Room 312

Charles Shelton had been a desk clerk at the Hotel Madison for almost 30 years. He had watched it deteriorate from one of the finer hotels in the city to its present condition, just a shade better than a flophouse.

Shelton seldom thought about the good years. He was not one to live in the past. He lived from day to day, satisfied to sit behind the registration desk, reading his detective magazines and watching people come and go.

Sam Webster owned the Hotel Madison. He was over 60, had no hair, bulging eyes, and clothes that were almost as old and shabby as his building. He constantly worked a cigar around in his tight mouth, and when he was in the hotel he drank whiskey from a bottle he kept under Shelton's desk. Webster didn't believe in improvements. He had bought the Madison when it was almost new, and if he could find any excuse to avoid putting money into it, even if that meant chewing gum for the plumbing and Scotch tape for the cracked windows, he took it.

Sam came to the hotel about twice a week. He picked up the receipts from the safe behind the desk, nodded to Shelton and, occasionally, looked over the books. He was as tight with his conversation as he was with his money.

One Tuesday evening just after Shelton had come to work, Sam Webster came in, puffing on a damp cigar. His coat was wet from the cold drizzle outside and his glasses were covered with a gray mist. He nodded to Shelton, removed his coat and began to go over the books. When he had finished, he relighted his cigar, took four or five deep drags and said:

"Charlie, how long you been with me now?"

"Almost thirty years," Shelton said, looking up from his True Detective magazine.

"And so, after thirty years, you decide to start stealing from me? You don't think I pay you enough?"

"I don't understand, Mr. Webster."

"I don't understand, either. The books, they don't balance. The last few months, I noticed something's wrong. I figure either you are pocketing money or people aren't paying for their rooms. Which is it, Charlie?"

"Mr. Webster, I'm not a thief."

"You never seemed like one to me, but where is the money going? I'm asking you."

Sam Webster took a paper cup from the water cooler, the bottle of whiskey from beneath the desk, and poured himself a drink.

"Well, Charlie, I can have some auditors come in and figure out just how much is missing, or do you want to tell me about it?"

Shelton looked at the bottle of whiskey. He wished that he had a drink. In 30 years, Sam Webster had never offered him anything.

Shelton cleared his throat. "It's a long story and a little involved, Mr. Webster. But to make it short--we don't always get paid."

"Charlie, as long as you been around, you know a hotel like this, they don't pay in advance, they gotta have luggage. Now, where is all the luggage for these people who skip out? You're not sleeping behind that desk, are you?"

Shelton wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He took a drink of water from the cooler. His throat still felt dry. "It isn't that. It's room 312. I noticed it about a year ago. I was going to tell you."

"What about 312? There's something wrong with the room? What is it? I don't want no repair bills."

"It's a little difficult to explain." Shelton was still perspiring. "It's like this, Mr. Webster, when someone checks into 312--they're gone. No one ever sees them again."

Sam Webster poured himself another drink and swallowed it in one gulp. "Charlie, I've known you for thirty years. Now, what the hell kind of story is that? Whata you mean--they're gone?"

"They're just gone, that's all. They disappear. If they check in after two A.M., they're all right, but if they take the room before that time, they're never here in the morning. Every trace is gone--luggage, everything. The way I figure it, it happens sometime between midnight and two A.M."

"Yeah, and just where do they go, Charlie?"

"I don't know, Mr. Webster. All the people I've checked into the room, I've never seen any of them again. That's why I usually keep it for the bums and the winos. Mostly, I just keep it empty."

"Charlie, you're sure you're not crazy? You're sure this really happens?"

"Mr. Webster, stay tonight. I'll check someone into 312."

Sam Webster picked up the phone and called his wife.

"Honey," he said, "I won't be home tonight. A little trouble here at the hotel. No, nothing serious." He placed the receiver down on its cradle.

"Charlie, I stay in this dump all night and you feeding me a story, I ain't gonna like it."

"Mr. Webster, I've been with you almost thirty years."

"Yeah, I know. OK, I'm gonna have some dinner. Don't check anyone into 312 until I get back."

It was still raining when Sam Webster returned from dinner. Shelton had just finished a copy of Official Detective and was eating a sandwich he had sent over from Rudy's Diner. Webster took off his wet coat and sat down in one of the overstuffed chairs in the lobby. He bent down and untied the laces of his shoes. He loosened his tie and took a fresh cigar out of his pocket.

At eight o'clock, Shelton checked in a young couple from Waterloo, Iowa. At 8:30, two salesmen, and along toward nine o'clock, a seedy-looking bum in a tan overcoat. The bum had a wine bottle under his arm and Shelton got the three dollars in advance. He gave him the key to 312.

