Two Graves

8

ALBAN LORIMER WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED BY THE lobby of the Vanderbilt Hotel. It was quite different from the Marlborough: a smaller, quieter, more intimate space. A huge urn of fresh flowers dominated the hushed confines of the lobby, which was arranged more like an elegant living room. There were plush carpets, deep comfortable sofas and chairs arranged around ebony tables topped with glass. The walls were of dark oak paneling and the fixtures of handblown glass, Victorian perhaps.

He took a seat at a small table in the lobby. A waiter came by and asked him if he would care for tea. Alban thought a moment, looked over the evening tea menu, and said yes, he would very much care for a pot of tea, preferably an Assam or some such mild blend, prepared English-style in the pot, with whole milk and sugar. He was very particular with his order and made sure the waiter paid attention to it, and to him, while he gave it.

The waiter went off while Alban made himself comfortable, absorbing the feel of the place. The first thing that struck him was that the clientele here seemed different. Whereas the Marlborough Grand had been just that—grand—this hotel felt more like a quiet, upper-class club of wealth and privilege, catering to locals and their guests.

The differences intrigued him. Did each hotel have its own personality? The Marlborough Grand was like a young blonde with flash and style, a bit loud, maybe even vulgar, but pretty, sexy, and fun. The Vanderbilt appeared in his mind’s eye like a distinguished, gray-haired gentleman of taste and breeding: handsome, charming, but a trifle dull. He wondered which one he preferred. It was hard to say. He didn’t have enough experience.

He was looking forward to visiting other hotels in New York City and making a study. He would create a complete character, a person, for each hotel. It would be fun.

As he waited for his tea, he smoothed one hand over his suit front. The bandage on his right index finger bothered him. It itched. But there was nothing he could do about that now. At least he felt secure, knowing he looked different enough from the person whose crisp, clear picture had been in all the papers. The clearer the picture, of course, the less he had to change his appearance. Funny that no one seemed to realize this irony. But of course, it might be that the police did realize that. One had to be careful.

Now he was Mr. Brown. His hair was brown. His eyes were brown. His skin, while not exactly brown, was olive. Only his clothing was not brown—he didn’t care for brown suits—but rather gray, and it was Brooks Brothers from shoes to tie. He had never heard of Brooks Brothers until today: it was a New York clothier whose suits were banal enough to help him fit in even better. Although it had turned somewhat colder overnight, the cashmere cap he wore, pulled down over his ears, might still look a little strange. Perhaps some people thought he was a cancer victim, covering up his loss of hair.

Two large, shaped pieces of beeswax, stuck between his upper molars and cheek, rounded out his sharp cheekbones and gave him a broader, friendlier, and perhaps somewhat dumber-looking face. And, of course, he had altered his walk by paring down the heels of his new shoes to make the outside of the heel lower than the inside by three-eighths of an inch—which had the effect of changing the rhythm of his stride. He had been instructed that the way a person walked was one of the key characteristics used by identity specialists.

The tea was excellent, as he knew it would be. He left a couple of fresh, crisp bills on the table, and as he rose he pressed his left hand on the glass tabletop, letting his fingers grip the side, where the waiter was less likely to clean.

He strolled to the elevator, got on, and pressed the sixth-floor button. Exiting, he strolled to the end of the hall—again finding a blind spot beneath an unobtrusive security camera—and settled in to wait. The hall was not as long as that in the Marlborough, and he feared the wait might be a long one. But no: just five minutes later he started back down the hall again, walking fast this time, and then as the maid rounded the corner, carrying a pillow, he slowed his pace, arranging his face into a warm smile. He intercepted her halfway down the hall and held out his hands, eyes twinkling.

“Say, that pillow is for me, isn’t it? Room Six Fourteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.” He took the pillow, gave the woman a five-dollar bill, and turned, heading toward Room 614. As he walked, he gave the pillow an inquisitorial squeeze. Firm, shape-retaining foam. It seemed the individual in Room 614 didn’t like the drowning sensation caused by soft, overstuffed goose-down pillows. Something they had in common.

He went to the door of Room 614 and gave a polite double rap. In response to the standard query—delivered in a gruff male voice—he said: “Your pillow, sir.”

The door opened. Alban held out the pillow and, as the man within reached for it, started forward abruptly, giving the surprised man a little push inside and instantly silencing him with a hammerlock around his throat, shutting the door gently with his free hand. This one hardly struggled, not at all like the woman, and when he did it was a sorry, feeble sort of effort. He was older, fatter, softer, yielding. Alban pushed him into the center of the room. The man made a few halfhearted attempts to punch around and behind, but a sharp tightening around his throat soon caused him to stop. Alban could feel the man’s knees starting to tremble, from fear or perhaps lack of oxygen. The man’s thin greasy hairs—combed over a dimpled bald patch, reeking of lime tonic—were right under Alban’s nose, and it angered him. This was not nearly as much fun as the woman. It lacked a certain challenge, perhaps even flair. He would have to remember that.

He loosened his grip, and the man drew in a ragged, gasping, desperate breath. “What do you—?”

Alban tightened his grasp again. He did not want any discussion.

As the man began to struggle once more, Alban said, in a friendly tone, “Shhhh, everything’s going to be all right if you cooperate.” The man stopped. Amazing how they believed you. Nevertheless, he kept his arm around the man’s neck—just in case.

He positioned the man, braced himself, then removed the penknife, keeping it well out of the man’s field of view. He extended his arm far to the right—then swung it in fast, sticking it deep into the throat with a sharp twist, just as he had done a hundred times before, practicing for the most part on pigs; then he heaved the man forward while simultaneously jumping back.

A huge razzing spray of blood and exhaled air erupted forward, but not a drop touched Alban. The fall was louder and heavier this time and gave Alban a certain unease, reminding him that his technique might still need refining. He checked his watch, waited out the man’s death spasms, then took out his tools and quickly went to work.

Yes, he thought, puffing a bit at the effort, he was looking forward to his little personal study of New York City hotels and the individual characters he would mentally fashion of each one.