Chapter 50

 

When Gracie woke from her short nap, Pen shared the thoughts which had run through her head for the past hour. “If my necklace is sitting there in his hotel room, I must try to get it back.”

Even as she said it, Pen realized Morrell could have easily gone back to his room and cleared it while they’d been at the doctor’s office. If only she’d thought to demand to be let into his room immediately after he’d run. Then she had an idea—more than one side could play at this game.

Gracie started to get out of bed but any movement of her injured arm caused her to flinch. Pen helped her to stand, waited while Gracie was in the bathroom, then insisted she get back in bed.

“I have a plan,” Pen said. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour. You rest some more and take another of your pain pills when the time comes.”

“What are you—?”

Pen held up a hand. “Don’t worry. Just a little lying and trickery. I’ll be right back.”

She popped out of the room before Gracie could protest. They both had cell phones and although the international charges were fairly outrageous, it was reassuring to have the means for emergency contact in place. She followed their earlier route and found herself at Alpen Haus.

A peek through the front windows showed a different clerk on duty so she mustered up her bravery and walked in, a worried look on her face.

“Excuse me,” she said. “My nephew, Richard Frank, is staying here. He called me awhile ago to say he wasn’t feeling well. It worried me and I need to go check on him. It’s room 314. Might I get a key so I don’t have to wake him if he’s asleep? I just want to peep in.”

The young female clerk hesitated, then reached for the telephone.

“Do you not understand that I don’t want to wake him?” Pen held her hand out, feeling fluttery inside but appearing outwardly confident of getting her way.

A half-minute later, with a key in her hand, she quickly walked to the elevator. At the door to 314 she debated knocking. She didn’t want a confrontation, but with warning Morrell would be prepared. She inserted the plastic card into the mechanism and walked in.

The room was dim and hollow-feeling. She knew at once he was not there. As on Cayman, she found a scattering of personal items left behind—disposable shaving gear in the bathroom, a wrinkled shirt on the floor. A nice suit hung in the closet. This time, there was also a suitcase. In it she found a laptop computer and small portable printer. Temptation pulled at her; this computer probably held all sorts of valuable information that could help catch the con man. On the other hand, all she really wanted was her own property. If she could find her necklace, she would be happy never to see or hear of Frank Morrell again. She went through every zippered pocket on the suitcase but found nothing of interest.

Quickly circling the room, she opened each drawer. All were—no surprise—empty. The pillows, linens and under the mattress also yielded nothing. On hands and knees, she examined the undersides of furniture, drawers and the bathroom vanity. She came back to the suitcase, reached for the computer and pulled it from the bag. Even a short peek might give a clue as to his plans.

She raised the lid, staring at the black screen. A sound caught her attention. The door to the hallway rattled, the handle turning. Pen held her breath, thinking frantically for an explanation.

On the other side of the door a cell phone rang some complicated musical tone. The door handle stopped moving and she heard an unfamiliar male voice answer in German. She slowly exhaled, not daring to make a sound while the man stood directly outside. He spoke loudly enough that if she’d known more than a few phrases, she could have followed the conversation. The voice was not Frank Morrell’s—for that, she was thankful.

Could it be the police? Just because she and Gracie had not reported the attack, it didn’t mean someone else hadn’t. The doctor, perhaps. The clerk on duty when it happened might have given out Morrell’s room number. He might have also mentioned two women who’d come looking for the guest in 314. If so, she could hardly pull the visiting-aunt excuse.

The conversation lasted an interminable three minutes by Pen’s watch. At last, the man began to move away, still talking, his voice becoming fainter. She slipped Morrell’s computer back into the suitcase, tiptoed to the door and peered out the peephole. No sign of a person. With a gentle touch she opened the door and glanced both directions into the corridor. He was gone.

She stepped out and closed the door behind her, wanting nothing more than to get out of this hotel. Now.

I’m getting too old for this, she thought as she practically race-walked to the elevator.