Frau Thursday and her misters entered the atrium, trailing slushy footsteps onto the crimson carpet that bled across the marble, then curled its tongue up the spiral staircase.
The lobby was an oblong octagon, paneled in dark oak. The elevator stood at the back, directly facing the entrance. The ornate frosted-glass contraption was as finicky as it was striking. Hallwaysbranched out beside it, left to the north wing, past the kitchen, and right to the south wing, past the spiral stairs.
The front door was the only way in or out.
Frau Thursday brushed snowflakes from her fur coat’s shoulders, and her companions mirrored the gesture. Sterling closed the curtain behind them. From where she stood, with her back against the velvet, the reception office was to her right, and to her left was theTelefonbooth, long ago converted into a closet. Beside it, double doors opened into the champagne bar, where the empty bar stools begged for company, and the fireplace and old radio crackled in equal measure.
Frau Thursday slipped off her gloves and caressed Mr. Left’s cheek with the back of her wrinkled hand, her wedding band glinting. Sterling wondered what Herr Thursday did this time each week. The woman’s knuckles bore the arthritic swelling of age. Maybe the ring could no longer be removed, even if the husband had been.
Some claimed the Hotel Orient had saved more marriages than it ended, but staff neither confirmed nor denied any rumors.
Sterling hung their coats in the lobby wardrobe, then led them into the office, where she pretended to search the black leather guestbook for a room. She’d written their bill out hours ago. Frau Thursday always took Room 4, the Kaisersuite.
“We kindly request payment in advance. The room is yours for three hours.”
Mr. Left paid the precise amount due. After Frau Thursday coughed, he added a crisp hundred for Sterling, which she accepted with a grateful curtsy, then slipped down her low collar and secured in her bra.
“Please review the House Rules,” she said, directing their attention to the wall beside them, where a gold-framed document hung over a grid of small safes, one per room. The rules included a fineof three thousand euros for every single photo snapped inside. Of course, Frau Thursday knew them, but Sterling treated every guest like both a first-timer and a beloved VIP. The policy ensured a guest’s date wouldn’t know if they’d been there the night before with a different person.
Sterling provided Room 4’s safe key. “Please turn off any mobile telephones or cameras, and store them in your designated safe.” They placed their phones inside the compartment. Before Mr. Left could lock it, Sterling coughed to catch his attention.
“Ahem. The second one too, sir,” she said, smiling.
His eyes narrowed. “How’d you—”
“We thank you for your cooperation.”
Sterling loved that trick. It was mostly instinct, but it helped that when people read the rules, their hands flinched towards their smartphones. The same way tourists checked for their wallets after seeing a sign warning about pickpockets, thus inadvertently alerting thieves to their location.
Mr. Left withdrew a second phone from his breast pocket and locked it in the safe. Frau Thursday’s nostrils flared in restrained annoyance. This Mr. Left wouldn’t be returning next week.
While Fernando escorted them through lamplit halls to their suite, Sterling grabbed his latest issue ofOperamagazine and opened it to a feature on soprano Dahlia Morozova.
The hallway floorboards squeaked as he scurried back, rounding the corner into the office at a slide. “What were you about to tell me?” he said, then stilled, adopting a suspicious look. “Andwhyareyoureadingthat?”
She whistled innocently. “Acertainsinger was in Room 6 earlier, and hit a high note that shattered her wineglass. Spilled cabernetallover the carpet, and it looks like a crime scene. It’s out of order until the maids arrive tomorrow.”
“Whichcertain singer?”
“If you’d been on time, you’d know.”
“Oh, you rascal, tell!” He grabbed for the magazine, but she snatched it away.
“Her alias was the Green Dahlia.”
Fernando squeaked, frozen in place, processing.
She dropped it on the table, revealing the cover. “And I got you an autograph.”
His eyes shone as he slowly looked from the magazine to her, then attacked. He squeezed her, kissing all over her face. Their intimate friendship sometimes confused people. True, Fernando was the love of her life, and she his. Just not in that way.
He released her, then gently lifted the magazine. “H-how?” he stammered.
“She saw it andinsisted.”
He clutched the magazine to his chest, spun, and leaned against the door frame. She joined him, and he rested his ear atop her head as he traced his finger over the green signature on the black-and-white photo, which crossed onto the Hotel’s address label. He sniffled, knowing what came next. “Must I?”
She nodded, caressing his hand empathetically. As they snuggled, Sterling’s wandering gaze snagged on the bullet hole in the ceiling, which lurked perilously close to the mount of the chandelier. A brutal love bite made by an irate Gestapo investigator’s Walther P38 after a previous Hotel Concierge refused to surrender the guest ledger, even with the cold barrel of a gun pressed under his chin.
