The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 39 September 20th 1972

Wednesday’s shift started on a calm note. I was in at ten to six, which drew approval from Larry. He was really tired; his little daughter had just started teething, and had kept him up most of the night with her crying. He told me he’d had a reasonably quiet day: two couples came in around lunchtime for some quick s.e.x, but no window panes were broken this time. The glazier had been in, the window in number two was fixed, all the rooms were empty and waiting for people eager to satisfy their carnal appetites.

I was almost as tired as Larry, because once again I had difficulty getting to sleep in the afternoon. When I’d arrived home from work in the morning, Roch informed me that Michel had called him again. He called from a payphone, just like the previous day, and told Roch he’d left Brueghel’s Landscape with Buildings and Wagon in a locker at the railway station. He had managed to lose the plainclothes cop following him before he got there, and Montreal’s Central Station was such a busy place that it was very unlikely anyone would remember him renting the locker. But just in case, he would wait a few days before calling the museum and telling them where to find the painting. No new money negotiations had taken place, everything was still up in the air, we had to wait. The news hadn’t exactly put me in a good mood, and I did a lot of scowling after Larry had left me alone in the lobby.

I started to wonder if we’d ever manage to get any money at all for those f.u.c.k.i.n.g paintings and worked myself into a real funk. I reminded myself that I was the owner of a genuine Rembrandt, but that didn’t work, it just got me thinking that I’d eventually get caught with it in my possession, and end up in jail. I was so engrossed in all this unhappy shit that I forgot to switch faces when Henry Houghton-Briggs pranced in at a few minutes to seven. He had another blazer on, dark plum in colour, and fawn trousers. He had his cigarette holder in one hand and what appeared to be an antique telephone in the other.

“Michael, my dear boy!” he exclaimed upon seeing me. “You look absolutely shattered. What happened? Please tell me at once.”

I hurriedly rearranged my features and said:

“No, nothing bad has happened, I’m sorry. I just got a piece of bad news from home.”

“Oh! Not a death in the family, I hope.”

“No, no. Just some, uh, personal stuff between me and my brother.”

“Well I won’t pry,” HB said gravely, “But I do know for a fact that brothers can be real pests. Cheer up, my boy, and look at this: isn’t it magnificent?” He lifted the phone and put it on the counter. It was quite something: it had a spindly receiver with earpiece and microphone encased in some sort of metal imitating gold. The receiver’s grip and phone box were made of dark red wood.

“Does it work?” I asked. Houghton-Briggs looked hurt.

“Of course it works, my dear boy. Otherwise, why would I bring it here? Now take out that ugly black plastic thing from under the counter and connect this little beauty instead, there’s a good chap. I want it to stay on the counter, no need to hide it away. Isn’t it simply marvelous?”

“It’s very elegant.”

“Exactly! Exactly. A touch of class. I shall go back home and ring you presently, within a couple of minutes at the outside. It has the most melodious ring. What’s the matter? Are you thinking about your brother again?”

“I – no, I just didn’t realize you lived close by.”

“I did not tell you? My apologies, old boy. Just a couple of houses down the street. But surely I told you when I was instructing you to call me if there was something you couldn’t handle?”

“Of course. I must have forgotten.”

HB waggled a playful finger in front of my face and said:

“That won’t do. That definitely won’t do. Forgetting things at your age? Pull your socks up, my boy, pull them up at once. Is it connected?”

“Yes,” I said. HB lifted the receiver, put it to his ear, and beamed at me.

“What a beautiful sound,” he said. “It’s purring like a contented cat. Let me have that old ugly set, dear boy, I shall have to think of how to dispose of it without making waste.”

He pranced off, stopped at the front door, looked at me and said:

“Might be a little more than a couple of minutes, actually. Let’s say five, shall we? One must plan for the unexpected.”

He took off, and I looked for a while at the new/old telephone. It definitely was something to look at. The faux gold dial twinkled invitingly; I stared at it, waiting for the phone to ring. There seemed to be something wrong with the numeral 4; I peered at it and saw there was a dark smudge below the crossbar. I was about to try and rub it off when the front door bell chimed. Guests!

They were the first guests I checked in all by myself. I looked them over while the guy signed the register: they were the sort of couple you might encounter in a discount store. The guy looked around thirty, but had already managed to go almost completely bald: a short fringe of mousy brown hair ran around the back of his head. He had a button nose and small blue eyes and wore a dark blue nylon windbreaker that rustled while he wrote their names in the register: Mr and Mrs McLeod. McLeod was the Canadian equivalent of the British Smith: there were tons of McLeods in every phone directory.

His partner, his belle was older – I put her at forty. She was very thin and slightly taller than him and had a long horsey face and black shoulder-length hair that she wore with a parting in the middle. She wore a faded jean jacket over a black top and a jean miniskirt. She wouldn’t look at me, but I could see anyway that she was really high on something other than alcohol. But I didn’t expect any trouble, the guy put down ten bucks on the counter the moment he’d finished writing in the register and smiled politely and nodded when I said I’d give them room number one.

