Hidden Moon

5

“I found something in my room, Inspector.”

“Congratulations. There’s no extra charge.”

“This isn’t a joking matter. I told you if I found something, I would rip it out.”

“So you did.”

“It is infuriating that you treat guests this way.”

“My apologies, Superintendent. Of course, no other security service in the world would do such a thing. We are the only ones.”

Boswell rubbed his boulder-sized chin. “I’m not saying we do, I’m not saying we don’t. But if we ever did, it would only be after going through strict, formal approval procedures.”

“And what would those be?”

“One must go to a magistrate.”

I slapped my forehead. “Yes, I see now. If only we had someone in a powdered wig give his okay, then that would make us part of the civilized world! Let me put that in the next set of recommendations for the Central Committee.”

“Don’t get sarcastic with me, Inspector. The question is one of limits. A political system without limits is a menace to its people. And magistrates don’t wear wigs.”

“More ignorance on my part. Ah, Superintendent, how difficult this must be for you, being amongst such savages.”

“You’re not helping your cause, Inspector.”

By now I had forgotten I was standing in the hotel room assigned to a foreign police official, with the door closed, something that had certainly already been observed by the floor-watcher. “You think we don’t have limits?”

“Do you? And what would those be?”

“How many of these devices do you actually think we can afford? You’ve just eaten a hole in someone’s budget. You didn’t have to step on it, you know. You might at least have removed it gently and wrapped it in toilet paper for them to claim later.”

That broke a piece off the iceberg. Boswell laughed so hard he nearly choked; he dissolved in laughter; he danced around the room laughing, bumping into furniture, slapping his hands on the wall, and then, in what was probably meant as a gesture of fellowship, he clapped me on my left shoulder. Pain was instantaneous; I could hear it as it roared down my body. I almost cried but sat down instead on his bed and put my head between my legs, which only made my shoulder hurt more. Boswell stopped laughing at once and, in a practiced gesture, opened a bottle of whiskey he’d put on his side table and poured some into a glass. “Drink this,” he said. “My God, man, what’s the matter with you?” I looked up lamely. “Drink it, man,” he shouted at me. “Hav ya gone deef?”

I had no idea what he said, but I took the whiskey with my right hand and downed it in a gulp. It burned my throat; my ears went numb, then my cheeks, then, thankfully, my neck and shoulders and my arms above my elbows. If I could have curled up on the bed and slept, I would have, but even in my benumbed state, I realized that sleeping on the bed of a foreign police official would get me another session with the man in the brown suit. I stood up, with effort. “Let’s go,” I croaked, “downstairs.” I pointed in the direction of the door and walked out of the room. The floor-watcher had the good sense to keep out of sight, though I knew she was there, at the end of the hall around the corner, watching.