Sam Webster followed the tan overcoat into the elevator, got out with it on the third floor and watched it walk unsteadily into 312. He went down to the end of the hall, sat down in a wicker chair that was covered with dust and lighted another cigar. By 1:30 A.M. he had smoked eight cigars. At that hour, he got off the chair and took the elevator to the lobby.

Shelton was drinking coffee out of a green Thermos.

"Well," Sam Webster said, "almost two o'clock and nothing happened."

"There's nothing to happen," Shelton said. "At two o'clock, I'll take the passkey and we'll go up there and he'll be gone."

"Let's go now," Sam Webster said.

"It's almost two o'clock. I don't want to go into the room until I'm certain that it happened."

"I still can't believe it. I just can't believe it. This has gotta be some kind of crazy story."

At two A.M. sharp, Sam Webster grabbed the passkey and hurried into the elevator, with Shelton following him. Webster was breathing heavily when they got to 312. "You sure it's safe?" he asked. "I don't want to get hit by lightning or anything."

"There's no lightning," Shelton said.

Sam Webster opened the door a crack. The room was dark. He pushed the door all the way open. He waited for the clerk to precede him into the room. Shelton snapped the light on. The room was empty. The bed had been slept in, but there wasn't a trace of anyone or anything. No clothes, no wine bottle; everything was gone.

Webster looked around the room. He searched the bathroom and the closet. He looked under the bed twice.

"I can't believe it," he said. "I just can't believe it." He sat down on the bed and then jumped up, as though he were afraid he, too, might disappear. "Let's go," he said. Shelton locked the door and they took the elevator back to the lobby.

Sam Webster took the whiskey bottle from beneath the desk and poured two drinks. "Here's to us, Charlie," he said. "A toast."

"What are we toasting, Mr. Webster?"

Sam drank his whiskey. "I don't know. What the hell, this is really something big. There's bound to be some great thing we can do with this."

"Maybe we should call the police," Shelton said.

Sam Webster coughed whiskey all over himself. He was choking and his face was red. "Call the police! What the hell do we need the police for? We got a great discovery here. You call your wife and tell her you'll be late. We're going to work something out."

"I don't have to call my wife. I don't have a wife."

"No? What happened? I thought I met her a few years ago. A little woman with brown hair."

"That's right. She's not with me anymore. It'll be ten months the end of next week."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Charlie. How did it happen?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, it was room 312. I got tired of her nagging. She was never satisfied with anything, not (continued on page 142) Room 312 (continued from page 106) for the twenty years we were married. I arranged for her to stay in 312 one night."

Sam hit Shelton so hard on the back that he knocked the paper cup out of his hand.

"Charlie, that's it! You're a goddamn genius. I knew it all the time. You quiet types are always smart."

"I don't understand, Mr. Webster."

"Don't you see, Charlie, we get rid of people for a price. A damn good price. Our own little disposal service. No mess, no fuss. Do you know how many people there are that want to get rid of their wives, their mother-in-laws, business associates? All we have to do is spread the word in the right spots. We'll have more goddamn business than we can handle."

"Mr. Webster, isn't that just like murder?"

"Murder! Hell, no. Who said anything about murder? There's no bodies. Nobody can blame us for a thing. I'm gonna cut you in for twenty percent. Charlie, we'll both get rich."

"Twenty percent. That's very generous, Mr. Webster."

"Yeah, well, I'm a generous guy. There's only one thing I gotta do first--that's Hilda."

"Who's Hilda?"

"Hilda is Mrs. Webster. My goddamn miserable wife. Worst person ever walked the face of God's earth. She's got to go tomorrow night."

"So soon? Maybe you better think about it for a while, Mr. Webster."

"No chance! I wish it wasn't so late. I'd get her over here right now. Tomorrow night I'll get her in that room if I have to hit her over the head."

The next evening about ten, Sam Webster and Mrs. Webster walked into the Hotel Madison. As they passed the desk, he patted her arm and remarked that it was going to be like a second honeymoon. He had a cheap bottle of wine under his arm. He winked at Shelton as heled Hilda into the elevator. She was blushing like a schoolgirl.

Shortly after midnight, Sam Webster was in the lobby again.

"She's sleeping like a baby," he said. "Like a baby gorilla. That wine really did the trick. Two glasses and she was snoring so loud the room was shaking. Sounds just like a subway train. She even forgot about the honeymoon. Charlie, old baby, if this works, you get a bonus. An extra week's pay. I mean it. You don't know what it's been like living with that ape for the past thirty years."

