ONE DAY TO GO. Steven Jencks awoke in a philosophical mood. He was still slightly depressed by the fact that their work had fallen behind schedule, but somehow everything looked better in the morning.
He allowed his mind to wander over the scheme, and its basis, the marvelous mathematic concept of probability, of chance.
To the layman, chance meant risk, uncertainty, weakness. Jencks had a more sophisticated understanding, the kind of understanding a physicist has when he talks about diffraction through a double slit. It was, basically, an awareness that chance governs—not in an individual case, but in many cases. He could accept that paradox and all it implied. You could not predict what would happen in a single instance, a single throw of the dice, a single pitch in the seventh inning, a single toss of the coin. But you could predict three out of five, four out of ten, seven out of sixteen, and to that extent chance governed everyone, all the time.
Just as surely as two equals two.
He got out of bed, and went into the bathroom to shave. For some reason, quotations came into his head.
Henri Poincaré: “Chance is only the measure of our ignorance.”
Laplace: “Probability is relative, in part to our ignorance, in part to our knowledge.”
And one quotation which occurred to him, for no particular reason, and amused him as he ran the razor over his chin. C.S. Pierce: “To be logical men should not be selfish.”
Well, he was embarked upon a venture of chance, and it was a most logical and selfish venture. He was not afraid; he welcomed this opportunity to test his mind against the vagaries and uncertainties of life among three hundred souls temporarily inhabiting the Hotel Reina. In fact, it was the element of chance, of carefully calculated—no, computed—risk, which made the project so interesting.
Jencks was not a man given to broad generalizations, but he fervently believed that mathematics was the foremost source of power in the modern world. Its potentialities, for both good and evil, far outstripped atomic energy. Because mathematics was a source of discovery, a tool of inquiry. It was mathematics, after all, which made atomic energy possible in the first place. One little white-haired German refugee working with chalk and a blackboard. He shook his head, half-amused, half-wonderingly. It was really quite incredible.
And in his own modest way, Steven Jencks was making a contribution to knowledge. He was using mathematics, and using the computer, to carry out the first genuinely scientific crime in the history of mankind.
He had to admit he was eager to begin.
Annette opened her eyes slowly and stared across the room. She saw her dress and stockings placed carefully across a chair, her shoes on the floor. She looked outside; the sun was shining, but she could not see the ground—this room was on a higher floor than her own. She had a brief moment of panic until she remembered where she was.
“Hello,” Bryan said. He was sitting up in bed, smoking.
“Hi,” she said, stretching. The movement exposed one breast above the edge of the sheet, but she did not hurry to cover it. She had spent the night lying naked next to him; she was not afraid and not falsely modest.
She thought back over the evening before and discovered that she could remember nothing after the drive in the car.
“Listen,” she said, “this may sound ridiculous, but I don’t remember what happened.”
“Not surprised,” Bryan said. “You were dead to the world. I just brought you back and popped you into bed.”
Happy and still sleepy, she pressed up against his warm body. He ran his fingers through her hair, holding the soft dark strands gently. “Did we …”
“No,” he said. “You kept mumbling something about it, but you were too tired.”
He did not sound annoyed, just accepting. She sat up and kissed his cheek, feeling the stubble of beard.
“Want a cigarette?” She shook her head. “I’ve ordered coffee for eight o’clock. It’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Suddenly she was wide awake. “My God,” she said, “I have to be at work at eight. It’s Mr. Bonnard’s day off.”
Bryan remained calm. “Coffee first. Why don’t you go take a shower? It’ll be here when you get out.”
She got up and walked to the bathroom, feeling no embarrassment although she knew he was watching her. That was unusual; other times, when she began an affair, she had been acutely self-conscious under a man’s eyes. She wondered why Bryan should be different, and realized that it was because he was not embarrassed. He seemed to accept her.
