Read Online In the Night Room by Peter Straub - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Peter Straub
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information I have, Mitchell is in France today. And is expected to stay there for perhaps three more days. To be more specific, he’s in a suburb of Paris called Nanterre.”
“He told my voice mail he was in Nanterre.”
“I thought he might have done, you see. That is why your question rather took me by surprise.”
The reason your question sounded so stupid
was what she thought he meant.
“He said he was staying at the Hôtel Mercure Paris something-or-other Parc.”
“Mercure Paris La Défense Parc.”
“That’s it, yes. I called them as soon as I listened to his message, and the man I talked to said Mitchell checked out almost seven hours earlier. That’s like five in the morning here.”
“Well, then, he checked out without telling me. He’ll be in touch later today or tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“But he told me he was still checked into that hotel.” For a moment, their eyes met again. Coverley did not blink. “You can see why I would be a little concerned.”
Coverley pressed the fingers of one hand to his lips and, without any change of expression, lifted his head and gazed at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Willy. “Let us clarify this situation. I’ll get the hotel’s telephone number.”
“I already talked to them,” Willy said.
“It never hurts to get a second opinion.”
For a little while Coverley moved his mouse around and watched what was happening on his screen. “All right,” he said at last, and punched in numbers on his keypad. Then he held up an index finger, telling her to wait. The finger came down.
“Bonjour,”
he said. Then came a long sentence she did not understand that ended with the word
Fay-bear.
Pause.
“Oui,”
he said.
Pause.
“Je comprends.”
Pause.
“Très bien, monsieur.”
Then, in English: “Would you please repeat that in English, sir? Mr. Fay-bear’s wife asked me to inquire about his status at the hotel.”
He clicked a button or flipped a switch, Willy could not tell which.
Through the speakers on either side of the monitor came a heavily accented male voice saying, “Mrs. Fay-bear, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Willy said. “Are you the man I spoke to earlier?”
“Madame, I have never spoken to you before we do it now. You were inquiring about your husband’s residence in our hotel?”
“Yes,” Willy said.
“Mr. Fay-bear is still registered as a guest. He arrived three days ago and is expected to remain with us yet two days.”
“Somebody else just told me he checked out at ten this morning.”
“But you see, he is very much still here. His room is 437, if you would care to speak to him. No—excuse me, he is not in his room at this time.”
“He’s there.”
“No, madame, as I explained—”
“He’s staying in your hotel, I mean.”
“As I have said, madame.”
“Is he . . .” Willy could not finish this sentence in the presence of Giles Coverley. “Thank you.”
“À bientôt.”
Coverley raised his hands and shrugged. “All right?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“You got through to some other hotel with a similar name, Willy. It’s the only explanation.”
“I should have asked to leave a message.”
“Would you like me to call him back? It would be no trouble at all.”
“No, Giles, thanks,” she said. “I guess I’ll wait for him to call me back. Or I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“You do that,” Coverley said.
That night, again in the grip of her compulsion, Willy drove back to Union Street. All the way she asked herself why she was doing it and told herself to turn back. But she knew why she was doing it, and she could not turn back. Already she could hear her daughter’s cries.
Her headlights picked out the entrance to the parking lot and the huge dark ascent of the warehouse’s facade, and without intending to do so, she swerved into the lot. Her heart fluttered, birdlike, behind the wall of her chest.
She had known what she was going
“He told my voice mail he was in Nanterre.”
“I thought he might have done, you see. That is why your question rather took me by surprise.”
The reason your question sounded so stupid
was what she thought he meant.
“He said he was staying at the Hôtel Mercure Paris something-or-other Parc.”
“Mercure Paris La Défense Parc.”
“That’s it, yes. I called them as soon as I listened to his message, and the man I talked to said Mitchell checked out almost seven hours earlier. That’s like five in the morning here.”
“Well, then, he checked out without telling me. He’ll be in touch later today or tomorrow, I’m sure.”
“But he told me he was still checked into that hotel.” For a moment, their eyes met again. Coverley did not blink. “You can see why I would be a little concerned.”
Coverley pressed the fingers of one hand to his lips and, without any change of expression, lifted his head and gazed at the ceiling. Then he looked back down at Willy. “Let us clarify this situation. I’ll get the hotel’s telephone number.”
“I already talked to them,” Willy said.
“It never hurts to get a second opinion.”
For a little while Coverley moved his mouse around and watched what was happening on his screen. “All right,” he said at last, and punched in numbers on his keypad. Then he held up an index finger, telling her to wait. The finger came down.
“Bonjour,”
he said. Then came a long sentence she did not understand that ended with the word
Fay-bear.
Pause.
“Oui,”
he said.
Pause.
“Je comprends.”
Pause.
“Très bien, monsieur.”
Then, in English: “Would you please repeat that in English, sir? Mr. Fay-bear’s wife asked me to inquire about his status at the hotel.”
He clicked a button or flipped a switch, Willy could not tell which.
Through the speakers on either side of the monitor came a heavily accented male voice saying, “Mrs. Fay-bear, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Willy said. “Are you the man I spoke to earlier?”
“Madame, I have never spoken to you before we do it now. You were inquiring about your husband’s residence in our hotel?”
“Yes,” Willy said.
“Mr. Fay-bear is still registered as a guest. He arrived three days ago and is expected to remain with us yet two days.”
“Somebody else just told me he checked out at ten this morning.”
“But you see, he is very much still here. His room is 437, if you would care to speak to him. No—excuse me, he is not in his room at this time.”
“He’s there.”
“No, madame, as I explained—”
“He’s staying in your hotel, I mean.”
“As I have said, madame.”
“Is he . . .” Willy could not finish this sentence in the presence of Giles Coverley. “Thank you.”
“À bientôt.”
Coverley raised his hands and shrugged. “All right?”
“I don’t know what happened.”
“You got through to some other hotel with a similar name, Willy. It’s the only explanation.”
“I should have asked to leave a message.”
“Would you like me to call him back? It would be no trouble at all.”
“No, Giles, thanks,” she said. “I guess I’ll wait for him to call me back. Or I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“You do that,” Coverley said.
That night, again in the grip of her compulsion, Willy drove back to Union Street. All the way she asked herself why she was doing it and told herself to turn back. But she knew why she was doing it, and she could not turn back. Already she could hear her daughter’s cries.
Her headlights picked out the entrance to the parking lot and the huge dark ascent of the warehouse’s facade, and without intending to do so, she swerved into the lot. Her heart fluttered, birdlike, behind the wall of her chest.
She had known what she was going
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