AT 12:35, JENCKS WALKED out of the reading room, where he had been glancing through month-old issues of Life and Look. As he entered the lobby, he met Miguel.
“Look,” Miguel said, “I’ve got to talk to you.”
“Not here,” Jencks hissed. “Not now.”
“Listen, it’s—”
“Save it. Get back to work.”
He walked to the door, and stood with the doorman. They talked for several minutes about the rain, which was now falling in heavy sheets. The wind was high, and the doorman said that the sea was acting up; the skiff might tear loose from the mooring. The doorman had heard Mr. Bonnard, the manager, send someone to check on it.
Anyway, it was the doorman’s opinion that the entire hotel might as well wash away in the storm. With all due respect to the clients, it wasn’t worth a damn. Did Mr. Jencks know that the elevator was broken again? Jencks said he’d heard about it. Well, the doorman knew that it had broken down three times before in the past year. Junk, that was what the Reina was. Shoddy from start to finish. With all due respect, sir.
When Jencks left the man, he was still ranting. A taxi was just pulling up into the traffic circle.
He walked across the lobby to the phone booth and stepped inside. The light went on as he shut the door. He reached up and unscrewed the bulb, throwing the booth into darkness. He folded the lapels of his jacket over, covering his white shirt, and clipped them shut with the safety pin. Then he brought out his hood and pulled it over his head; finally, he slipped on his thin black gloves. He was now dressed entirely in black. He sat patiently, waiting. He did not look at his watch—there was no need to.
Jean-Paul, sitting alone at the nightclub bar with his Cutty Sark and water, listened absently to the fat horse onstage mumbling her bad French. Suddenly, there was a loud whoosh as if a window had blown open. He looked over and saw that one wall of the nightclub was a sheet of flame. People were leaping up from their tables; chairs scraped and were knocked back; women screamed.
He grabbed a passing waiter. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?” The waiter was shocked, almost speechless. His lips moved but nothing came out. Jean-Paul shook him. “Where is it?”
“There,” he finally managed to say, “by the toilets.”
The room was a madhouse. The singer, like an old trouper, insisted on continuing her song, but nobody was calmed by her efforts. A woman fainted. People ran everywhere. Somebody smashed a window in an effort to escape, but that only made it worse—a strong wind fanned the flames, which now curled around the ceiling.
Jean-Paul jumped off his stool and pushed through the chaos of furniture and people. It was slow business, but he kept his eyes fixed on the red cylinder hanging next to the bathroom door. Why hadn’t the staff already gotten to it? Black smoke stung his eyes; his shoes crunched on broken glass.
At that moment, he saw Mr. Bonnard burst into the room, knocking people aside with amazing strength and remarkable lack of tact. He was shouting something to the head-waiter, who seemed suddenly to come to his senses and run for the extinguisher.
At that moment, all the lights in the room went out.
Jencks stepped out of the phone booth and pressed his back to the wall. It was pitch black in the lobby; the girl behind the desk was screaming hysterically. He would have to hurry. At any minute, she would come to her senses and strike a match.
He took seven measured steps straight ahead, turned a careful right angle, and paced off three more strides. Stretching his hand forward, he touched a wall. People, running and shouting, brushed against him. He smelled heavy, sooty smoke.
He moved cautiously along the wall. There were more people in the lobby now. Several collided with him, but continued on. There was so much confusion, none of them would remember later. He felt the edge of a closed door, and ran his hand up and down, feeling for the knob. No knob. Must be the wrong side—yes, he felt the hinges.
The door was three feet wide. One pace. He felt another crack, and then his hand gripped the knob. Mr. Bonnard’s office. Locked.
He reached in his pocket and withdrew the key. A moment later he was inside, the door shut behind him. Only now did he dare flick on his pencil flashlight. Its narrow beam illuminated the clutter of letters and forms he had seen that morning. A half-eaten sandwich lay alongside.
He moved around behind the desk and opened the closet door. Then he heard a key scratching in the lock. Quickly, he stepped into the closet, held his breath, and prayed.
The door opened. Mr. Bonnard entered, breathing heavily, a candle in his hand. The yellow flicker dimly lit the room. Outside, he could hear screams and running feet. Mr. Bonnard was alone, swearing softly to himself in German between gasping breaths.
Mr. Bonnard went to his desk and began rummaging through all the drawers. Jencks watched tensely; the closet door was ajar, and although he was dressed in black, Mr. Bonnard had only to look closely and Jencks would be seen.
Mr. Bonnard continued to mutter, to rummage. He was forced to work one-handed, the other gripped the candle. Finally, he gave a little grunt of satisfaction and produced two flashlights. He checked them quickly. One worked, the other didn’t. He threw the faulty one back in the drawer and straightened up to go.
He hesitated for a moment, casting the beam of the flashlight around the room, frowning suspiciously. Then, abruptly, he left, shutting the door behind him.
Like a shadow, Jencks stepped out and bent to the safe. His fingers ran over the crackle gray surface of the metal. He twirled the dial expertly.
Outside, he heard Mr. Bonnard bellowing like a wounded buffalo. He paid no attention; his attention was centered on his fingertips, spinning the dial gently. Right, then left … right, finally left.… The heavy door swung open.
Eagerly, he flashed his light inside.
He could not believe his eyes.
The cab driver slammed his doors and shoved the car into first gear. He roared off, around the circle and across the bridge. It was a snap, he thought: the easiest 5,000 pesetas he had ever made.
Barry, drawing his boat up to the water-skiing dock, saw all the lights in the hotel go out at once. He swore softly. He should have known—a robbery. The big time. He had been a fool to take on this job for only two grand. He could have gotten twice as much, three times as much. And he would have deserved it; he had to live in this country, and it was going to be damned tough when the police started snooping around. A little vacation might be in order, perhaps a month or two in Lisbon. He could stay with his aunt.
Jencks stared, dumbfounded. He could not believe his eyes. Except for some neatly folded papers of no value, the safe was empty. It was impossible, absolutely impossible. He shined his light into all the corners, and shuffled through the papers.
Nothing.
Shaken, he closed the door and stepped back. His mind told him he had to keep moving, had to stay with the schedule or everything would be lost. Automatically, he walked to the door, turned off his flashlight, and stepped into the hall.
The smell of smoke was very strong, now. People were gasping and coughing; their voices had undertones of fright. He worked his way back along the wall, and bumped into Bryan.
“Got it?” Jencks asked. There was only one answer that he could think of—nobody bothered with the safe, but kept their money and jewels in their rooms.
“No,” Bryan said.
Jencks stiffened. “Why not?”
“Because there was nothing to get. Miguel tried to tell you. We searched the rooms and came up with practically nothing—maybe two hundred dollars in checks and bills, no more. We thought it must all be in the hotel safe.”
Jencks said nothing. His mind was working furiously, blocking out the noise and chaos around him.
“Was it?” Bryan asked.
“No,” Jencks said. “The safe was empty.”
“Empty!”
“Shut up,” Jencks growled. “Let me think this out. Just shut up for a minute.”
“The schedule—”
“Screw the schedule.”
Bryan stood patiently, listening to the people running past him and the drumming of the rain outside. The storm had reached a feverish pitch. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he knew Jencks would figure it out sooner than he could hope to.
When he finally spoke, Jencks’ voice was low, with a tone of awe that was almost admiration “Somebody’s beaten us to it,” he said at last. “We’ve been robbed!”
There was a muffled rumble, like thunder, but the two men knew better. The bridge had just blown.