Six Day Week

Monday, 9:00pm

Knowledge that this was the hotel from which Fletcher had vanished invested it with sinister overtones, but Troy found them difficult to sustain once he was through the swing doors. It was a homely place, with no apparent pretensions, and although it was said to be one of Rome's oldest it looked clean and cared for. There was a reception desk with a wooden counter and beyond it a small, square room which served as a bar. The foyer, if that was the right term for such a square of marble, was liberally scattered with potted ferns and rubber trees beloved by Italian hoteliers. If the establishment was full, there were no guests in evidence; but since the siesta was just ending, they were probably in their rooms.

"You have a reservation, signor?"

The girl at the reception desk was brisk and business-like, and she spoke English with a nasal American inflection.

"Yes, my name is Troy."

She consulted the register and then looked up sharply.

"You are of the Stampa Ester a -- the foreign Press?"

"That's right -- the London Globe"

"Ahhh ..." The length of the exclamation told him that he was expected. His visit must have been thoroughly discussed.

"Then you are a friend of the unfortunate Mister Fletcher?"

"Unfortunate? Why do you say that?"

She didn't answer.

"Wait," she parried, "I will call il direttore."

She left the counter untended and disappeared through a  small door marked Ufficio to the service quarters. She must have had some trouble locating the manager, or else they were

discussing the implications of his arrival, for it was fully five minutes before she returned.

In the interval other guests had begun to appear in twos and threes and were making their way into the small bar for aperitifs before dinner.

"Il direttore will be here in a few minutes," she announced.

"Perhaps, meanwhile, you would like to take a drink?" She indicated the bar. "And if you care to do so I will tell him where you are waiting."

He regarded her uncertainly. She could see that he was uneasy, that he wanted to get down to business.

"Your room is being prepared. I will see to it"

"How about my case?"

"Give it to me. I will look after it... or shall I send it upstairs?"

"Yes, do that. I'd like to get rid of it... and I'd like to freshen up, too. What's keeping your manager?"

She pushed back a straying comma of brownish hair with a pink-tipped finger nail.

"Ah, signor, it is the cook. He's a very good cook, but he is also a Communist. We do not want trouble with the staff because in these times it is very difficult."

"You let a cook interfere with your service?" Troy had been using the world's hotels for a long time but the idea of blackmail from the kitchen was a new one to him.

"Cook wishes il direttore to employ two kitchen hands who are members of the party. This does not please Signor Carboni for he dislikes Reds and he has enough already. But cook is insistent and declares that otherwise he will work elsewhere.

"The hotel cannot afford to lose him, for we know that he would take staff with him, and we should be blacklisted. But our troubles should be no concern of yours, signor. Please ..."