She came back feeling fresh and clean, a towel around her. She sat down on the bed and he handed her a cup of coffee; she sipped it, feeling it warm her throat, making her feel instantly awake. The towel fell down around her waist. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. Her breasts brushed against his chest.
“You’re handsome,” she said.
“You’re beautiful, and neither of us is saying anything new.”
She laughed, and watched as he balanced his cigarette, coffee cup and saucer with the deft aplomb which only an Englishman could acquire, the accumulated training of endless tea and sherry parties.
“I used your toothbrush,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.”
He smiled. “Will I see you tonight?”
“I can’t,” she said. “I have to work late. Tomorrow?”
It would be difficult, he thought. “I can’t plan that far ahead.”
She finished her coffee and stood up. “I really have to get to work now,” she said. She kissed him again. He took her hand firmly.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re going to be a little late today,” he said, and drew her down against him.
“I see,” Miguel said, listening with every appearance of attention to the pimple-faced kid. No, it was more than attention. It was an interest and fascination that bordered on adulation. The kid was lapping it up, poor bastard.
“Yes,” Peter replied. “I’ve always had that ability. Not with all women, of course—but with many of them. I find that the right amount of pressure and cajolery, in the right combination, works wonders. The only problem is finding the combination, though I’ve been lucky there, most of the time. And I find women so interesting, particularly older women. That’s the trouble—the young ones have the bodies, but the older ones know how to use them.”
“I agree,” Miguel said. He did not allow his eyes to leave Peter’s face. Basking in the luxury of attention, Peter was growing more excited and voluble; his words poured forth in confusion, and Miguel was certain that he was lying fabulously.
“Now an exception,” Peter said, leaning over confidentially, “an exception happens to be the chambermaids in this hotel. Have you tried them?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I haven’t gotten around to it. You see, I’ve been busy with other … matters.”
Peter chuckled, man-to-man. Miguel detested him at that instant, and purposely looked away, across the empty bar. It was empty with good reason; only people with real problems frequented the bars at nine in the morning. He had seen Peter here the day before and today had found it easy to strike up a conversation. The kid wanted desperately to talk, to impress someone. “Who’s the lucky number?” Peter asked, smiling lecherously.
“That’s her, now,” Miguel said, waving to Cynthia, who was passing by on her way to the pool. She appeared hungover, but with her sultry features, it looked good. He beckoned her over and introduced Peter.
“Pleased to meet you,” Peter said, nodding slightly at Miguel’s wink. His attention was focused on Cynthia’s bikini, which was not as brief as it might be—though certainly brief enough.
“So glad,” Cynthia said, extending her hand and half-yawning. Miguel gave her a warning glance. It was the least he could do for her, he felt.
“I must be running along now,” he said, finishing his drink. Peter’s eyes widened in gratitude as Miguel walked out; poor bastard, Miguel thought. But Miguel had been looking for a way to break up the conversation for the last fifteen minutes, ever since Peter had told him all he wanted to know.
Cynthia regarded Peter with less distaste than disinterest. She had been pleasantly but thoroughly exhausted by Jean-Paul the day before, and this morning she had no stomach for men. Miguel had unloaded this panting kid on her, and she resented it—though only mildly. She felt everything mildly today; she lacked the strength for strong emotions.
“Would you like a drink?” Peter asked. His eyes were shining. Cynthia thought he looked as if he wanted to scratch his crotch.
“Jesus, no,” she said. The very idea of drink was horrible.
“Perhaps some lemonade? Coffee?”
What was the matter with this boy, anyway? Did he think he had to pour liquid down her or she would walk away?
“Come join me at the pool,” she said wearily. He leaped up, and together they walked outside to the pool. Peter brought the rest of his double bourbon with him. They found two chairs on the grass, some distance from some squealing, splashing brats who had temporarily monopolized the pool. Cynthia noticed idly that a four-year-old boy was trying to strangle his little sister. Good for him, she thought.