"It'll work," Shelton said. "It always does."

At two A.M., Sam went up to 312. He was back in a few minutes, his face beaming. "It happened! Not a trace! Not a goddamn trace. Gone just like that," he snapped his fingers. "Even the wine bottle is gone. Can you imagine, Charlie, no more Hilda." This time, he poured Shelton's drink first.

The next day, Sam Webster called an old friend of his, Louis Crowell. "Louie," he said, "Sammy Webster, yeah, I'm fine. How are you? And how's the Mrs.? I got a little business proposition for you, Louie. How about lunch and we'll talk it over?"

That night, Mr. and Mrs. Crowell checked in. Louis Crowell told his wife that Sam Webster wanted to sell the hotel, that he was almost giving it away. Louis wanted to stay in it a night or two to see if everything was OK.

In the lobby a little after midnight, Shelton handed Crowell the whiskey bottle and pointed to the paper cups. Louis poured himself a drink. "I don't like to see her get hurt too much," he said.

"Mr. Crowell, I can assure you there'll be no pain. Your wife will just conveniently disappear."

"That's what Sammy said. I don't want no trouble with the police."

"There'll be no trouble with anyone. At two o'clock, you can go back up to bed and get some sleep."

Early the next morning, Louis Crowell came down to Shelton's cubbyhole office at the rear of the desk and found Webster and the clerk waiting for him. Louis reached into his pocket and removed an envelope, which he handed to Sam Webster.

"You got a great thing going here, Sammy. You delivered just like you said you would."

Sam reached into the envelope and pulled out two $100 bills. "Here, Charlie, twenty percent, just like I said." He turned to Louis Crowell. "Louie, you got a friend you think might like our service, give him my name."

"Sure, Sammy. I can send you lots of business. You'll be booked months in advance. You got the greatest thing since penicillin."

Sam Webster looked as if his horse had just won the Kentucky Derby. "It's more like the world's greatest wart remover," he said.

"You'll be a big man, Sammy," Louis said, with obvious envy.

"Yeah," Sam Webster said, with a faraway look in his eyes.

A month later, the demand was so heavy for room 312 that the fee had gone up to $2000. Webster even had half a dozen suits made. He was slowly working his way through the chorus lines around town.

Shelton kept his money in the safe at the Madison. He had never once bothered to count it. One afternoon he did stop at a used-car lot, but when the salesman came toward him, he left hastily. He didn't know how to drive, anyway.

Walter Slater started the trouble. He had thin gray hair and eyes that always seemed close to tears. He came into the hotel one evening when Shelton had just come on duty. "Mr. Shelton," he said, "do you remember me?"

Shelton remembered the watery eyes. "Certainly I do, Mr. Slater. Almost a month ago, wasn't it?"

"Twenty-eight days," Walter Slater said.

"Don't tell me you want to rent 312 again? You'll be our first repeat customer."

"That isn't it, Mr. Shelton. You see, it's Martha, my wife."

"Yes, I remember her when you checked in," Shelton said nervously. "She did--uh--remain absent, didn't she?"

"I want her back, Mr. Shelton. I'll pay again, but I want Martha back."

Shelton cleared his throat. He looked desperately at the bottle of whiskey beneath the desk. "Didn't Mr. Webster make everything clear to you?"

"Sammy I've known a long time. He talks too fast. I'll pay again. I've got the money with me. I want Martha back. I miss her, Mr. Shelton."

Shelton picked up the phone with a shaky hand and called Sam Webster.

"Mr. Webster, Charlie, you'd better come down to the hotel. There's a slight problem."

Sam Webster arrived in 20 minutes. He hardly noticed Slater. "What's up, Charlie?" he said. "Too many demands for 312? We'll raise the price again. Hell, weekends we should get five thousand. All the hotels raise the rates on weekends."

"It isn't that, Mr. Webster. It's Mr. Slater here, he has a problem."

Sam Webster turned to Walter Slater. "Wally, old boy," he said, "don't tell me you got someone else? A mistress, maybe? I'm surprised. I didn't figure you for a ladies' man. I'll tell you what, you're one of our first customers--the rates have gone up, but you don't have to go to the bottom of the list. Charlie here'll fix you up some night next week."

Walter Slater looked down at the floor. "You don't understand, Sammy, I don't have a mistress. I don't have anyone. It's Martha. I want her back, Sammy."

Sam Webster reached with automatic hand for the whiskey bottle. "Wally, what the hell is this! How am I gonna get her back? I told you the deal. We shook hands on it. Martha's gone. You're better off. Go out and find yourself a young one. What the hell can you care about Martha?"

