“I mean, we code the ledger at work.”
“And we are so extra.”
Footsteps pounded in the hall. Drunken shouting. Bottles smashing.
“I’m not waiting twelve hours to see the alphabet again. We’ve got the box key. That’s enough for now. Let’s get out of here,” he said.
They waited until the hall quieted before they escaped, locked up, then carefully skirted any seedy characters on their way out.
The subway ride home took ages. Sterling checked her breast pocket for the key a dozen times.
At last, back in her room, they returned to their designated couch seats. Fernando tensed, cringing in trepidation, watching with one eye open as Sterling inserted the key into Vieta’s mystery box. It fit. Breath held, she turned the handle. The lid popped opened a crack, aged leather creaking.
Sterling lifted the lid. A row of Serafina’s pocket-size journals were packed edge to edge at the front. Behind them was a bottle of 1983 Beerenauslese sweet wine with a ribbon around the neck and a card addressed to Serafina. Fernando pulled it out. “Think it’s still good?”
“It might be vinegar. Though quality sweet wines last a long time.”
“Must have been expensive if she kept it. Shall we toast on her behalf?”
“Let’s save it for a special occasion,” she said, examining other items.
Not drinking the wine was a wise decision. Alas, Sterling wouldn’t realize why for quite a long time. And unfortunately, it was a lesson she’d learn the hard way.
She withdrew more items, pausing to examine a hatch key attached to a plastic tag with faded lettering. Only part of the word remained,ucoraorucona.She wasn’t sure which. There was more, including an envelope of faded Polaroids. The top photo was a naked man standing at the foot of a bed between the bare legs of the photographer. Sterling closed the envelope. She didn’t need to see Serafinain flagrante.
Sterling wrenched out a few journals. Written in code, of course. There seemed to be a mix of different codes in each.
She found one with a few pages in standard text. From when Serafina worked at the Hotel. “She’s writing about her first busy shift, when a couple in the Rote Salon ordered room service and invited her in but kept fucking while she set up their table. Sounds like they wanted an audience. Ha, the next entry mentions her first heavy-breather call.”
“Wow, this place truly never changes.”
“I guess not. After that, she started writing in code. I wonder if the call spooked her?”
She flipped through other journals. Some used number codes, others used letters or symbols, some were written backward and meant to be read with a mirror. She stopped on one with sets of paired digits: 27, 30, 15… nothing over 60. This one they could solve, but not without the grandfather clock’s code breaker in front of them.
“We can return tonight at four a.m.?” he said.
“I have work. Mr. K wants a detailed contingency plan for if we’re still closed on Valentine’s Day. If you want to, you can stay up here sorting through my laundry.”
“I really, really, really want to.”
“Okay, I’ll go back to the storage container tomorrow at four p.m.”
“I’ll join.”
“Can you be on time? My life might depend on it.”
“Maybe?” he said, teeth gritted. He sorted through a pile of clothes on her floor. “What’s clean and what’s dirty?” he asked.
“I don’t know, smell them?”
“Excuseme?”
“Hey, there are men who’d pay good money to sniff my dirty laundry.”
He smelled a dress, cautiously.
“Ahem, young lady.”
