“Coincidence,” Olin repeated softly, not quite contemptuously.
He held out the old-fashioned key on its old-fashioned brass paddle.
“How is your own heart, Mr. Enslin? Not to mention your blood-pressure and psychological condition?”
Mike found it took an actual, conscious effort to lift his hand . . .
but once he got it moving, it was fine. It rose to the key without even the minutest trembling at the fingertips, so far as he could see.
“All fine,” he said, grasping the worn brass paddle. “Besides, I’m wearing my lucky Hawaiian shirt.”
Olin insisted on accompanying Mike to the fourteenth floor in the elevator, and Mike did not demur. He was interested to see that, once they were out of the manager’s office and walking down the hall 381
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which led to the elevators, the man reverted to his less consequential self; he became once again poor Mr. Olin, the flunky who had fallen into the writer’s clutches.
A man in a tux—Mike guessed he was either the restaurant manager or the maître d’—stopped them, offered Olin a thin sheaf of papers, and murmured to him in French. Olin murmured back, nodding, and quickly scribbled his signature on the sheets. The fellow in the bar was now playing “Autumn in New York.” From this distance, it had an echoey sound, like music heard in a dream.
The man in the tuxedo said “Merci bien” and went on his way. Mike and the hotel manager went on theirs. Olin again asked if he could carry Mike’s little valise, and Mike again refused. In the elevator, Mike found his eyes drawn to the neat triple row of buttons. Everything was where it should have been, there were no gaps . . . and yet, if you looked more closely, you saw that there was. The button marked 12
was followed by one marked 14. As if, Mike thought, they could make the number nonexistent by omitting it from the control-panel of an elevator.
Foolishness . . . and yet Olin was right; it was done all over the world.
As the car rose, Mike said, “I’m curious about something. Why didn’t you simply create a fictional resident for room 1408, if it scares you all as badly as you say it does? For that matter, Mr. Olin, why not declare it as your own residence?”
“I suppose I was afraid I would be accused of fraud, if not by the people responsible for enforcing state and federal civil rights statutes—hotel people feel about civil rights laws as many of your readers probably feel about clanking chains in the night—then by my bosses, if they got wind of it. If I couldn’t persuade you to stay out of 1408, I doubt that I would have had much more luck in convincing the Stanley Corporation’s board of directors that I took a perfectly good room off the market because I was afraid that spooks cause the occasional travelling salesman to jump out the window and splatter himself all over Sixty-first Street.”
Mike found this the most disturbing thing Olin had said yet.
Because he’s not trying to convince me anymore, he thought. Whatever salesmanship powers he had in his office—maybe it’s some vibe that comes up 382
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from the Persian rug—he loses it out here. Competency, yes, you could see that when he was signing the maître d’s chits, but not salesmanship. Not personal magnetism. Not out here. But he believes it. He believes it all.
Above the door, the illuminated 12 went out and the 14 came on.
The elevator stopped. The door slid open to reveal a perfectly ordinary hotel corridor with a red-and-gold carpet (most definitely not a Persian) and electric fixtures that looked like nineteenth-century gaslights.
“Here we are,” Olin said. “Your floor. You’ll pardon me if I leave you here. 1408 is to your left, at the end of the hall. Unless I absolutely have to, I don’t go any closer than this.”
Mike Enslin stepped out of the elevator on legs that seemed heavier than they should have. He turned back to Olin, a pudgy little man in a black coat and a carefully knotted wine-colored tie. Olin’s manicured hands were clasped behind him now, and Mike saw that the little man’s face was as pale as cream. On his high, lineless forehead, drops of perspiration stood out.
“There’s a telephone in the room, of course,” Olin said. “You could try it, if you find yourself in trouble . . . but I doubt that it will work. Not if the room doesn’t want it to.”
Mike thought of a light reply, something about how that would save him a room-service charge at least, but all at once his tongue seemed as heavy as his legs. It just lay there on the floor of his mouth.
Olin brought one hand out from behind his back, and Mike saw it was trembling. “Mr. Enslin,” he said. “Mike. Don’t do this. For God’s sake—”
Before he could finish, the elevator door slid shut, cutting him off. Mike stood where he was for a moment, in the perfect New York hotel silence of what no one on the staff would admit was the thirteenth floor of the Hotel Dolphin, and thought of reaching out and pushing the elevator’s call-button.
Except if he did that, Olin would win. And there would be a large, gaping hole where the best chapter of his new book should have been.
The readers might not know that, his editor and his agent might not know it, Robertson the lawyer might not . . . but he would.
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Instead of pushing the call-button, he reached up and touched the cigarette behind his ear—that old, distracted gesture he no longer knew he was making—and flicked the collar of his lucky shirt. Then he started down the hallway toward 1408, swinging his overnight case by his side.
II
The most interesting artifact left in the wake of Michael Enslin’s brief stay (it lasted about seventy minutes) in room 1408 was the eleven minutes of recorded tape in his minicorder, which was charred a bit but not even close to destroyed. The fascinating thing about the narration was how little narration there was. And how odd it became.
The minicorder had been a present from his ex-wife, with whom he had remained friendly, five years before. On his first “case expedition”
(the Rilsby farm in Kansas) he had taken it almost as an afterthought, along with five yellow legal pads and a leather case filled with sharpened pencils. By the time he reached the door of room 1408
in the Hotel Dolphin three books later, he came with a single pen and notebook, plus five fresh ninety-minute cassettes in addition to the one he had loaded into the machine before leaving his apartment.
He had discovered that narration served him better than note-taking; he was able to catch anecdotes, some of them pretty damned great, as they happened—the bats that had dive-bombed him in the supposedly haunted tower of Gartsby Castle, for instance. He had shrieked like a girl on her first trip through a carny haunted house.
Friends hearing this were invariably amused.
The little tape recorder was more practical than written notes, too, especially when you were in a chilly New Brunswick graveyard and a squall of rain and wind collapsed your tent at three in the morning.
You couldn’t take very successful notes in such circumstances, but you could talk . . . which was what Mike had done, gone on talking as he struggled out of the wet, flapping canvas of his tent, never losing sight of the minicorder’s comforting red eye. Over the years and the “case 384
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expeditions,” the Sony minicorder had become his friend. He had never recorded a first-hand account of a true supernatural event on the filament-thin ribbon of tape running between its reels, and that included the broken comments he made while in 1408, but it was probably not surprising that he had arrived at such feelings of affec-tion for the gadget. Long-haul truckers come to love their Kenworths and Jimmy-Petes; writers treasure a certain pen or battered old typewriter; professional cleaning ladies are loath to give up the old Electrolux. Mike had never had to stand up to an actual ghost or psy-chokinetic event with only the minicorder—his version of a cross and a bunch of garlic—to protect him, but it had been there on plenty of cold, uncomfortable nights. He was hardheaded, but that didn’t make him inhuman.
His problems with 1408 started even before he got into the room.
The door was crooked.
Not by a lot, but it was crooked, all right, canted just the tiniest bit to the left. It made him think first of scary movies where the director tried to indicate mental distress in one of the characters by tipping the camera on the point-of-view shots. This association was followed by another one—the way doors looked when you were on a boat and the weather was a little heavy. Back and forth they went, right and left they went, tick and tock they went, until you started to feel a bit woozy in your head and stomach. Not that he felt that way himself, not at all, but—