"Sammy, she was my wife."

"Wife! What the hell, who needs it? I'm telling you, there's no way to bring her back." He turned to Shelton.

"Is there, Charlie?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Slater, there's just no way."

Walter Slater said nothing for a full minute. He watched Sam Webster drink the whiskey. Tears came to the corners of his sad eyes. "Sammy, if she's not home by tomorrow night, I'm going to the police."

"Wally, you're crazy. Go to the police. What will it do? They'll snoop around and they'll put you in the nuthouse. Who's gonna believe your story? There's no bodies. Without no bodies, the police can't do nothing."

"Tomorrow night, Sammy, I want Martha by tomorrow night." Walter Slater walked out of the hotel.

Sam Webster poured another glass of whiskey. "Can you imagine that guy? I can't believe it. That Martha was a horse. Nothing but a horse. I don't understand people anymore. Wally should kiss the ground I walk on and he wants to go to the police." He drank the whiskey. "Charlie, how many we got lined up?"

Shelton looked at his appointment book. "We're booked for almost three months."

"We're gonna have to raise the rates. I knew it. First of the month and the rates are going up."

The next evening, Walter Slater walked into the lobby of the Madison. Shelton was expecting him. Mr. Slater looked around as though he expected to see his wife. There was a tired look on his face.

"I'm sorry," Shelton said, "but there's nothing anyone can do."

Sam Webster came into the lobby. He was dressed in a dark suit. There was a white carnation in his buttonhole. He was smoking a huge cigar. He was swinging a walking stick with a solidsilver head. "How's everything going, Charlie, baby?" Sam hadn't noticed Walter Slater.

"Fine," Shelton said. "Mr. and Mrs. Cooper just checked in."

"Eddie Cooper we shoulda charged double. That wife of his, Susie, I know he'd pay a good ten grand to get rid of that pig."

Then Sam noticed Walter Slater. He slapped him hard on the back. "Wally, I tell you what. I'm taking you out with me tonight. I've got two blondes. They're acrobats. They'll make you forget old Martha."

"Sammy, I don't want no blonde acrobats. I want Martha." He was crying. Tears streaked his pale cheeks.

"Let me tell you something, Wally, I been patient with you. Now, I tell you what. You go to the police, go ahead. You're in this as much as we are. There's nothing you can do, anyway." Sam Webster puffed hard on his cigar. A cloud of gray smoke engulfed Walter Slater's face. "I tell you what, Wally, old boy, any more trouble out of you, I'm gonna hit you over the head and you spend the night in 312. That way, you might end up with Martha--and you might not. One more word, that's all, just one more word and you've had it. I'll lock you in the room. So, I blow a couple grand. I'm tired of seeing your crying face. Now, go ahead, say something."

Slater looked at Sam Webster in disbelief. He shook his head as though he were trying to remember something. He walked out of the hotel.

"Well, Charlie, old boy, how did I handle that?"

"You didn't mean it, did you, Mr. Webster?"

"Didn't mean what?"

"About locking Mr. Slater in 312?"

"Hell, yes, I meant it! You think I'm gonna let that creep ruin the best thing a guy ever had? I'd just as soon step on him. Who needs that kinda trouble?"

Shelton and Webster got through the spring and summer without any more client difficulties. Shelton had never realized there were so many people willing to pay so much money to have certain associates or dear ones disappear. Shelton had no idea how much money he had in the safe. Sam Webster was living like a king. He even bought a Rolls-Royce complete with chauffeur, and he was wearing flowers in his lapel every day. His name was in all the gossip columns, always mentioned along with some young actress or showgirl.

It was early fall, a clear September night, when the unpredictable happened. Shelton was drinking coffee out of his green Thermos when Sam Webster walked into the lobby. He was dressed in evening clothes, a flower in his lapel: and although he was carrying a half-full bottle of champagne, Shelton had never seen Sam Webster look so sober. "Charlie," he said, "I can't believe it. I just can't believe it."

"What happened, Mr. Webster?" Charlie said, sipping at his hot coffee and beginning to feel nervous for some reason.

"I was at the Grove Theater tonight with the acrobats. You know, the two blondes. A new show opened and I don't like to miss an opening. Well, we were sitting there in the first row enjoying the show. I was giving the chorus a thorough check--you know, in case there was anything extra-special--and I see her dancing in the line."

"See who dancing in the line, Mr. Webster?"

"Hilda! My Hilda, that's who!" Sam Webster was shouting. "Just like she looked thirty years ago!"

"Mr. Webster, that's not possible."

