Carioca Fletch

Eight

There was no answer when he tapped at the door of Room 912.

He knocked louder.

Still the door did not open.

He knocked again and then placed his ear against the door. He could hear nothing.

As quietly as possible, in his own room at The Hotel Yellow Parrot, Fletch had showered and changed into fresh shorts, a shirt, sweat socks and sneakers. Laura was still sleeping. He left a note for her, I have gone to the Hotel Jangada to have breakfast with someone I know.

He had driven the short distance between the hotels in his MP.

After knocking on Joan Collins Stanwyk’s door at The Hotel Jangada, he went back down to the lobby and called the room on the house phone.

No answer.

At the hotel desk, he asked the clerk, “Please, what is the number of Joan Collins Stanwyk’s room? Mrs Alan Stanwyk?”

The clerk consulted his plastic-tabbed file. “Nine-twelve.”

“She hasn’t checked out, has she?”

The clerk squinted at his file. “No, sir.”

“Obrigado. Where is your breakfast room, please?”

Joan Collins Stanwyk was not in the breakfast room. She was not in the bar, which was open.

On the terrace of The Hotel Jangada were two swimming pools, one which was in the morning sun, the other which would be in the sun in the afternoon. Already a few were sunning themselves around one pool. Around the pool in the shade a few were having breakfast. Two fat white men had their heads together over Bloody Marys.

Joan Collins Stanwyk was not in the pools area.

On the ninth floor, Fletch knocked at her door again.

From the lobby he called her room again.

At the desk, he left her a note: Came to have breakfast with you as arranged. Can’t find you anywhere. You fell asleep? Please call me at Yellow Parrot. If I’m not there, leave message. Enclosed is taxi money.—Fletch.

“Will you please leave this for Mrs Stanwyk? Room nine-twelve.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Fletch watched the desk clerk put the sealed envelope in the slot for Room 912.

“Teo? Bom dia.” Fletch phoned from The Jangada.

“Bom dia, Fletch. How are you?”

“Very pleased by your new paintings. Thinking of them has made me happy.”

“Me, too.”

“When do you want to see me?” Three North American oil-rig workers in heavy blue jeans got off the elevator, staggered across the lobby of The Hotel Jangada, and went straight into the bar.

“Any time. Now is fine.”

“Shall I come now?”

“Well have coffee.”