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A few minutes later she was on the elevator, headed for the twelfth floor. While she was not ruling it out, twenty minutes seemed a little short for a gay liaison; something else was probably afoot. She strolled casually towards the door at the farthest end of the corridor on the twelfth floor. Realizing that it used the traditional lock and key rather than the swipe, she took out a hair pin from her coat and got to work. Her fingers were made extra skillful by urgency; keys were not exchanged at the desk so the room was still taken, which also pointed to the fact that maybe the key to this whole puzzle might still be in the room. It also meant that Viktor or Ryan Cowling could be coming back any moment-Oliver Twist anyone?
The door swung silently inwards after the click, and Gloria stepped into the dark room. She was still fumbling for the lights when strong arms grabbed her from behind. Coupled to being very strong, they were skilled looping under her armpits, and around her arms, keeping her hands uselessly in place far away from the one hand that clasped her mouth firmly so that she could not scream. She could feel a cloth pressed harshly against her nose and mouth, and from it, ruthlessly invading her cavities, she could get the strong, dense scent of ether. She struggled to break free but it was no use; a minute later, even the lights from the corridor outside vanished as everything went black; the last two things on her mind were self-reproach for not reporting back to her sister to keep her abreast of recent developments, and a distant, long forgotten memory from a high school chemistry class several years ago where the teacher warned that ether kills.
Viktor pulled into the path that led to the underground garage beneath his mansion, the rumble of the Ferrari’s engine reverberating off the walls and carrying far into the night. The house was dark, but he moved with haste negotiating the corners and perusing the halls of the great house with ease. He burst through the door of one of the numerous guestrooms, he happened upon the figure of Gloria motionless on the huge double bed. The room was dark except for the bedside lamp that created a small sphere of light that rested on Gloria’s dark skin like a halo. The pale ageing form of Sergei stood at the foot of the bed, in the darkness, like a hawk.
“When I realized who she was, I lay her here in anticipation of your arrival sir.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Viktor’s heart was racing, and he almost feared approaching the bed as he took slow steps into the room, “Is she dead?” his volume akin to his butler’s
“Not even death could look this beautiful sir; she is asleep. Ether.”
Viktor, relief coursing through his veins, and now by the double bed could see the subtle, almost timid breathing. Her plus size, rounded chest barely moving against the black blouse that she wore. Sergei had already relieved her of the overcoat, and it now lay neatly over a chair that occupied a corner of the room along with its table.
“How long will she be like this?” Viktor asked.
“A few hours.”
“Leave us.” Viktor ordered. Sergei disappeared soundlessly without a word, leaving Viktor at her bedside. He sat gently at the foot of the bed, not daring to touch her.
A minute later, Viktor was pulled out of his reverie by the sudden vibration of a phone. Quickly turning around, he realized it was coming from her a pocket in her overcoat. He spilled the contents of the overcoat on the table. The caller was a Gladys-the name meant nothing to him, and he let it ring. The last thing he wanted was for anybody to trace Gloria to his residence while she was still in her condition; the publicity was not welcome. On the table, along with the phone, were a tiny notepad, a camera, a tiny purse, and a bunch of hair pins. He still did not know what she had been doing in the hotel room, but a quick perusal of the contents of the purse and notepad revealed a photo of Ryan Cowling, and a detailed log of his movements from his office, after he had closed for the day shortly after 7 pm that evening, right up to their meeting at Hotel Rouge. Viktor who was a stickler for time could see that the notes ended about the same time that he and Viktor had headed for the twelfth floor.
He turned to look at the figure in the bed; so innocent she seemed, bathed in the lamplight. But Viktor was also aware that looks, more often than not, could be very misleading. A prudent mind would have wondered what she had been doing apart from the crowd a few days ago at the party. Had she been looking for something? Why had she followed Ryan Cowling, the jeweler? But most importantly, were the two events related? Or just a coincidence? He asked himself. Viktor was not up for prudence however, he was just relieved she had not died. She could easily have been mistaken for a burglar and dealt with accordingly.
