Chapter 35 - The Return of the Prodigal Girl

Photo copyright Waldemar Brand from Unsplash

The doors of the lift pinged open on a blond man in his mid-thirties, tapping his feet. He wore a blow-dried hairstyle that had gone out of fashion back in the eighties, something Gary wouldn't wear at Halloween. The bloke must have grown roots in the carpet, at least he didn't budge, forcing Brigitte and Jon to pass him on both sides. Just as Gary was about to hobble out, the man barged ahead, accompanied by a cloud of cloying aftershave. He bumped Gary's shoulders and knocked aside his crutch.

"I say!"

"Sorry," Blondie mumbled, disinterested. He regarded his reflection in the gold-flecked panes of the mirror that covered the back wall of the elevator and ran his tongue over his teeth, his hands in the pockets of jeans so tight they had to be blocking the blood supply to his vital parts.

Good job too that person ought to be taken out of the gene pool. And thinking about it that might just be what had happened.

Gary limped outside, the door of the lift shut on the vision and it whooshed away.

"That tosser is Ike's ex, isn't he?" Gary asked. "What's he doing on her floor?"

A Gallic shrug from Brigitte. "Probably came to collect his money. Or, failing payment, wanted to threaten her some more. Means, she'll be in a filthy mood."

"What's new?" They were moving towards Ike's room along a corridor still filled with the ghost of that suffocating scent. Jon hung behind. Not good. The last time Gary had checked his son was not trying to hack his way into his mailbox, but that might change any minute.

With a happy woof, Boris raced ahead. Stopped at Ike's door. Growled.

"Poor dog. With his nose that stink must be even more epouvantable."

"I'm not sure he's got a problem with the smell. Am I going mad or is that door not closed?"

"You're going mad!" Jon crowed from behind. "And that door is open."

Gary chose to ignore him.

"Could be the chambermaid." Brigitte pointed at a trolley parked at the end of the passage, loaded with neatly folded towels, miniature soap bottles, and drinks for the minibar. A broom, a mop, and a bucket sat in a metal basket on one side. The door to the room right at the end of the corridor stood open, and lusty hoovering could be heard.

Once more, Boris growled at the crack that showed between the panel and the frame of Ike's door.

Brigitte threw Gary an uneasy glance. "I don't like this."

"Me neither."

He reached out and rapped once, pushing the door open further. "Ike?"

No response.

He knocked again.

Same result.

Beside him, Boris whimpered.

Gary gave the panel a shove, and it whispered over the hardwood floor, only to get stuck halfway. The bed was made, folded back on one side, a square of chocolate, dark like the oak boards, placed on the neat crease in the pillow. On the floor in front of the nightstand waited one of these linen towels that served as foot mat in this place. On the slick surface of the wooden panels, they were as treacherous as black ice. Gary knew, he had nearly taken a tumble. More than once.

Otherwise, the place seemed to be empty. No Ike. Where was she?

Brigitte raised her chin at the frosted glass door of the bathroom. "No lights on. I doubt she's in there. Shall I try and look?"

"Please. I wouldn't dare to. And you don't either," Gary said to Jon who was about to march inside.

Boris had better manners. His teeth bared, he sat at the threshold, the chubby fawn, and white body quivering with suppressed—what? Anger? Fear?

Hard to tell. Especially when one didn't speak dog.

Brigitte, having stuck her head into the bathroom, retreated. "Not here. Her stuff is still there though."

"I should hope so."

Had she got arrested? Uneasiness feathered down his spine and along his arms, puckering his skin, raising the fine hairs.

"Are you two going to stand here and look gob-smacked for much longer? I mean, we need to do something, right? Like, try to find her?"

"I was evaluating my options." He should know better.

"Yeah, sure," Jon said and grinned. At least he had pocketed his blasted phone. "And what is your preferred strategy? My lord?"

That broke the ice. Gary couldn't help laughing. Even Brigitte snorted.

"You're a handful, you really are. Okay, let's talk to the housemaid. I hope she speaks English."

