The clerk turned the register around. “With or without? Five fifty with, three and a half without.”
“With.”
The clerk watched him sign, but did not reach for the key until Hoag counted out five ones and a half. “Glad to have you with us. Bill! Show Mr. Hoag up to 412.”
The lone bellman ushered him into the cage, looked him up and down with one eye, noting the expensive cut of his topcoat and the absence of baggage. Once in 412 he raised the window a trifle, switched on the bathroom light, and stood by the door.
“Looking for something?” he suggested. “Need any help?”
Hoag tipped him. “Get out,” he said hoarsely.
The bellman wiped off the smirk. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged.
The room contained one double bed, one chest of drawers with mirror, one straight chair and one armchair. Over the bed was a framed print titled “The Colosseum by Moonlight.” But the door was lockable and equipped with a bolt as well and the window faced the alley, away from the street. Hoag sat down in the armchair. It had a broken spring, but he did not mind.
He took off his gloves and stared at his nails. They were quite clean. Could the whole thing have been hallucination? Had he ever gone to consult Dr. Potbury? A man who has had amnesia may have it again, he supposed, and hallucinations as well.
Even so, it could not all be hallucinations; he remembered the incident too vividly. Or could it be? He strained to recall exactly what had happened.
Today was Wednesday, his customary day off. Yesterday he had returned home from work as usual. He had been getting ready to dress for dinner — somewhat absent — mindedly, he recalled, as he had actually been thinking about where he would dine, whether to try a new Italian place recommended by his friends, the Robertsons, or whether it would be more pleasing to return again for the undoubtedly sound goulash prepared by the chef at the Buda-Pesth.
He had about decided in favor of the safer course when the telephone had rung. He had almost missed it, as the tap was running in the washbasin. He had thought that he heard something and had turned off the tap. Surely enough, the phone rang again.
It was Mrs. Pomeroy Jameson, one of his favorite hostesses — not only a charming woman for herself but possessed of a cook who could make clear soups that were not dishwater. And sauces. She had offered a solution to his problem. “I’ve been suddenly left in the lurch at the last moment and I’ve just got to have another man for dinner. Are you free? Could you help me? Dear Mr. Hoag!”
It had been a very pleasant thought and he had not in the least resented being asked to fill in at the last minute. After all, one can’t expect to be invited to every small dinner. He had been delighted to oblige Edith Pomeroy. She served an unpretentious but sound dry white wine with fish and she never committed the vulgarism of serving champagne at any time. A good hostess and he was glad she felt free to ask him for help. It was a tribute to him that she felt he would fit in, unplanned.
He had had such thoughts on his mind, he remembered, as he dressed. Probably, in his preoccupation, what with the interruption of the phone call breaking his routine, he had neglected to scrub his nails.
It must have been that. Certainly there had been no opportunity to dirty his nails so atrociously on the way to the Pomeroys’. After all, one wore gloves.
It had been Mrs. Pomeroy’s sister-in-law — a woman he preferred to avoid! — who had called his attention to his nails. She had been insisting with the positiveness called “modern” that every man’s occupation was written on his person. “Take my husband — what could he be but a lawyer? Look at him. And you, Dr. Fitts — the bedside manner!”
“Not at dinner, I hope.”
“You can’t shake it.”
“But you haven’t proved your point. You knew what we are.”