“It’s at the end of the hall,” I said, shepherding them onto the stairs. “You’ll have extra privacy.” The woman finally looked at me when I said that and I noticed the pupils in her eyes were like pinpricks in the dirty green irises.

We went upstairs and I showed them into the room and asked them if they were happy with it. They were, it was fine, everything was A-okay. So I left them shutting the door behind me and barely reached the staircase when there was a bloodcurdling scream from the room.

I rushed back and opened the door right in time to get hit full force by another scream. I quickly stepped inside and saw that the guy was standing pressed against the wall with his pants down and his hands high up, as if in surrender. The woman was standing right in front of him. She had his testicles in one hand and a nasty-looking switchblade in the other. As I looked, the guy let out yet another piercing scream.

“Stop that right now!” I shouted. Really loud, because I was panicked.

They both flinched, and looked at me. The woman actually smiled at me over her shoulder. The guy said:

“We’re only playing a little game.”

“What?”

“It’s a little game we like to play. I’m sorry if it got too loud. Can you please stop looking at me? And leave?”

“You can’t scream like that.”

“I said I was sorry. Can you leave?” The woman leaned forward and kissed the guy on his forehead and looked at me again, smiling.

“If you do that again, I’ll have to call the cops.”

The woman let go of the guy’s gear and strode up to me so quickly I didn’t have the time to step back. She pressed the tip of the knife in the skin under my chin and hissed:

“Don’t even think about it, little boy.”

I lifted my chin and spun round and walked away without a word, half-expecting her to stab me in the back. She didn’t. I went downstairs and heard another scream even before I reached the last step. Simultaneously I heard a melodious tinkle that I couldn’t place, and I froze. It sounded again and I realized it was that f.u.c.k.i.n.g telephone. I ran to it and lifted the receiver and said hello.

There was a short, frigid silence. Then HB’s voice said:

“Michael, when you answer the phone you must say: Montrose Hotel, good evening. Or good morning, after three o’clock. Am I clear? Also, you must answer all calls promptly. I’ve been waiting -”

There was another, particularly horrible scream from upstairs, so loud that HB heard it over the phone and changed tack and said:

“What’s going there, for heaven’s sake? I think I heard a scream.”

“You did,” I told him. “Soon after you left, this couple checked into number one. And right now she’s holding his d.i.c.k in one hand and a knife in the other. I tried to get it under control, but she threatened me with the knife.”

“Stay where you are. I shall be right over.”

When I opened the front door he was already trotting up the front path, looking totally ridiculous in the dark plum blazer. He went past me and when I tried to follow him up the stairs he snapped at me to stay back without turning around. He went up two stairs at a time, hopping like a rabbit, and half-ran to the room, disappearing from sight. I stayed at the bottom of the stairs, ears flapping, and got them blasted by yet another scream. I heard HB stop and the door open and then his voice – soft, calm, and so quiet that once again, I couldn’t make out a single word.

There were sounds of people moving around and then of many footsteps and everyone filed out onto the top landing. The guy led the procession, his hands busy fastening the belt on his pants; the woman followed, walking with a peculiar stiff gait. When she fully came into view I saw it was caused by a small shiny gun Henry Houghton-Briggs was pressing into the small of her back.

“Stand aside, Michael,” he said when he saw me. “Please go back to the reception. The gentleman and the lady are leaving.”

I picked my jaw up from the floor and obediently went to stand behind the counter. The small procession filed down the stairs and crossed the hall to the front door. HB dropped his gun hand to his side: the gun was a toy-sized flat nickel-plated automatic. It didn’t look lethal at all.

When the guy reached the door he turned round and whined:

“I want my money back. I paid ten bucks for that room.”

HB raised the gun until it was pointing in the woman’s face. He said:

“And what do you say, dear?”

She was silent. HB smiled, and said:

“I do not make house calls free of charge. If you feel you’re being robbed, perhaps you should call the police. Now please leave before things get really ugly.”

His voice was dripping with menace when he spoke the two final words, and I remembered what Larry had told me the day I started: that HB can get really nasty. I now had an idea of what he’d meant.

The two crazies left without further protests. HB stood in the doorway watching them walk away, his gun hand hanging by his side. After a while he put it into the inner b.r.e.a.s.t pocket of his blazer and shut the door and walked up to me.

“I’m sorry I gave you a rough time over the phone, my boy,” he said. “This clearly was an emergency. Are you all right? Think you can carry on?”

“Of course.”

He beamed.

“That’s my boy,” he said, and I swear he started to raise his hand to stroke my cheek. But he stopped himself in time and beamed at me some more and added:

“This was most irregular, I assure you. First time something like this has happened in, oh, years and years. A spot of bad luck for you, but all’s well that ends well, isn’t it? Cheerio.”

I shook my head as I watched him go, and kept shaking it at intervals until the end of my shift.