She flopped down in a chair, shut her eyes, and turned her face up to the sun. Peter sat beside her, making fidgeting, restless sounds.
“Cigarette?” he asked.
She smelled tobacco near her nose. She was very sensitive to smells this morning. “No thanks.”
His lighter clicked; he was lighting one of his own. “Sure I can’t get you anything?”
“No, no.” A far, conscientious corner of her mind told her to talk to him, but she simply wasn’t up to it. Not this morning. Besides, he was so crashingly, nervously dull. Like a pregnant hummingbird, she thought, suspended above a pink carnation.
My God, she thought, am I still high?
The sun warmed her face and shoulders, and she relaxed. Peter was talking to her in his scratchy, tense voice; she ignored him. She began to feel beautifully warm. In a few moments, she was asleep.
Jencks was sitting at a table on the fourth-floor terrace, drinking his morning coffee. The wrinkled old woman was talking to him as she sipped tea and peeled one banana after another.
“It’s so very pleasant here,” she was saying. “Don’t you agree? I have always felt that spending time in a hotel such as this is rather like returning to the womb, in a manner of speaking. You understand my point, I’m sure; you seem an intelligent young man. What did you say you did?”
“I’m an industrial programmer,” Jencks said.
“Is that television?”
He smiled. “No, computers.”
“How fascinating!” Her face darkened as she popped a large chunk of banana into her wrinkled mouth.
“Gone bad?” he asked.
“No, it’s just fine. Lovely fruit in Spain, you know. It’s just … did you mention this computer business to me before?” She seemed very concerned. “I am afraid my memory isn’t all that it used to be. Age hath its compensations, but a good memory isn’t one of them.”
“I can’t remember,” Jencks said, knowing perfectly well that she had not asked his occupation earlier. “Just woke up. I’m always half-asleep for the first two hours of the day.”
“Like a zombie,” Miss Shaw said, cackling. Her jowls quivered, and little flakes of talcum powder and rouge were shaken free.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he said.
“No, of course not. Excuse me, I keep forgetting you Americans are so literal. You must learn to take yourselves less seriously. It’s the result of the atom bomb, I expect,” she said. “Do you enjoy your computers?”
“Yes, actually. They can do incredible things.”
“So I’ve heard, so I’ve heard. I confess it’s quite beyond me. Although,” she said, “I understand that shipping companies now use computers to tell them when to send boats to pick up the banana harvest. Now that’s progress, and don’t think I’m unappreciative. I adore bananas.”
“Delicious,” Jencks said. “Are you staying here long?”
“Not long. Just through the weekend. I’m on my way back to Brighton to visit my maiden sister. I’m maiden, too, but I don’t let it bother me. Not at my age. How long are you staying?”
“About a week,” Jencks said. “I’m not sure.”
“And then you return to the United States? I’ve never been, myself.”
“No, then I’m going to Rome. Consultation with some Italian industrial firms. Computers are just getting a foot in the door there.”
“Yes, but they’re getting a foot in the door everywhere. Soon we shall all be a series of little holes on somebody’s file card. I find that prospect depressing, frankly. Are you married?”
“No,” Jencks said. He displayed just the right amount of embarrassment about the subject. Normally, people would notice his discomfiture and drop the subject immediately.
“You should be,” Miss Shaw said. “A bright young man like you needs a wife. You must have a very good job, in a field with a future.” She looked at him over her tea, awaiting confirmation.
“I just haven’t gotten around to it, I guess.”
Miss Shaw shook her head, as if to say it was quite beyond normal comprehension.
“How did you come here?” Jencks asked. It seemed unlikely that she would drive herself.
“My chauffeur,” Miss Shaw said. “Marvelous chap, simply gorgeous, though a bit messy as a person. French, you know. That may account for it. But he drives well.”
“Unusual in a Frenchman. What kind of car is it?”
“Oh, one of those American Continentals. The houseboats. I detest it, of course, but it is so comfortable. Simply divine, the seats. And I’ve had it fitted out with a portable teapot, so I’m quite at home.”
