sk.everythingseventual-第93章

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　　'How　many　have　there　been？'　The　idea　of　so…called　natural　deaths　in　1408　had　never　occurred　to　him。
　　'Thirty；'　Olin　replied。　'Thirty；　at　least。　Thirty　that　I　know　of。'
　　'You're　lying！'　The　words　were　out　of　his　mouth　before　he　could　call　them　back。
　　'No；　Mr。　Enslin；　I　assure　you　I'm　not。　Did　you　really　think　that　we　keep　that　room　empty　just　out　of　some　vapid　old　wives'　superstition　or　ridiculous　New　York　tradition　。　。　。　the　idea；　maybe；　that　every　fine　old　hotel　should　have　at　least　one　unquiet　spirit；　clanking　around　in　the　Suite　of　Invisible　Chains？'
　　Mike　Enslin　realized　that　just　such　an　idea…not　articulated　but　there；　just　the　same…had　indeed　been　hanging　around　his　new　Ten　Nights　book。　To　hear　Olin　scoff　at　it　in　the　irritated　tones　of　a　scientist　scoffing　at　a　bruja…waving　native　did　nothing　to　soothe　his　chagrin。
　　'We　have　our　superstitions　and　traditions　in　the　hotel　trade；　but　we　don't　let　them　get　in　the　way　of　our　business；　Mr。　Enslin。　There's　an　old　saying　in　the　Midwest；　where　I　broke　into　the　business：　'There　are　no　drafty　rooms　when　the　cattlemen　are　in　town。'　If　we　have　empties；　we　fill　them。　The　only　exception　to　that　rule　I　have　ever　made…and　the　only　talk　like　this　I　have　ever　had…is　on　account　of　room　1408；　a　room　on　the　thirteenth　floor　whose　very　numerals　add　up　to　thirteen。'
　　Olin　looked　levelly　at　Mike　Enslin。
　　'It　is　a　room　not　only　of　suicides　but　of　strokes　and　heart　attacks　and　epileptic　seizures。　One　man　who　stayed　in　that　room…this　was　in　1973…apparently　drowned　in　a　bowl　of　soup。　You　would　undoubtedly　call　that　ridiculous；　but　I　spoke　to　the　man　who　was　head　of　hotel　security　at　that　time；　and　he　saw　the　death　certificate。　The　power　of　whatever　inhabits　the　room　seems　to　be　less　around　midday；　which　is　when　the　room…turns　always　occur；　and　yet　I　know　of　several　maids　who　have　turned　that　room　who　now　suffer　from　heart　problems；　emphysema；　diabetes。　There　was　a　heating　problem　on　that　floor　three　years　ago；　and　Mr。　Neal；　the　head　maintenance　engineer　at　that　time；　had　to　go　into　several　of　the　rooms　to　check　the　heating　units。　1408　was　one　of　them。　He　seemed　fine　then…both　in　the　room　and　later　on…but　he　died　the　following　afternoon　of　a　massive　cerebral　hemorrhage。'
　　'Coincidence；'　Mike　said。　Yet　he　could　not　deny　that　Olin　was　good。　Had　the　man　been　a　camp　counselor；　he　would　have　scared　ninety　per　cent　of　the　kiddies　back　home　after　the　first　round　of　camp…fire　ghost　stories。
　　'Coincidence；'　Olin　repeated　softly；　not　quite　contemptuously。　He　held　out　the　old…fashioned　key　on　its　old…fashioned　brass　paddle。　'How　is　your　own　heart；　Mr。　Enslin？　Not　to　mention　your　blood…pressure　and　psychological　condition？'
　　Mike　found　it　took　an　actual；　conscious　effort　to　lift　his　hand　。　。　。　but　once　he　got　it　moving；　it　was　fine。　It　rose　to　the　key　without　even　the　minutest　trembling　at　the　fingertips；　so　far　as　he　could　see。
　　'All　fine；'　he　said；　grasping　the　worn　brass　paddle。　'Besides；　I'm　wearing　my　lucky　Hawaiian　shirt。'
　　
　　Olin　insisted　on　acpanying　Mike　to　the　fourteenth　floor　in　the　elevator；　and　Mike　did　not　demur。　He　was　interested　to　see　that；　once　they　were　out　of　the　manager's　office　and　walking　down　the　hall　which　led　to　the　elevators；　the　man　reverted　to　his　less　consequential　self；　he　became　once　again　poor　Mr。　Olin；　the　flunky　who　had　fallen　into　the　writer's　clutches。
　　A　man　in　a　tux…Mike　guessed　he　was　either　the　restaurant　manager　or　the　ma？tre　d'…stopped　them；　offered　Olin　a　thin　sheaf　of　papers；　and　murmured　to　him　in　French。　Olin　murmured　back；　nodding；　and　quickly　scribbled　his　signature　on　the　sheets。　The　fellow　in　the　bar　was　now　playing　'Autumn　in　New　York。'　From　this　distance；　it　had　an　echoey　sound；　like　music　heard　in　a　dream。
　　The　man　in　the　tuxedo　said　'Merci　bien'　and　went　on　his　way。　Mike　and　the　hotel　manager　went　on　theirs。　Olin　again　asked　if　he　could　carry　Mike's　little　valise；　and　Mike　again　refused。　In　the　elevator；　Mike　found　his　eyes　drawn　to　the　neat　triple　row　of　buttons。　Everything　was　where　it　should　have　been；　there　were　no　gaps　。　。　。　and　yet；　if　you　looked　more　closely；　you　saw　that　there　was。　The　button　marked　12　was　followed　by　one　marked　14。　As　if；　Mike　thought；　they　could　make　the　number　nonexistent　by　omitting　it　from　the　control…panel　of　an　elevator。