###

The maid had returned to the corridor and was filling a tray with little soap bottles. Thin as a willow and just as tall, white teeth gleaming in her ebony face, short braids with colourful beads bobbing on her head, she didn't speak English. She was from the Ivory Coast and spoke French instead, so Brigitte shot a volley of questions and gestures at her and got the same in return.

"Claire says, she found the place open with nobody inside. Also, the door to the balcony at the back stood ajar. Claire thinks the lady in the room, Ike that is, must be lying on the sun deck. But she wasn't."

The maid must understand a few words of English, she was nodding vigorously, which sent the little braids on her head into a colourful dance. She said something in French so fast, Gary could only catch the word for "paper".

Brigitte confirmed it when she spoke. "There was a document blown onto the floor which she placed on the sofa. She believes it might be a rubbing of a historical text. Back home, in Abidjan, Claire studied Philology and Archaeology, but there were no jobs. So she came to Europe. In a boat."

Brigitte fell silent, and Gary winced. Even Jon looked bleak, he streamed the odd news. He knew what this meant. They all did. The poor girl had rather braved a trek across the Sahara, abuse in the camps and a watery grave in the Mediterranean, than stay at home and starve. What a gruesome choice. At least she was alive. So many had slipped below the waves, unmourned, unwanted.

"She went into the opposite room first, just in case Ike had gone into the garden and would come back any minute. For a drink or something. There's a staircase at the other end. My room is on the other side, we only get balconies. Nice big ones though. Anyway, Ike hasn't shown up. So Claire cleaned but didn't close the door to the sun deck."

The maid spoke again, teeth flashing and braids bobbing.

Brigitte frowned. "Now, that's odd. She just remembered that Ike's handbag was lying beside the bed, with the key card on top, so she put it into the cupboard to make sure nobody would help themselves. She also left the front door open, she knew she would be around for a while."

Claire nodded. When she smiled, dimples showed in her cheeks. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers and broke out into another torrent of French.

Brigitte sucked her teeth. "Uh, oh. I don't like this."

Impatience tugged at Gary's tongue, but a long line of well-behaved ancestors pulled back. They won the tussle, allowing him to only raise an eyebrow.

"See, Claire was worried about the scenario. And concerned somebody might come in and nick things from the room. Thieves seem to be a major problem. So she kept coming back, and she swears somebody must have been inside while she was cleaning elsewhere. The door was stuck halfway open. Like it is now."

Claire snapped her fingers again and spoke.

"And there were funny tracks on the floor."

"Tracks?"

Claire shrugged and addressed him directly. "Floor dirty. I clean again."

If he were a policeman, he might now be annoyed. But he wasn't, and no crime had been committed.

Hopefully not.

Pretty please?

"What sort of tracks?"

More French.

"She didn't look too closely. She had lost quite a bit of time already, and she thought the lady might have been and gone again. But she didn't know, so to be on the safe side she cleaned again."

Whatever was going on, Gary didn't like it. "How about Ike's ex? What's his name again?"

"Ben the prick," Brigitte said, helpfully.

Claire grinned.

"Don't think so," Jon said.

"Why not?"

"The guy stank like a poofter—"

"Language!"

"Yeah, right, sorry. Well, like a brothel, then. That better?"

It wasn't, not really. But how could one desperate single parent push back against the weight of a society where manners and morals were going out of fashion faster than one could say "civilisation"?

Emboldened by his silence, Jon continued. "As I was saying, the creep had doused himself in stinky stuff. I could smell it all the way from the lift to here. In the room, I didn't notice it."

Brigitte asked Claire a question. She nodded and said something.

"Our friend here locked up after that. Thought it was too risky to keep the door and window open any longer, lady or not. I presume that's why Ben couldn't enter."

More rapid French.

"She hopes Ike is okay. Says, she is very friendly, not like some. That's part of the reason why she bothered at all."

Gary shared her hopes but felt his mood swing the other way. Into the fear zone.

Somewhere along the corridor, a door snicked shut. Footsteps came towards them.

A furry projectile shot from Ike's room behind them and barrelled towards the tall figure approaching.

A smile broke out on Claire's face. "Voilà Madame!"

She was right.

Ike had arrived.

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