Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

As I turn toward the stairs, Herman is behind me.

“Hold on a second,” he says.

I turn. “Did you forget something?”

He shakes his head, puts his finger to his lips in a sign of silence, and then points back behind us down the hallway. “That’s Thorn’s room,” he whispers. The door is wide open and the light is on.

“You think maybe the cops?” I’m up close in his ear.

He shakes his head. Herman’s not sure.

We move slowly down the hall toward the open door. When we get there we see some luggage assembled on the floor, a large black roller and a smaller one. The bed’s been stripped, all the sheets and towels in a pile on the floor. The closet door is open and there is a light on in the bathroom but no sign of anyone inside.

Herman slowly steps into the room, looks one way and then the other. He doesn’t see anyone. I step in behind him. He checks the closet. There are two shirts hanging inside.

While he’s doing that, I check the luggage tags. They are only temporary, paper, the kind of tags you get from the airlines when you check your luggage. The name on them is Charles Johnston, 113 Calle Once, Havana, Cuba.

I look at the smaller case, reach down and start to unzip it.

“Excuse me! What do you think you are doing?”

The voice sends me out of my skin. I turn around and there’s a guy standing in the bathroom door looking at me. “Who are you?” he says.

Herman steps out of the closet. The guy looks at him. “Oh, señor, it’s you.” The guy in the doorway seems relieved.

Herman says: “Ah, my friend. This is the young man I was telling you about.” Herman looks at me and smiles. “Pablo, correct?”

“That’s right,” says the kid.

“This is the young man at the desk,” says Herman. “Very enterprising fellow. This is one of my associates. Pablo, meet Paul. Two Pablos, how about that?” he says.

I laugh and step away from the bag that I was about to rifle, so that I can shake his hand. Perhaps for a smile and a few dollars he’ll let us search the bags.

“Were you able to deliver your papers to Señor Johnston?” asks Pablo.

“Sadly, no,” says Herman.

“That’s too bad, because I’m afraid he’s checked out.”

Herman starts to laugh as if the kid has made a joke about death.

“I take it you’ve talked to the police?” I say.

“No.” The kid turns serious. “Why would I talk to the police?” It’s obvious he doesn’t know that Thorn is dead.

“You said he checked out,” says Herman.

“Sí, about an hour ago.”

Herman looks at me.

“He was here?” says Herman.

“No. No. He called to say that he couldn’t make it back to the hotel. Tol’ me to put all the charges on his credit card and have his bags forwarded to his new hotel.”

“Where’s that?” I say.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I should say,” he says.

“Did he say where he was when he called?” I ask.

The kid makes a face, like maybe yes, maybe no.

“Listen, you’ve been very helpful,” says Herman. “Lemme show you how much we appreciate it.” Herman steps in front of me, then turns his back to the kid and rubs his thumb and forefinger together-the international gesture for money-as I reach for my wallet.

I pull out four twenties. Herman reaches around my hand and plucks out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from my open bill-fold. Before I can say a word, he is over in front of Pablo, stuffing them in the kid’s breast pocket.

“Oh, thank you, señor.”

“It’s nothing,” says Herman. “After all, we’re all in business to make a profit, and you are a very good businessman.”

“Oh, yes, I wish to be one day.”

“Oh, you already are,” says Herman. “It’s the information age. The most valuable commodity there is.”

“Yes, of course,” says the kid. “I dunno where he is. He called on his cell phone.”

“When exactly?” I say.

“As I say, maybe an hour ago. Perhaps less.”

“You’re sure it was him?” says Herman.

“Oh, yeah. He thank me for putting the muffins and fruit in the bag for him this morning. We’re not supposed to open the continental breakfast until seven. But as you know, he left early. He tol’ me to put all the room charges on his credit card and ship the bags to a hotel in Washington, D.C., overnight,” he says. “I tol’ him we can ship them air freight, express overnight, but it’s expensive. Besides, they won’t ship until tomorrow, and they don’t deliver on Sunday, so he won’t get it till Monday. He said he didn’t care. To put it on his hotel tab, and to give myself a nice tip. He didn’t say how much.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” says Herman.

I am thinking that it probably won’t matter, as Thorn no doubt stole the credit card from somebody else.

“I wonder if you could get the address for us, the hotel in Washington where the bags are going?” says Herman. “It would be a big help.”

“It’s downstairs. I’ll go get it,” he says. He takes two steps toward the door and stops. “Maybe I should take the bags down first.”

“We’ll watch them,” says Herman.

“Okay. Be right back.”

The second he leaves the room, Herman and I open both bags. Dirty clothes, two pairs of shoes, one of them dress shoes polished like a mirror, a shaving kit, neatly packed, almost anal. Herman is right. Thorn is military. Everything packed in its proper place.

“The kid didn’t pack like this,” I say.

“No,” says Herman.

It’s obvious that Thorn was getting ready to leave.

We dump everything out on the bed and start pawing through it. I check the pockets of the pants for anything left behind. They are all empty.

I slide my hand along the inside edge of the small case, into the elastic pouch where small items are sometimes stored. I find a plastic sewing kit, needles and thread, some matches, and a unique folding knife. It has a clear plastic handle through which you can see the blade.

I wonder how Thorn gets it through airport security until I open it and realize that the four-inch razor-sharp blade is ceramic. The handle is formed from a clear solid block of acrylic. To a scanner the knife would be virtually invisible.

I continue my search along the inside edge until I feel something solid rub against the back of my hand. It’s not inside the elastic pouch but behind the lining of the suitcase itself. I open the ceramic knife and slice the lining of the case, reach inside, and pull out not one, but three separate passports: one French, one British, and the last one U.S. I open them. They all have the same photograph of Thorn but different names.

“From my recollection, they look better than the ones you and I bought down in Costa Rica,” says Herman. “And a much clearer picture of the man. No wonder he wants the suitcase back.” Herman grabs all three of the passports and slips them into his pocket.

We’re running out of time. I hear the kid coming up the stairs.

Herman grabs the knife, folds it up, and slips it into his pocket. “Keep goin’, I’ll keep him busy.” He steps out into the hallway. A second later I hear the two of them talking, this time in Spanish, down the hall near the head of the stairs.

I run my hand along the liner until I feel something else. It’s not a passport. It’s too small. I try to reach it with my fingers through the slit in the lining, but I can’t quite get it.

I look for the knife and realize it’s gone. The voices are moving this way.

Herman tells Pablo he wants to check out. He tries to draw him back toward the stairs.

“Okay, but I should lock up,” says Pablo. “I must not leave Señor Johnston’s bags unattended.”