A well-placed kick sends the door flying open. The crash is deafening in the silence of the hotel. I fight the urge to cringe away from the noise, and stride through into the room, ready to face down an angry occupant.
The room is clearly in use. The bed has been disturbed. There’s a case on the table, some clothes cast aside on one of the chairs, a watch, other bits and pieces of clutter that mark out most people’s territory. The bathroom holds a toothbrush, a disposable razor, a damp towel. There’s no sign of the occupant, though — a cheap businessman, from his case and crap. I wonder if he’s gone out on the town, until I find his car keys and wallet in the pocket of his pants. According to his driver’s license, Bill Nolan is 44 and lives in Illinois, and his business card says he sells filters. He looks like a nice enough guy; worn down maybe, but not hardened.
The room key is here too, under a tacky tie. Damn.
There’s nothing to suggest foul play, apart from the lack of one filter salesman. No blood, no scuffles, no toppled furniture.
I dash out of Bill’s room, and charge straight through the door of the occupied room over the hall. It’s the same story — personal effects, but no person. I don’t bother sniffing around this time; my head’s reeling a bit, and I want out of the room, so I stagger back out into the hall. The silence is stifling. I yell, a wild, incoherent sound, just to actually hear something.
“Hush now,” says a reasonable voice, directly behind me.
Poll results:
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