Clearly, Jencks thought, this was a woman to investigate further. He considered how to maneuver discussion to the subject of rooms.
“Do you have a nice room?” Miss Shaw asked.
“Fine, thanks, though it doesn’t face the sea.”
“What a pity. Although if you’re high up, you have a nice view over the wooded hills. When I was here the last time, they put me on the third floor, and it was very pleasant indeed.” Again, she looked at him for confirmation.
“I’m on the second floor,” Jencks said. “Where are you?”
“Second floor as well. Fancy that. What number are you?”
“205.”
“Ah, well, we’re hardly neighbors, Mr. Jencks. I’m 257.
They laughed. Miss Shaw had a twinkle in her eye.
“Do you know—if you’ll excuse me—I think that you are a little bored and restless. Is that true?”
“Well,” Jencks said, “yes.”
“What you need is something to pep you up, get your blood moving. A different experience. A little excitement.”
“True,” Jencks said, thinking of Jenny. Then of the robbery.
“Something new and daring.”
“I agree.”
“Something unusual, out of the way.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Well,” said Miss Shaw, leaning close. “I’ll tell you.”
Annette was happy. The world seemed to her pleasant and optimistic; her work was fascinating; her clothes looked well on her; the staff was not loafing as much as usual; the guests were relatively quiet and uncomplaining. Though she arrived an hour late for work, she had breezed through the usual morning paperwork, humming to herself. The doorman gave her a knowing look, which she returned with a wide and genuine smile. She was happy—unreasonably, incredibly happy.
But it was a surprise to see Mr. Bonnard waddle up to the desk shortly before noon. He had never appealed to her—she found him physically unattractive and intellectually uninteresting, which made for a good business relationship between them. She did not know much about his private life, except that his wife had died during the war, and that he had been married to hotels ever since. On his days off, he drove south toward Barcelona, returning late at night. Nobody knew what he did, and Annette had never inquired.
“Miss Dumarche,” he said, rather stiffly, “I will not be taking the day off.”
She had never known him to do such a thing before. “Is it anything to do with the hotel?”
“No.” He reconsidered that. “Well, not exactly. To be completely honest, I awoke this morning with a—a premonition. Something is going to happen, I’m sure of it.”
“I see.” What could she say? It was hard enough to keep from laughing. At times, he really was an absurd little man.
Mr. Bonnard rubbed his fingers. He seemed genuinely distressed. “I do not normally have such feelings, but this one was unusually compelling. I feel that I should not leave today; nor, in fact, for the rest of the weekend. So,” he said, breathing deeply and standing as straight as he could, “I will be in my office as usual. By the way, what have you heard recently about the guests?”
Annette shrugged. In truth, she had heard nothing, and she had thought little about the hotel in the last few days. She was pleasantly distracted. “Nothing much.”
“Any news about 313?”
“She seems to be a very warm young woman.”
“You mean she is sleeping around?”
“Apparently.”
“Professional?”
“I don’t know. She is checking out on Monday.”
“And what about all the single men?”
Annette smiled. “They seem to like her.”
“This is no time for levity,” he said, scratching his thinning hair. “I am most concerned, Miss Dumarche. Most concerned. I feel something terrible is about to happen. We must prevent it.”
“Of course,” Annette said, feeling ridiculous.
“Be sure you notify me if anything happens,” he said vaguely, and walked off toward his office.
Annette was frankly puzzled.
“What’s got into him?” the switchboard girl asked, as Bonnard left.
“I don’t know. He’s worried about something.” She rapped her desk with a pencil. It was strange, completely unlike him. Mr. Bonnard was not a worrier; he prided himself on his efficiency, on his control of the situation.
“Did he receive any calls this morning?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” the switchboard girl said. “One came at 7 a.m. I put it through to his room. It was long distance from Barcelona.”
