down the toilet, washed the ashtray and opened every door and window to let the sickly smell evaporate as soon as possible. Then I dragged the waiter across to the tiny hall and opened the door on to the passage.
The hallway was deserted. I listened intently, but could hear nothing, no sound of approaching footfalls. I crossed to the lift, pressed the button, waited for the lift to appear, opened the door a crack, inserted a matchbox between jamb and door so that the latter couldn't close and complete the electrical circuit then hurried back to my suite. I dragged the waiter across to the lift, opened the door, dumped him without ceremony on the lift floor, withdrew the matchbox and let the door swing to. The lift remained where it was: obviously, no one was pressing the button of that particular lift at that particular moment.
I locked the outside door to my suite with the skeleton and made my way back to the fire-escape, by now an old and trusted friend. I reached street level unobserved and made my way round to the main entrance. The ancient at the barrel-organ was playing Verdi now and Verdi was losing by a mile. The operator had his back to me as I dropped a guilder into his tin can. He turned to thank me, his lips parted in a toothless smile, then he saw who it was and his jaw momentarily dropped open. He was at the very bottom of the heap and no one had bothered to inform him that Sherman was abroad. I gave him a kindly smile and passed into the foyer.
There were a couple of uniformed staff behind the desk, together with the manager, whose back was at the moment towards me. I said loudly: 'Six-one-six, please.'
The manager turned round sharply, his eyebrows raised high but not high enough. Then he gave me his warmhearted crocodile smile.
'Mr Sherman. I didn't know you were out.'
'Oh yes, indeed. Pre-dinner constitutional. Old English custom, you know.'
'Of course, of course.' He smiled at me archly as if there was something vaguely reprehensible about this old English custom, then allowed a slightly puzzled look to replace the smile. He was as phoney as they come. 'I don't remember seeing you go out.'
'Well, now,' I said reasonably, 'you can't be expected to attend to all of your guests all of the time, can you?' I gave him his own phoney smile back again, took the key and walked towards the bank of lifts. I was less than half-way there when I brought up short as a piercing scream cut through the foyer and brought instant silence, which lasted only long enough for the woman who had screamed to draw a deep breath and start in again. The source of this racket was a middle-aged, flamboyantly dressed female, a caricature of the American tourist abroad, who was standing in front of a lift, her mouth opened in a rounded 'O', her eyes like saucers. Beside her a portly character in a seer-sucker suit was trying to calm her, but he didn't look any too happy himself and gave the impression that he wouldn't have minded doing a little screaming himself.
The assistant manager rushed past me and I followed more leisurely. By the time I reached the lift the assistant manager was on his knees, bent over the sprawled-out form of the dead waiter.
'My goodness,' I said. 'Is he ill, do you think?'
'Ill? Ill?' The assistant manager glared at me. 'Look at the way his neck is. The man's dead.'
'Good God, I do believe you're right.' I stooped and peered more closely at the waiter. 'Haven't I seen this man somewhere before?'
'He was your floor-waiter,' the assistant manager said, which is not an easy remark to make with your teeth clamped together.
'I thought he looked familiar. In the midst of life -- ' I shook my head sadly. 'Where's the restaurant?'
'Where's the -- where's the -- '
'Never mind,' I said soothingly, 'I can see you're upset. I'll find it myself.'
The restaurant of the Hotel Rembrandt may not be, as the owners claim, the best in Holland, but I wouldn't care to take them to court on a charge of misrepresentation.
Gillian Doyle, Susan Leslie Liepitz