But before the Count could answer his own question, the pudgy American waved a friendly hand at someone in the lobby—and who should return the wave but a certain eminent professor. . . .
Shortly after midnight, the American settled his bill at the bar, patted his companions on the shoulder, and wound up the stairs whistling an approximation of “The Internationale.” In the hallway on the fourth floor, he fumbled with his keys. But once the door to his room was closed, his posture became a little more straight, his expression a little more sober.
That’s when the Count switched on the lamp.
Though presumably startled to find a stranger sitting in one of his chairs, the American didn’t jump back or shout.
“Excuse me,” he said with the smile of the inebriated. “I must be in the wrong room.”
“No,” said the Count. “You are in the right room.”
“Well, if I am in the right room, then it must be you who are in the wrong room. . . .”
“Perhaps,” said the Count. “But I don’t think so.”
The American took a step forward and studied his uninvited guest with a little more care.
“Aren’t you the waiter in the Boyarsky?”
“Yes,” said the Count. “I am the waiter.”
The American nodded slowly.
“I see. Mr. . . . ?”
“Rostov. Alexander Rostov.”
“Well, Mr. Rostov, I’d offer you a drink, but the hour is late and I have a rather early appointment. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“Yes, Mr. Webster, I suspect that there is. You see, I have a letter that I need delivered to a friend in Paris, whom I think that you might know. . . .”
Despite the late hour and early appointment, Pudgy Webster ended up offering the Count a glass of whiskey, after all.
Now if, as a rule, the Count generally avoided drinking after eleven, he absolutely never drank after midnight. In fact, he had even found himself quoting his father to Sofia on the subject, asserting that the only things that came from the practice were foolhardy acts, ill-advised liaisons, and gambling debts.
But having snuck into the room of this American and arranged for a message to be delivered, it suddenly struck the Count that Humphrey Bogart would never turn down an offer of a drink after midnight. In fact, all evidence suggested that Bogart preferred his drinking after midnight—when the orchestra had stopped playing, the barstools had emptied, and the revelers had stumbled off into the night. That was the hour when, with the saloon doors closed, the lights turned low, and a bottle of whiskey on the table, Men of Intent could speak without the distractions of love and laughter.
“Yes, thank you,” said the Count to Mr. Webster. “A glass of whiskey might just hit the spot.”
And as it turned out, the Count’s instincts had been perfectly right, for the glass of whiskey hit the spot. As did the second.
So when he finally bid Mr. Webster goodnight (with a package of American cigarettes for Anna in one pocket and a chocolate bar for Sofia in the other), the Count headed homeward in an elevated frame of mind.
The fourth-floor hallway was empty and still. Behind the line of closed doors slept the practical and predictable, the cautious and comfortable. Tucked under their covers, they dreamt of breakfast, leaving the hallways of night to be walked by the likes of Samuel Spadsky and Philip Marlov and Alexander Ilyich Rostov. . . .
“Yes,” said the Count as he weaved down the hall: “I am the waiter.”
Then with the finely attuned senses of his brotherhood, the Count noticed something suggestive out of the corner of his eye. It was the door to room 428.
Boris Godunov was a production of three and a half hours. A post-theater supper would last an hour and a half. So, in all likelihood, the Italians would not return to the hotel for another thirty minutes. The Count knocked and waited; he knocked again to be sure; then retrieving the key from his vest, he unlocked the door and crossed the threshold clear-eyed, quick, and without compunction.
In a glance, he could see that the night service had already visited the suite, for everything was in its proper place: the chairs, the magazines, the carafe of water and glasses. In the bedroom, he found the corners of the bed turned down at an angle of forty-five degrees.