The Count of the Sahara by Wayne Turmel Read Free Book Online Page B

hotel. First I was greeted by an unimpressed looking doorman who took his own sweet time opening up for me, then by a blast of stale, hot air. The Montrose did its best to keep its guests insulated from the deprivations of the great outdoors. And, I presumed, riffraff like me.
    I caught a glimpse of myself in the lobby mirror. What looked back at me was presentable enough, if you didn’t count the bright red patches in my otherwise pasty German face. I straightened my bow tie, tugged my vest down, and remembered to pull my cap off my head and shove it in my pocket like Mama taught me I should do when going amongst my betters.
    The desk clerk—a foreigner of some kind judging by the size of his schnozz and the grease holding his hair down—checked me out in a hurry.
    “May I help you?” His tone suggested that was highly unlikely. I noticed he had an oversized white carnation in his lapel and perfectly manicured hands. It threw me off, I don’t think I’d ever seen such perfect fingernails on anyone, man or woman.
    “Yes, Count de Prorok’s room please.” I hoped I sounded properly business-like. I waited as he processed the question, and whether or not he’d deign to comply.
    “And your business with the Count?”
    “I have an appointment at ten o’clock.”
    “Just a moment.” He picked up the phone and asked for room 324. He appraised me from head to toe then back again as he waited, obviously displeased with his findings.
    “Count de Prorok, this is Gerard at the front desk. There is a young man here to see you. I told him you were very busy but…” he flinched and covered the phone. “Your name sir?” He called me sir, although he’d probably rather choke to death on a fishbone.
    “Mr. Willy Brown,” I said, wondering if he’d bite on it.
    “It’s a Willy, Brown, sir.” Nope, he wasn’t going to give me the Mr. just an “a”, but I did get the room number and a begrudging, “The elevator is around the corner. Have a good day, sir.”
    “Thanks, Pal.” I slapped the front desk and spun on my heel like Harold Lloyd. Elevators no less. Walking up three flights was nothing when you lived in our part of town, but when in Rome… I decided not to take the stairs.
    The elevator operator in his black uniform and pillbox hat gave a polite nod. He didn’t have to ask where I was going, because I couldn’t wait to tell him like the big old rube I was.
    “Third floor please. I have an appointment with Count de Prorok.” He seemed less impressed with that knowledge than I was, and pushed the button. The cage door slid shut with a clank, and he checked the clasp, stabbed the “3” and up we went. His eyes never left the door. For such a simple job, he sure gave it all he had.
    I wondered about that job. Were people so bewildered by trusting themselves to push a button and navigate two floors without getting lost? Or were rich people just so used to having someone else do everything for them they’d never developed the skill? Either way, I couldn’t imagine ever being an elevator operator. It would be like driving the world’s shortest streetcar route.
    We got to three and the door opened. “Thanks, don’t want to keep the Count waiting.”
    All that got me was a monotone “Mmm hmm, haveagoodday” and the door clanked shut on me.
    Amber lights in glass sconces lined the hall. The rug was softer and prettier than anything I’d ever walked on. Geometric patterns led away from the elevator and down either end of the corridor. I counted off, “Three eighteen, three twenty,” right up to three twenty-four. I tugged my vest down over my gut and knocked.
    “Un moment,” boomed a familiar voice. The door flew open and there he stood. The same hair perfectly coiffed, the same wrinkle-free appearance. This time he wore a grey double breasted and a snow-white shirt with a school tie of some sort perfectly knotted. He grinned around the pipe in his teeth. He began to reach out to shake my hand, but