The brass key worked smoothly in the door of two fifty-one; it let him into a room of high ceilings, one window looking down onto the parking area. Dasein turned on the light. The switch controlled a tasseled floor lamp beside a curve-fronted teak dresser. The amber light revealed a partly opened doorway into a tiled bathroom (the sound of water dripping there), a thick-legged desk-table with a single straight chair pushed against it. The bed was narrow and high with a heavily carved headboard.
Dasein pushed down on the surface of the bed. It felt soft. He dropped his suitcase onto the bed, stared at it. An edge of white fabric protruded from one end. He opened the suitcase, studied the contents. Dasein knew himself for a prissy, meticulous
packer. The case now betrayed a subtle disarray. Someone had opened it and searched it. Well, it hadn't been locked. He checked the contentsânothing missing.
Why are they curious about me?
he wondered.
He looked around for a telephone, found it, a standard French handset, on a shelf beside the desk. As he moved, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the dresserâeyes wide, mouth in a straight line. Grim. He shook his head, smiled. The smile felt out of place.
Dasein sat down in the straight chair, put the phone to his ear. There was a smell of disinfectant soap in the roomâand something like garlic. After a moment, he jiggled the hook.
Presently, a woman's voice came on: “This is the desk.”
“I'd like to place a call to Berkeley,” Dasein said. He gave the number. There was a moment's silence, then: “Your room number, sir?”
“Two fifty-one.”
“One moment, please.”
He heard the sound of dialing, ringing. Another operator came on the line. Dasein listened with only half his attention as the call was placed. The smell of garlic was quite strong. He stared at the high old bed, his open suitcase. The bed appeared inviting, telling him how tired he was. His chest ached. He took a deep breath.
“Dr. Selador here.”
Selador's India-
cum
-Oxford accent sounded familiar and close. Dasein bent to the telephone, identified himself, his mind caught suddenly by that feeling of intimate nearness linked to the knowledge of the actual distance, the humming wires reaching down almost half the length of the state.
“Gilbert, old fellow, you made it all right, I see.” Selador's voice was full of cheer.
“I'm at the Santaroga House, Doctor.”
“I hear it's quite comfortable.”
“Looks that way.” Through his buzzing tiredness, Dasein felt a sense of foolishness. Why had he made this call? Selador's sharp mind would probe for underlying meanings, motives.
“I presume you didn't call just to tell me you've arrived,” Selador said.
“No ⦠I ⦔ Dasein realized he couldn't express his own vague uneasiness, that it wouldn't make sense, this feeling of estrangement, the separation of Santarogans and Outsiders, the pricklings of warning fear. “I'd like you to look into the oil company dealings with this area,” Dasein said. “See if you can find out how they do business in the valley. There's apparently an independent service station here. I want to know who supplies the gas, oil, partsâthat sort of thing.”
“Good point, Gilbert. I'll put one of our ⦔ There was a sudden crackling, bapping sound on the line. It stopped and there was dead silence.
“Dr. Selador?”
Silence.
Damn!
Dasein thought. He jiggled the hook. “Operator. Operator!”
A masculine voice came on the line. Dasein recognized the desk clerk's twang. “Who's that creating all that commotion?” the clerk demanded.
“I was cut off on my call to Berkeley,” Dasein said. “Could you ⦔
“Line's out,” the clerk snapped.
“Could I come down to the lobby and place the call from a pay phone?” Dasein asked. As he asked it, the thought of walking that long distance down to the lobby repelled Dasein. The feeling of tiredness was a weight on his chest.
“There's no line out of the valley right now,” the clerk said. “Call can't be placed.”
Dasein passed a hand across his forehead. His skin felt clammy and he wondered if he'd picked up a germ. The room around him seemed to expand and contract. His mouth was dry and he had to swallow twice before asking: “When do they expect to have the line restored?”
“How the hell do I know?” the clerk demanded.
Dasein took the receiver away from his ear, stared at it. This was a very peculiar desk clerk ⦠and a very peculiar room the way it wavered and slithered with its stench of garlic and its â¦
He grew aware of a faint hissing.
Dasein's gaze was drawn on a string of growing astonishment
to an old-fashioned gaslight jet that jutted from the wall beside the hall door.
Stink of garlic? Gas!
A yapping, barking voice yammered on the telephone.
Dasein looked down at the instrument in his hand. How far away it seemed. Through the window beyond the phone he could see the Inn sign:
Gold Rush Museum
. Window equaled air. Dasein found muscles that obeyed, lurched across the desk, fell, smashing the telephone through the window.
The yapping voice grew fainter.
Dasein felt his body stretched across the desk. His head lay near the shattered window. He could see the telephone cord stretching out the window. There was cool air blowing on a distant forehead, a painful chill in his lungs.
They tried to kill me
, he thought. It was a wondering thought, full of amazement. His mind focused on the two investigators who'd already died on this projectâaccidents. Simple, easily explained accidents ⦠just like this one!
The airâhow cold it felt on his exposed skin. His lungs burned with it. There was a hammering pulse at his temple where it pressed against the desk surface. The pulse went on and on and on â¦
A pounding on wood joined the pulse. For a space, they beat in an insane syncopation.
“You in there! Open up!” How commanding, that voice.
Open up,
Dasein thought. That meant getting to one's feet, crossing the room, turning a door handle â¦
I'm helpless,
he thought.
They could still kill me.