　　Foolishness　。　。　。　and　yet　Olin　was　right；　it　was　done　all　over　the　world。
　　As　the　car　rose；　Mike　said；　'I'm　curious　about　something。　Why　didn't　you　simply　create　a　fictional　resident　for　room　1408；　if　it　scares　you　all　as　badly　as　you　say　it　does？　For　that　matter；　Mr。　Olin；　why　not　declare　it　as　your　own　residence？'
　　'I　suppose　I　was　afraid　I　would　be　accused　of　fraud；　if　not　by　the　people　responsible　for　enforcing　state　and　federal　civil　rights　statutes…hotel　people　feel　about　civil　rights　laws　as　many　of　your　readers　probably　feel　about　clanking　chains　in　the　night…then　by　my　bosses；　if　they　got　wind　of　it。　If　I　couldn't　persuade　you　to　stay　out　of　1408；　I　doubt　that　I　would　have　had　much　more　luck　in　convincing　the　Stanley　Corporation's　board　of　directors　that　I　took　a　perfectly　good　room　off　the　market　because　I　was　afraid　that　spooks　cause　the　occasional　travelling　salesman　to　jump　out　the　window　and　splatter　himself　all　over　Sixty…first　Street。'
　　Mike　found　this　the　most　disturbing　thing　Olin　had　said　yet。　Because　he's　not　trying　to　convince　me　anymore；　he　thought。　Whatever　salesmanship　powers　he　had　in　his　office…maybe　it's　some　vibe　that　es　up　from　the　Persian　rug…he　loses　it　out　here。　petency；　yes；　you　could　see　that　when　he　was　signing　the　ma？tre　d's　chits；　but　not　salesmanship。　Not　personal　magnetism。　Not　out　here。　But　he　believes　it。　He　believes　it　all。
　　Above　the　door；　the　illuminated　12　went　out　and　the　14　came　on。　The　elevator　stopped。　The　door　slid　open　to　reveal　a　perfectly　ordinary　hotel　corridor　with　a　red…and…gold　carpet　（most　definitely　not　a　Persian）　and　electric　fixtures　that　looked　like　nineteenth…century　gaslights。
　　'Here　we　are；'　Olin　said。　'Your　floor。　You'll　pardon　me　if　I　leave　you　here。　1408　is　to　your　left；　at　the　end　of　the　hall。　Unless　I　absolutely　have　to；　I　don't　go　any　closer　than　this。'
　　Mike　Enslin　stepped　out　of　the　elevator　on　legs　that　seemed　heavier　than　they　should　have。　He　turned　back　to　Olin；　a　pudgy　little　man　in　a　black　coat　and　a　carefully　knotted　wine…colored　tie。　Olin's　manicured　hands　were　clasped　behind　him　now；　and　Mike　saw　that　the　little　man's　face　was　as　pale　as　cream。　On　his　high；　lineless　forehead；　drops　of　perspiration　stood　out。
　　'There's　a　telephone　in　the　room；　of　course；'　Olin　said。　'You　could　try　it；　if　you　find　yourself　in　trouble　。　。　。　but　I　doubt　that　it　will　work。　Not　if　the　room　doesn't　want　it　to。'
　　Mike　thought　of　a　light　reply；　something　about　how　that　would　save　him　a　room…service　charge　at　least；　but　all　at　once　his　tongue　seemed　as　heavy　as　his　legs。　It　just　lay　there　on　the　floor　of　his　mouth。
　　Olin　brought　one　hand　out　from　behind　his　back；　and　Mike　saw　it　was　trembling。　'Mr。　Enslin；'　he　said。　'Mike。　Don't　do　this。　For　God's　sake…'
　　Before　he　could　finish；　the　elevator　door　slid　shut；　cutting　him　off。　Mike　stood　where　he　was　for　a　moment；　in　the　perfect　New　York　hotel　silence　of　what　no　one　on　the　staff　would　admit　was　the　thirteenth　floor　of　the　Hotel　Dolphin；　and　thought　of　reaching　out　and　pushing　the　elevator's　call…button。
　　Except　if　he　did　that；　Olin　would　win。　And　there　would　be　a　large；　gaping　hole　where　the　best　chapter　of　his　new　book　should　have　been。　The　readers　might　not　know　that；　his　editor　and　his　agent　might　not　know　it；　Robertson　the　lawyer　might　not　。　。　。　but　he　would。
　　Instead　of　pushing　the　call…button；　he　reached　up　and　touched　the　cigarette　behind　his　ear…that　old；　distracted　gesture　he　no　longer　knew　he　was　making…and　flicked　the　collar　of　his　lucky　shirt。　Then　he　started　down　the　hallway　toward　1408；　swinging　his　overnight　case　by　his　side。
　　
　　II
　　
　　The　most　interesting　artifact　left　in　the　wake　of　Michael　Enslin's　brief　stay　（it　lasted　about　seventy　minutes）　in　room　1408　was　the　eleven　minutes　of　recorded　tape　in　his　minicorder；　which　was　charred　a　bit　but　not　even　close　to　destroyed。