The Thousand Faces of Night - Jack Higgins [4]
As the bus moved away into the main traffic stream he slumped down into a corner seat. His chest was heaving and there was a slight film of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smiled wryly. Things had moved fast, faster than he had anticipated, but he was still ahead of the game and that was all that counted.
He dropped off the bus at the next stop and went into a hardware store where he purchased a cheap screwdriver. Then he crossed the road and plunged into a maze of back-streets. He walked quickly, head lowered against the driving rain, and finally emerged into another main road where he caught a bus for the City.
A little more than an hour after giving Masters the slip he was in the vicinity of Paddington Station. It was raining harder than ever now and the streets were almost deserted. He crossed the road towards the station and turned into a narrow street that was lined on each side with tall, decaying Victorian houses.
About half-way along the street he paused and looked up at one of the houses. Above the door a grimy glass sign carried the legend 'Imperial Hotel' in faded letters. It was typical of a certain type of establishment to be found in the area. Places where a room was usually required for only an hour or two and never longer than a night. He mounted the steps slowly and passed inside.
He found himself in a narrow hall with several doors opening off it. Directly in front of him stairs that were covered with a threadbare carpet lifted to a gloomy landing. On his left a middle-aged woman was sitting in a cubicle reading a newspaper. She looked up and blinked red-rimmed watery eyes, and then carefully folded the paper. She spoke in a light, colourless voice. 'Yes, sir. What can I do for you?'
Marlowe's eyes moved quickly over the rows of keys that hung on the board behind her head. 'I'd like a room,' he said. 'Just for three or four hours.'
The woman's wet eyes flickered briefly over him. She produced a battered register and pen, and said, 'Sign here, please.'
Marlowe took the pen and hastily scrawled 'P. Simons-Bristol'. The woman examined the entry and said politely, 'Any luggage, sir?'
He shook his head. 'I've left it at the station. I'm catching a train for Scotland this afternoon. Thought I could do with some sleep while I'm waiting.'
She nodded. 'I see, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.'
He gave her a pound note and, when she turned to the board, said, 'I'll take number seven if it's vacant.' He laughed lightly. 'My lucky number.'
The woman handed him the key. 'It's facing you at the top of the stairs, sir,' she said. 'Would you like me to give you a call?'
He shook his head. 'No thanks. I'll be all right.'
He mounted the stairs quickly and stood on the landing listening. The hotel was wrapped in quiet. After a moment he unlocked the door of room seven and went in.
Light filtered palely through one dirty window, giving a touch of colour to the faded counterpane that covered the double bed. The only other furniture was an ancient mahogany wardrobe and a plain wooden chair which stood on the far side of the bed. There was a door marked 'Toilet' in one corner.
Marlowe wrinkled his nose in disgust. The room smelt musty and damp. Somehow there was an odour of corruption over everything. He went to the window and wrestled with the catch. After a moment it gave, and he lifted the sash as far as it would go and leaned out into the rain.
The hotel backed on to a maze of railway lines and he could see Paddington Station over to the left. Beneath the window a pile of coke reared against the wall, and there was an engine getting up steam not far away. He lit a cigarette and leaned out into the rain. There was a hint of fog in the air and already things were becoming misty and ill-defined. He shivered suddenly as a gust of wind lifted rain in his face, but he did not shake because of the cold. He was afraid. For one brief moment his courage deserted him and he allowed the thought to creep into his mind that