House of Bathory(85)

He muttered something in Slovak, switching off the lights. He hurried down the stairs to get a key to the vacant room.

Daisy stared out the window at the falling rain. Then she remembered the ledger in the safe. She entered the code.

It was still there.





Chapter 71

HOTEL THERMIA

PIESTANY SPA ISLAND, SLOVAKIA

DECEMBER 25, 2010





The Hotel Thermia restaurant manager, Ludomir Mylnar, called the waitress Dalena into his wood-paneled office and explained the situation in rapid Slovak. Betsy noticed how the woman threw anxious glances toward the manager and picked at her cuticles.

“This American woman, she is your mother?” asked the young woman in English.

“Yes,” said Betsy, her eyes stinging with tears.

Dalena’s face softened.

“Please tell me anything you can remember about that night,” said Betsy, wiping her eyes. “You and the valet were the last people to see her.”

“Yes, I want to help,” said Dalena, looking at Betsy and then to the hotel manager. “She ate alone, at a table in front, looking out to garden. She was kind, she spoke a little Slovak. She had gray hair.”

“Yes,” said Betsy.

“She left a good tip.”

“She would.”

“And I remember. She was sent glass of champagne.”

“By whom?” said Betsy.

Dalena looked up at the manager. He nodded for her to continue.

“Count Bathory.”

Betsy froze. “Bathory?”

“Yes,” said the manager. “He is man of great wealth who takes the waters here. Bathorys have come for cures at Piestany for centuries.”

“Centuries?”

“Even Countess Erzsebet Bathory would take the cure. Her attendants set up tents by the hot springs of the River Vah. She would spend weeks here, bathing and purging. It’s part of the history of Piestany.”

“And this Count Bathory? Who is he?”

“Some say he is direct descendant. The Count has been coming here since he was little boy, I am told. He is elderly gentleman now.”

“Why would he buy my mother champagne?”

“She is an attractive woman, no?” said the manager.

Betsy shrugged.

John offered. “Yes, for a woman her age. Quite intelligent and lively.”

“Perhaps he was making—gesture to the lady,” said Mylnar.

“Did he leave with her?”

“No. He left before,” said Dalena. “I remember him gesturing farewell with his cane.”

“And the valet brought the car around for her?” asked John.

“Yes. We have checked,” said the manager. “She tipped the valet. He remembers her distinctly.”

“Did anyone follow her?” asked Betsy.

“No one knows,” said Mylnar.

“Where does this Count Bathory live?” asked John.

The manager looked uncomfortable.

“You must have a billing address, right?” asked John. “Telephone number?”

“We cannot divulge that information,” said Mylnar.

“You don’t understand,” said Betsy. “My mother has disappeared! She was probably kidnapped!”

“There is no reason to think that because a gentleman buys a lady a drink, that he is guilty of kidnap. She left alone.”

“Yes, but her car was found abandoned just over the bridge. Someone—”

“I am sorry, Madam. I cannot discuss the personal information of a guest.”

John rose from his chair. “I don’t think you understand. If you don’t give us this information now, we will get it through the police and with the help of the American Embassy. That would bring a lot of unwanted publicity to Hotel Thermia.”

The manager jutted out his chin. “I repeat. I cannot divulge this information about one of our guests.”

Betsy closed her eyes, composing herself, then she stood.

“I thank you, Mr. Mylnar,” she said, “for your cooperation, at least as far as my mother’s last meal with you. And especially you, Miss,” she added, nodding to the waitress.

The waitress stared down at the carpet.

“I think you can expect a visit from Detective Whitehall, who is working with the Bratislava police,” said John. “I believe Count Bathory’s whereabouts will be of great interest to them.”

John opened the door for Betsy, who hurried out into the hall, her face covered with her spread fingers. He knew she would not want anyone to see her cry.

Mylnar tugged at John’s sleeve.

“I didn’t want to alarm the lady’s daughter,” said the manager. “But you aren’t the first to inquire about Dr. Grace Path. A tall blond man with blue eyes was asking about her a week before.”

“An American man? A Slovak?”