slap as the man's body hit the floor, and a small flat explosion as the bulb broke. Something scrambled behind me. Needle-nose. I stood absolutely still.
The lights were obviously wired in series, 1920's-style, because the bulbs in the main passageway had gone out too. It couldn't have been any darker in the belly of the whale.
My heart was hammering, and I was soaking wet. I tried to unfocus my eyes and let a form emerge, but there was nothing. Then there was a ragged intake of breath, and I heaved myself toward it.
I would have gotten him on the first pass if I hadn't tripped over the body of the man on the floor. As it was, I grasped a handful of jacket, and then a hand clawed over my face, searching for the base of my nose. The hand snapped up, trying to shove cartilage into the brain, and hit my cheekbone instead. I struck under it and drove three stiff fingers into an armpit.
Needle-nose went "Ooooof." I scrabbled over the body and wrapped an arm around his neck. He pulled in the opposite direction, and instead of yanking back, I pushed with all my strength. Between the two of us, we hammered his head into the concrete wall. It sounded like a breaking egg.
He sagged in a satisfying fashion. I let go of his neck and stood up, a little more shakily than I would have liked. Then I remembered that he might have Sally Oldfield's fingernails in his pocket. Who knew? Maybe he kept souvenirs. I went back, located his head, and lifted him by the hair. Twining my arm around his neck again, I slammed his face into the concrete floor. Then I did it again. He didn't even sigh. There was just a faint slobbering sound as he breathed into the wet. I left him facedown and edged toward the main corridor, wishing the water was a couple of inches deeper.
Unless I wanted to run into these guys' teammates, I could think of only one way out. It was only slightly better than staying.
I felt my way to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned left. Light glimmered in the distance, and I headed toward it.
The air-conditioning unit was right where I'd left it, and the little metal door was shut tight. I opened it, and the fat man inside looked up in surprise. It wasn't time yet.
"Excuse me," I said. I had so little support for my voice that I had to say it again. "Excuse me. Duct patrol."