took a small ring of keys from a pocket and threw it on the desk.
Even as they landed in a jangle, the Count could see that the Bishop had undergone something of a transformation. He had suddenly lost his sense of superiority, as if all along it had been secured by his possession of these keys. Picking up the ring, the Count sorted through them until he found the smallest, then he unlocked all of the Bishop’s filing cabinets one by one.
In the first three cabinets, there was an orderly collection of reports on the hotel’s operations: revenues; occupancy rates; staffing; maintenance expenditures; inventories; and yes, discrepancies. But in the remainder of the cabinets, the files were dedicated to individuals. In addition to files on various guests who had stayed in the hotel over the years, in alphabetical arrangement were files on members of the staff. On Arkady, Vasily, Andrey, and Emile. Even Marina. The Count needed no more than a glance at them to know their purpose. They were a careful accounting of human flaws, noting specific instances of tardiness, impertinence, disaffection, drunkenness, sloth, desire. One could not exactly call the contents of these files spurious or inaccurate. No doubt, all of the aforementioned had been guilty of these human frailties at one point or another; but for any one of them the Count could have compiled a file fifty times larger that cataloged their virtues. Having pulled the files of his friends and dumped them on the desk, the Count returned to the cabinets and double-checked among the Rs. When he found his own file, he was pleased to discover that it was among the thickest.
The Count looked at his watch (or rather the Bishop’s). It was 2:30 in the morning: the hour of ghosts. The Count reloaded the first pistol, tucked it through his belt, and then pointed the other at the Bishop.
“It’s time to go,” he said, then he waved at the files on the desk with the pistol. “They’re your property, you carry them.”
The Bishop gathered them up without protest.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
The Count led the Bishop through the empty offices, into an enclosed stairwell, and down two flights below street level.
For all his persnickety command of the hotel’s minutiae, the Bishop had obviously never been in the basement. Coming through the door at the bottom of the stairs, he looked around with a mixture of fear and disgust.
“First stop,” the Count said, pulling open the heavy steel door that led into the boiler room. The Bishop hesitated, so the Count poked him with the barrel of the gun. “Over there.” Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, the Count opened the small door in the furnace. “In they go,” he said.
Without a word, the Bishop fed the flames with his files. Perhaps it was his proximity to the furnace, or the exertion of carrying the stack of dossiers down two flights of stairs, but the Bishop had begun to sweat in a manner that was distinctly out of character.
“Come on,” said the Count. “Next stop.”
Once outside the boiler room, the Count prodded the Bishop down the hall to the cabinet of curiosities.
“There. On the lower shelf. Get that small red book.”
The Bishop did as he was told and handed the Count the Baedeker for Finland.
The Count nodded his head to indicate they were headed farther into the basement. The Bishop now looked quite pale, and after a few steps it seemed his knees might buckle beneath him.
“Just a little farther,” coaxed the Count. And a moment later they were at the bright blue door.
Taking Nina’s key from his pocket, the Count opened it. “In you go,” he said.
The Bishop stepped in and turned. “What are you going to do with me?”
“I’m not going to do anything with you.”
“Then when are you coming back?”
“I am never coming back.”
“You can’t leave me here,” said the Bishop. “It could be weeks before someone finds me!”
“You attend the daily meeting of the Boyarsky, comrade Leplevsky. If you were listening at the last one, you’d recall that there is a banquet on Tuesday night in the ballroom. I have no doubt that someone will find you then.”
At which point, the Count closed the door and locked the Bishop into that room where pomp bides its time.
They should get along just famously, thought the Count.
It was three in the morning when the Count entered the belfry on the lobby floor. As he climbed, he felt the relief of