towels, run a dust cloth over the desk and leave.
Have you said anything to Mr. Simmons about it- about the empty room? Della asked.
I said. But he wouldn't listen. He just stares at me, kind of like I'm not there. Then he says, like he didn't even hear me, 'It's none of your concern, Hattie.' I had to ask the afternoon man whether there was anyone there, and he told me there was.
Pete had been only half paying attention to the conversation. And now, as Della put another question to the maid, he lost interest altogether. Over the heavy woman's shoulder, a hundred and fifty feet down the veranda, a man stood in the dorway, half concealed by the shadows, watching the three of them. His pale face was all that was visible, and only part of that. But he was instantly recognizable as the man who had watched the house, the same man they had seen in the restaurant that night when he had come home from his first lost journey.
Only seconds after he realized they were being watched, Pete saw the stranger draw back, as if he knew he had been seen.
Della asked him something.
He pushed away from her and the maid and ran along the breezeway, keeping the stranger's room at the center of his line of vision. If he looked away, even for a moment, he would never be able to distinguish one room from the next when he looked back.
The watcher slammed the door.
In the next moment, Pete was there, pounding loudly and shouting to be let in. When he got no response, he tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked. He pushed the crimson panel inward and stepped into the room.
The room was unoccupied.
He crossed to the closed bathroom door and pulled that open. The bathroom was unoccupied as well. The window was open, but it did not appear to be large enough to permit a grown man escape.
When he turned around, Della and the maid were standing at the open doorway to the main room. Della's face was unnaturally white, her lips drawn together until they almost disappeared, bloodless lips against bloodless skin. The maid just looked angry.
Whose room is this? he asked the heavy woman before she could reprimand him for forcing his way into a room that wasn't his.
How should I know? She covered the pocket where the five dollars lay, effectively sealing it from him with one pudgy hand.
He pushed past her and went back to the motel office. Who is occupying Room 27? he asked, reaching for the registration book.
It was on the top sheet of card duplicates. The name of the occupant was listed as D. J. Mullion.
Who? Della asked.
He could hardly speak. You, he croaked.
She took it from him and looked at her initials. It's not my handwriting though. And it says the room was rented-an hour and ten minutes ago. I was with you then.
What did he look like? Pete asked Simmons.
The man in 27? Well, he was tall. And thin. Sharp nose, like a beak. That's about all. He wasn't one of those people who leave any sort of lasting impression.
What kind of car did he come in? 1
A VW, Simmons said, reading from the register. There's the license number.
Pete looked at it. He wanted to rip the ledger apart, to scream and kick at things. As calmly as he could, he said, He gave you the license number of my Thunderbird. He probably lied about the VW part of it as well.
Simmons stood up, his stool rattling on the tiled floor. I better go check the room, he said. His bland face was creased with a frown. See if he stole anything.
Do that, Pete
Have you said anything to Mr. Simmons about it- about the empty room? Della asked.
I said. But he wouldn't listen. He just stares at me, kind of like I'm not there. Then he says, like he didn't even hear me, 'It's none of your concern, Hattie.' I had to ask the afternoon man whether there was anyone there, and he told me there was.
Pete had been only half paying attention to the conversation. And now, as Della put another question to the maid, he lost interest altogether. Over the heavy woman's shoulder, a hundred and fifty feet down the veranda, a man stood in the dorway, half concealed by the shadows, watching the three of them. His pale face was all that was visible, and only part of that. But he was instantly recognizable as the man who had watched the house, the same man they had seen in the restaurant that night when he had come home from his first lost journey.
Only seconds after he realized they were being watched, Pete saw the stranger draw back, as if he knew he had been seen.
Della asked him something.
He pushed away from her and the maid and ran along the breezeway, keeping the stranger's room at the center of his line of vision. If he looked away, even for a moment, he would never be able to distinguish one room from the next when he looked back.
The watcher slammed the door.
In the next moment, Pete was there, pounding loudly and shouting to be let in. When he got no response, he tried the knob and found that the door was unlocked. He pushed the crimson panel inward and stepped into the room.
The room was unoccupied.
He crossed to the closed bathroom door and pulled that open. The bathroom was unoccupied as well. The window was open, but it did not appear to be large enough to permit a grown man escape.
When he turned around, Della and the maid were standing at the open doorway to the main room. Della's face was unnaturally white, her lips drawn together until they almost disappeared, bloodless lips against bloodless skin. The maid just looked angry.
Whose room is this? he asked the heavy woman before she could reprimand him for forcing his way into a room that wasn't his.
How should I know? She covered the pocket where the five dollars lay, effectively sealing it from him with one pudgy hand.
He pushed past her and went back to the motel office. Who is occupying Room 27? he asked, reaching for the registration book.
It was on the top sheet of card duplicates. The name of the occupant was listed as D. J. Mullion.
Who? Della asked.
He could hardly speak. You, he croaked.
She took it from him and looked at her initials. It's not my handwriting though. And it says the room was rented-an hour and ten minutes ago. I was with you then.
What did he look like? Pete asked Simmons.
The man in 27? Well, he was tall. And thin. Sharp nose, like a beak. That's about all. He wasn't one of those people who leave any sort of lasting impression.
What kind of car did he come in? 1
A VW, Simmons said, reading from the register. There's the license number.
Pete looked at it. He wanted to rip the ledger apart, to scream and kick at things. As calmly as he could, he said, He gave you the license number of my Thunderbird. He probably lied about the VW part of it as well.
Simmons stood up, his stool rattling on the tiled floor. I better go check the room, he said. His bland face was creased with a frown. See if he stole anything.
Do that, Pete
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