The Dead Key!
By
Pamela Ebel
“Morning,
my friend. How you
doing this cold day?”
The
desk manager looked up as
the Head Bell Man pushed a huge steamer trunk through the front doors of the
hotel toward the front desk check-in station.
“Doing
okay right now. I just
started my shift, and I don’t see many memos or notes on things that went wrong
overnight. Same for you?”
The
Head Bell Man shook his head
and shrugged.
“Same
for me except for this big
trunk that UPS dropped off last night around midnight. I’ve only seen one of
these in old 1930’s movies. The paperwork says it goes to a Paul Richter. A
note signed by Richter says to leave it in his room if he isn’t here when it
comes. Which room is he in?”
“Let
me check. The computer is
slow this morning. Oh, here it is. Richter is in Suite 405. Says he checked in
at 9:00 last night.”
“Okay.
But I just realized I must
have left my master key in my other uniform jacket. I don’t have time to go
back to the locker room. Got one I can borrow in case the guy’s not there?”
“Let
me reset one of these dead
keys for you.”
He
pulled a plastic card out of
a box on the counter, entered it into the computer port and hit a series of
commands.
“There
you go. This should open
all the doors for you.”
The
Bell Man took the card,
tipped his hat, and pushed the huge streamer trunk into an elevator and
disappeared.
In
front of Room 405 he knocked
several times and got no answer. Using the master, he opened the suite door and
called out to announce himself. Still no answer.
Following
instructions from the
note, he pushed the trunk into the sitting area, off the luggage cart and to
the center of the room just as his beeper indicated he was needed in the lobby.
“Be
right there.”
He
closed the suite door and
jiggled the handle to ensure it was locked.
A
minute later the trunk lid
snapped and creaked open. Slowly, like Venus Rising, a red-haired woman stood
up and climbed out of the trunk.
Stretching,
she pulled a tote
bag out, went to a mirror, checked her hair and makeup, smoothed her black
velvet jump suit. She pulled black leather boots from the tote and put them on.
She
checked her watch, walked to
the bar, removed a small bottle of champagne from the fridge, poured it into a
flute, drank deeply, then smiled.
Rearranging
the clothes in the
trunk, she closed and locked the lid. Removing a bottle of scotch and a card
from the tote, she placed them on the bar and took her drink into the bedroom, closed
the door, and waited.
An
hour later Paul Richter
entered his suite and grinned as he saw the trunk. As he pulled out his cell
phone, the bottle of Macallan Rare Cask Black Scotch on the bar caught his eye
and his grin widened.
“Jamie,
it’s me. The trunk’s
here. I see that bottle you sent. Don’t be spending our money on $800 Scotch
right now. Give me a call back so we can get the next step going.”
He
ended the call and poured
himself a generous glass of scotch and drank it down. Pouring another, he took
a key from his pocket and opened the steamer trunk.
The
clothes packed for his
overseas cruise were neatly stacked. He downed the second glass of Macallan, leaned
in, and began feeling at the bottom of the trunk. After a couple of minutes, he
began tossing the clothes to the floor as he continued to search.
Richter
listened as the message
on his cell phone indicated that “the party you are calling is not available.”
“Jamie,
damn it! Answer the
phone. Where’s the money, and where are you? Answer the phone.”
“I’m
afraid Jamie isn’t going to
be available to answer his phone ever again.”
Richter
stood up and stared at
the redheaded woman whose life savings he had planned to spend on himself in
France.
“Why,
Paul, you look surprised
to see me.”
“What
are you doing here, Shari?
We agreed when I left you in Chicago, I’d send for you when I reached France.
And why can’t Jamie answer his phone?”
“We
both know you didn’t intend
to send for me once you had my million dollars. You really should have picked
your ‘best friend’ more carefully and not been so trusting about my money.
“When
Jamie demanded the money
and I realized what the real plan was, I convinced him that he’d have more fun
with me and the money, rather than killing me like you ordered.
“After
a bottle of your favorite
scotch, I was able to get the gun away from him but instead of letting me go he
tried to stop me so . . .”
She
shrugged and gave Richter a
hard smile.
“Look,
you have it all wrong. I
was going to send for you. Jamie must have gotten greedy and lied to you. We
can go together this afternoon. My clothes are in the trunk, and we can buy you
a new wardrobe. But we need the money. Where is it?”
“Right
here in my tote bag. And
I do plan on taking that cruise ship this afternoon. Unfortunately, you won’t be
able to join me.”
Richter
leaned into the trunk
lid as Shari smiled again.
“There’s
no gun there. I have it
right here. I searched the trunk and then worked on its ventilation system for
three hours before UPS picked it and me up. It was a little tight, but I
managed.”
She
pulled the gun and pointed it
at Richter.
“You
won’t shoot me. It’ll make
too much noise.”
“I
don’t have to shoot you. You’re
wobbling and sweating. Don’t you feel well? I’m sure you don’t because that
scotch you drank was laced with Fentanyl. By my calculations you should . . .
She
watched as he pitched
forward into the trunk.
“.
. . Be near death right now.”
She
removed the room key from
his pocket and rearranged the body, tucking him inside the trunk and checking
his pulse until it was no more.
She
locked the trunk, placed the
Macallan and champagne bottles and glasses in her tote bag and wiped down all
the surfaces she had touched.
The
front desk manager answered
the call from Room 405 with a “maid” saying a note left by the guest said he had
checked out on the TV screen system and asked that the trunk be taken
downstairs for pick up.
The
Bell Man returned to suite 405,
started to reach for his “dead key” master, found the door ajar and the
instructions on top of the trunk. He wrestled the trunk back onto the luggage
cart, closed the door and headed to the elevator.
As
the elevator door closed,
Shari emerged from the suite. She tried the card she had taken from Richter. It
didn’t work, meaning the guest had checked out. Riding the glassed-front elevator
down, she watched the trunk disappearing out the front doors.
She
smiled at the desk manager as she passed the counter. At the taxi area, she watched
the Bell Man help the UPS driver with the steamer trunk.
“Where
you taking this old,
heavy trunk?”
“I’m
delivering it to the
airport cargo area. Says here it is going to Bolivia in about two hours.”
“No
one going with it?
“Not
part of my job. I need to
get going and thanks for the help.”
Shari
stopped the Bell Man as he
headed inside.
“Can
I help you, Miss?”
“I
found this room key in front
of the main doors.”
“Probably from a room already vacated. I’ll
give it to the front desk manager. He’ll check it out and put it in the box to
be reprogrammed. You going someplace special?”
“Yes,
I’m taking a cruise.
Thanks for taking care of that key card.”
“Not
a problem. We get a lot of
‘dead keys.’”
She
smiled and nodded as she got
in the taxi.
“I
bet you do!”
Pamela Ebel has been
published in Shotgun Honey, The BOULD AWARDS 2020 Anthology, as well
other venues. Her poetry has appeared in the Delta Poetry Review.
A native of California, she now concentrates on tales from her original home
state and tales from the highways of the South. She also knows, like the
Ancient Greeks and the Irish, that as a southern writer you can’t outrun your
blood.
She has turned to writing
full time as of 2020, obviously either perfect or bizarre timing, and this will
be her fifth career. She lives in Metairie, Louisiana, with her husband and two
cats.