He heard metal rasp against metal. The air blew stronger across his face. Someone said: “Gas!”
Hands grabbed Dasein's shoulders. He was hauled back, half carried, half dragged out of the room. The face of Marden, the red-haired patrol captain, swung across his vision. He saw the clerk: pale, staring face, bald forehead glistening under yellow light. There was a brown ceiling directly in front of Dasein. He felt a rug, hard and rasping, beneath his back.
A twanging voice said: “Who's going to pay for that window?” Someone else said: “I'll get Dr. Piaget.”
Dasein's attention centered on Marden's mouth, a blurred object seen through layers of distortion. There appeared to be
anger lines at the corners of the mouth. It turned toward the hovering pale face of the desk clerk, said: “To hell with your window, Johnson! I've told you enough times to get those gas jets out of this place. How many rooms still have them?”
“Don't you take that tone with me, Al Marden. I've known you since ⦔
“I'm not interested in how long you've known me, Johnson. How many rooms still have those gas jets?”
The clerk's voice came with an angry tone of hurt: “Only this'n an' four upstairs. Nobody in the other rooms.”
“Get 'em out by tomorrow night,” Marden said.
Hurrying footsteps interrupted the argument. Dr. Piaget's round face blotted out Dasein's view of the ceiling. The face wore a look of concern. Fingers reached down, spread Dasein's eyelids. Piaget said: “Let's get him on a bed.”
“Is he going to be all right?” the clerk asked.
“It's about time you asked,” Marden said.
“We got him in time,” Piaget said. “Is that room across the hall empty?”
“He can have 260,” the clerk said. “I'll open it.”
“You realize this is Jenny's fellow from the school you almost killed?” Marden asked, his voice receding as he moved away beside the clerk.
“Jenny's fellow?” There was the sound of a key in a lock. “But I thought ⦔
“Never mind what you thought!”
Piaget's face moved close to Dasein. “Can you hear me, young fellow?” he asked.
Dasein drew in a painful breath, croaked, “Yes.”
“You'll have quite a head, but you'll recover.”
Piaget's face went away. Hands picked Dasein up. The ceiling moved. There was another room around him: like the first oneâtall ceiling, even the sound of dripping water. He felt a bed beneath his back, hands beginning to undress him. Sudden nausea gripped him. Dasein pushed the hands away.
Someone helped him to the bathroom where. he was sick. He felt better afterwardâweak, but with a clearer head, a better sense of control over his muscles. He saw it was Piaget who'd helped him.
“Feel like getting back to bed now?” Piaget asked.
“Yes.”
“I'll give you a good shot of iron to counteract the gas effect on your blood,” Piaget said. “You'll be all right.”
“How'd that gas jet get turned on?” Dasein asked. His voice came out a hoarse whisper.
“Johnson got mixed up fooling with the valves in the kitchen,” Piaget said. “Wouldn't have been any harm done if some idiot hadn't opened the jet in your room.”
“I coulda sworn I had 'em all turned off.” That was the clerk's voice from somewhere beyond the bathroom door.
“They better be capped by tomorrow night,” Marden said.
They sounded so reasonable, Dasein thought. Marden appeared genuinely angry. The look on Piaget's face could be nothing other than concern.
Could it have been a real accident? Dasein wondered.
He reminded himself then two men had died by accident in this valley while engaged in the investigation.
“All right,” Piaget said. “Al, you and Pim and the others can clear out now. I'll get him to bed.”
“Okay, Larry. Clear out, all of you.” That was Marden.
“I'll get his bags from the other room.” That was a voice Dasein didn't recognize.
Presently, with Piaget's help, Dasein found himself in pajamas and in the bed. He felt clearheaded, wide awake and lonely even with Piaget still in the room.
Among strangers,
Dasein thought.
“Here, take this,” Piaget said. He pressed two pills into Dasein's mouth, forced a glass of water on him. Dasein gulped, felt the pills rasp down his throat in a wash of water.
“What was that?” Dasein asked as he pushed the glass away.
“The iron and a sedative.”
“I don't want to sleep. The gas ⦔
“You didn't get enough gas to make that much difference. Now, you rest easy.” Piaget patted his shoulder. “Bed rest and fresh air are the best therapy you can get. Someone'll look in on you from time to time tonight. I'll check back on you in the morning.”
“Someone,” Dasein said. “A nurse?”
“Yes,” Piaget said, his voice brusk. “A nurse. You'll be as safe here as in a hospital.”
Dasein looked at the night beyond the room's window.
Why the feeling of danger now, then?
he wondered.
Is it reaction?
He could feel the sedative blurring his senses, soothing him. The sense of danger persisted.
“Jenny will be happy to know you're here,” Piaget said. He left the room, turning off the light, closing the door softly.
Dasein felt he had been smothered in darkness. He fought down panic, restored himself to a semblance of calm.
Jenny
â¦
Jenny
â¦
Marden's odd conversation with the clerk, Johnson, returned to him. “ â¦
Jenny's fellow from the school
⦔
What had Johnson thought? What was the thing Marden had cut short?
Dasein fought the sedative. The drip-drip of water in the bathroom invaded his awareness. The room was an alien cell.
Was it just an accident?
He remembered the fragmented confusion of the instant when he'd focused on that hissing gas jet. Now, when the danger was past, he felt terror.
It couldn't have been an accident!
But why would Johnson want to kill him?