“And?”
The switchboard girl looked hurt. “And what?”
“You listened in, didn’t you?”
“Please,” the girl said, in a shocked voice.
Annette snorted impatiently.
“I was too busy,” the girl finally said. “Three other calls came in right afterward. I had to put them through.”
“So you have no idea what the topic of conversation was?”
“No,” the girl said, “I don’t.”
“Was it a long call?”
“Fifteen minutes.”
It must have been quite a call, Annette thought, if Mr. Bonnard had canceled his day off.
Jean-Paul groaned, and rolled over in bed toward the phone. He picked up the receiver, dropped it, picked it up again. He was having trouble seeing. “Hello?”
“Clumsy,” Miss Shaw snapped.
“Sorry.”
“Do you expect to lie in bed all morning?”
Even over the phone, her voice was sharp. He looked down at himself, and saw he had fallen asleep with all his clothes on. He was a mess.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Earn your salary.”
The phone was dead. He winced as he discovered a pounding headache and stumbled into the bathroom to find his aspirin.
Sitting in an armchair in his room, Jencks looked up. An envelope was being slipped under his door. He opened it and found Bryan’s list. He wondered briefly why he hadn’t come in, but Bryan would have a good reason, whatever it was …
Probably that girl, he thought, smiling to himself. A thorough researcher, Bryan. He took the new list and ticked the rooms off against the master sheet. There were no duplications. That was encouraging.
Mr. Bonnard looked up from his desk at Annette, who had just stepped into his office. “A Mr. Jencks to see you,” she said in Spanish. “A guest.”
Mr. Bonnard raised his eyebrows, asking silently if it concerned a complaint; he seemed nervous, on edge. She shook her head and stepped back, allowing an enormous American to walk into the office. He was not really so tall, just big, heavyset and broad-shouldered, with the bunched muscles of an athlete. His face had the coarseness which Mr. Bonnard associated with athletes—gross ones, like weight-lifters and boxers.
Mr. Bonnard stood and extended his hand. “How do you do?” Bonnard expected a bone-crushing grip, but received none. “Please sit down,” he said, gesturing to a padded, tan leather chair. His office was small, and so he had made certain that it was furnished in light colors, to make it appear larger. He did it not out of vanity, but simply to be comfortable. He spent a good deal of time in his office.
Jencks sat down and beamed a broad, slightly foolish smile. “I just wanted to tell you,” he said, “that I think you’re running a damned fine little hotel here.”
Mr. Bonnard was startled, and his face must have shown it.
“You do understand English, don’t you?” Jencks asked.
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you for your compliment, Mr. Jencks.”
Jencks relaxed in his chair and smiled again. “Not at all. I don’t mind telling you, I can appreciate the kind of job you people are doing here. From a professional standpoint, I mean. I’m an insurance salesman. It is easy for me to see how well you’re handling your possible risks at the Reina. I’m very pleased to see it. I believe in telling people what I think, and not just when I have a complaint. I complain about bad service and sloppy management, but fair’s fair. I wanted you to know that in my book, you’re doing a damned fine job. Damned fine.”
He seemed suddenly embarrassed, as if he had run out of words. Filling the silence, Mr. Bonnard said quickly, “You’re kind to take the trouble to say so. And I hope you will not hesitate to inform us of any lapses in the treatment you receive here. It has always been my personal belief that a customer does a hotel a disservice if he does not report any irregularity.”
Jencks nodded, and stood. It was an inane conversation, but necessary for his purposes. He did not understand why Bonnard was so nervous, but perhaps he was always nervous.
“I’ll certainly do that,” Jencks said. “And I’ll certainly recommend this hotel to all my friends.” He held out his hand and said, “Oh, one thing. Can you handle large parties—banquets, things like that?”
Behind him, the door opened.
“There’s your answer, Mr. Jencks,” Bonnard said.
Jencks turned to face a policeman, swarthy and grim looking.