"Not possible! How can you say anything's not possible after the crazy things been going on around here? You telling Sam Webster that he doesn't know his own wife? I ain't never gonna forget that figure. Not the way it was thirty years ago. What do you think I married her for? Even the mole was there, right above her left knee. The same mole, in the same place. Charlie, it was Hilda, looking just like she did when I married her. Don't you see? Hilda always wanted to be a dancer. She always said she could've had a great career if she hadn't married me. That's what happened. We thought we were so smart. Those people that been disappearing from 312--don't you see, Charlie? Whatever they always dreamed about being in life--that's the way they end up! All Hilda ever talked about when we were first married was being a dancer. And now she's on her way, she's in the chorus line at the Grove Theater."

"You're sure it was Hilda, Mr. Webster?"

"Charlie, just like I'm standing here, I'm sure."

Sam Webster finished his champagne. Suddenly his face began to beam. His eyes came alive. He looked as if he might begin to jump up and down.

"Charlie, I've got it. Jesus Christ, I'm surprised I didn't think of it sooner. What the hell is the matter with me? I've got it, Charlie!"

"Got what, Mr. Webster?"

"Saturday's hero, that's what. Don't you see, I've always wanted to be a football hero. I can hear the roar of the crowd now. Those sunny fall afternoons and Sammy Webster, triple-threat back for Notre Dame, running wild on the gridiron."

"I don't understand, Mr. Webster."

"Don't understand! Charlie, all my life I've wanted to play football. When I was a kid, that's all I ever thought about. Only trouble was I couldn't play a lick. I used to sit in the stands and suffer. But now, Charlie, old boy, I can do it. I'm going to college. Notre Dame. I won't make all-American my sophomore year, just another sensational sophomore back, that's all. But my junior year, watch out! I'll be the talk of the country. No one is gonna stop Sammy Webster. Can't you see me fading back to throw one of my long touchdown bombs, the crowd going crazy, and the girls, Charlie, the girls, all those coeds. Those are real girls, Charlie, not freak acrobats. They'll all be screaming my name. Christ, I can hardly wait! Then about ten good years of pro ball. I'll develop my Webster bullet pass. Zip. Zip. Short, flat and hard, right over the line, no one'll be able to stop me. And once in a while, the Sammy Webster trademark, a high, soft one, right into the end zone. Charlie, goddamn it, I can't wait."

"Mr. Webster, you mean you're going to spend the night in room 312?"

"Charlie, what the hell you think I been talking about? Who has the room reserved for tonight?"

Shelton looked at his appointment book. "Mr. and Mrs. Greenwald."

"You call that Greenwald and tell him he's been moved back a night. Tell him 312 has been closed for alterations. Tell him anything. I'm going home and get some sleep. I'll be back later tonight."

Sam Webster returned to the Hotel Madison shortly before midnight. Shelton could tell that he'd had a good sleep. He looked fresh and his eyes were clear. He was dressed in gray slacks and a soft gray sport shirt. There was a pleasant odor of after-shave lotion about him.

"Well, Charlie," he said, "this is it. This is the big night. Did you call Greenwald?"

"Yes, sir. I moved him back a night."

"Good. I'm gonna miss you, Charlie. I'm gonna miss you."

"I'm gonna miss you, Mr. Webster."

Shelton got two paper cups and removed the whiskey bottle from beneath the desk. "Should we have one last farewell drink, Mr. Webster?"

"You go ahead, Charlie. I can't. I'm in training, you know. No one on the squad is allowed to drink."

Shelton poured some whiskey into a cup. Sam Webster had his eyes on the clock. "Well, Charlie, it's midnight straight up. I don't want to be late. It's all yours now, Charlie."

He put out his hand. The two men stood there shaking hands. "Thanks, Mr. Webster. I can hardly believe it."

"Goodbye, and don't forget to read the sports pages," Sam Webster said as he walked into the elevator. Shelton watched the elevator doors slide closed. The elevator started up.

"Goodbye, Mr. Webster," Shelton said to the empty lobby.

Sam Webster got out on the third floor. He walked down the dim corridor to room 312. He turned the key in the lock and went into the dark room. He lay on the bed. He waited. Occasionally, he looked at the luminous dial on his watch. Football, coeds, crowds of screaming people were all busy in his head.

Suddenly, there was a blinding light and the loud blare of music. He was upright and he could feel his arms and legs moving. Finally, he could make out faces through a white glare of light. His arms and legs were still moving violently. There were attractive young men and women all around him. They were all dancing. He looked down at his feet. His young, handsome legs were keeping time to the music. He saw it all clearly. They were dancers. They were all dancing. Sam Webster was dancing in the show at the Grove Theater.