The Bat(78)

At one point Harry thought she was crying, but by then he was so drunk that he couldn’t say for certain.

Kjartan had gone, returned and mumbled something in her ear, freeing himself from her embrace with a condescending smile to Harry. Then everyone had gone, and Harry and Kristin were left sitting in the empty room among cigarette packets and shards of glass until they were thrown out. It is not easy to say who supported whom through the door or who had suggested a hotel, but at any rate they ended up in the Savoy, where they made short work of the minibar and crawled into bed. Harry had dutifully made an ineffectual attempt to penetrate her, but it was too late. Of course it was too late. Kristin lay with her head buried in the pillow and wept. Harry had sneaked out when he woke and caught a taxi to the Postcafé, which opened an hour earlier than the other waterholes. Where he sat musing on just how late it was.

The owner of Springfield Lodge was called Joe, an overweight, easy-going guy who with thrift and prudence had run his small, slightly down-at-heel establishment in King’s Cross for nearly twenty years. It was neither better nor worse than any other hotel at the lower end of the price range in this district, and he had few, if any, complaints. One of the reasons for this was that, as mentioned before, Joe was an easy-going guy. Another was that he always insisted on guests viewing the room first and he knocked off five dollars if they paid for more than one night. A third and perhaps conclusive reason was that he managed to keep the place fairly free of backpackers, drunks, drug addicts and prostitutes . . .

Even those turned away found it difficult not to like Joe. For at Springfield Lodge no one was met with glares or orders to get out; there was no more than a regretful smile and an apology that the hotel was full, there might be a cancellation in the following week and they were welcome to drop by again. Thanks to Joe’s considerable ability to read faces and his swift, sure categorisation of applicants, he performed this task without a moment’s hesitation, and therefore seldom had any bother with argumentative types. Only on very rare occasions had Joe committed a blunder sizing up a potential customer, and he bitterly regretted it.

He recalled a couple of these incidents as he quickly summed up the contradictory impressions given by the tall, blond man before him. His plain quality clothing suggested he had money but didn’t feel forced to part with it. The fact that he was a foreigner was a big plus; it was usually Australians who created problems. Backpackers with sleeping bags often meant wild parties and missing towels, but this man had a suitcase, and it seemed in good condition, which suggested he wasn’t constantly on the move. True, he hadn’t shaved but then it wasn’t so long since his hair had seen the insides of a barber’s shop. Moreover, his nails were clean and manicured, and his pupils were of relatively normal dimensions.

The upshot of all these impressions and the fact that the man had just placed a VISA card on the counter together with ID as a Norwegian policeman was that his usual ‘I’m sorry but’ got stuck in his throat.

For there was no doubt the man was drunk. Smashed, even.

‘I know you know I’ve had a few,’ said the man in surprisingly good, slurred English when he noticed Joe’s hesitation. ‘Let’s assume I go crazy in the room. Let’s assume that. Break the TV and the bathroom mirror and throw up over the carpet. That sort of thing’s happened before. Would a deposit of a thousand dollars cover it? In any case, I intend to keep myself so drunk I’ll hardly be able to make much noise, annoy other guests or show my face in the corridors or reception.’

‘I’m afraid we’re fully booked this week. Maybe—’

‘Greg at Bourbon & Beef recommended this place and told me to pass on his regards to Joe. Is that you?’

Joe studied the man.

‘Don’t you make me regret this,’ he said, giving him the key to Room 73.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, Birgitta, this is Harry. I—’

‘I’ve got a visitor, Harry. Not a good time.’

‘I just wanted to say I didn’t mean to—’

‘Listen, Harry. I’m not angry and there’s no damage done. Fortunately, hurt is limited when you’ve known a guy for scarcely a week, but I’d rather you didn’t contact me any more. OK?’

‘Well, no, actually it isn’t—’

‘As I said, I’ve got a visitor, so I wish you luck with the rest of your stay and hope you return to Norway safe and sound. Bye.’

. . .

‘Bye.’

Teddy Mongabi hadn’t liked Sandra spending the night with the Scandinavian policeman. He thought it reeked of trouble. When he saw the man walking up Darlinghurst Road with rubber knees and drooping arms, his first instinct had been to step back and melt into the crowd. However, his curiosity overcame him and he crossed his arms and barred the way for the crazy Norwegian. The man tried to move past him, but Teddy grabbed his shoulder and spun him round.