The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(29)

The vacationing family didn’t appear to be coming to any decisions, and seeing no reason to announce her presence, Hazel headed straight down the first-floor hallway. Aside from the distant buzz of a vacuum, the building was silent, leaving her to wonder if anyone other than the family was staying here. The hotel had retained the snug feel of an apartment complex, and though it had been retrofitted with electronic locks, all the rooms had their original wood-paneled doors. She turned a corner, nearly bumping into a tiny Hispanic woman pushing a cart of linens, and watched the room numbers climb. The hallway came to an abrupt end at 129.

She retraced her steps, searching for a missed turn, but there was none. She could play dumb at the front desk, but remaining anonymous for as long as possible seemed the wiser move.

“One three seven,” she whispered aloud, mentally flipping the digits to form all six possible combinations. She called the elevator from the lobby. When the doors jerked open, she stepped into the mirrored car and found buttons for seven floors. She pressed 3, and the elevator began its whining climb. The mirrors around her were dark and spotted with age, but there was enough reflected light to make out an infinite chain of Hazels queued up within the car’s walls.

The doors opened onto the housekeeper she’d seen earlier, now polishing the plate for the call button.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m fine, thanks,” Hazel said, stepping down the hall.

The woman stared after her. It occurred to Hazel that there was likely no one staying on this floor.

She found room 317 and waved the key card in front of the lock pad, but the light blinked red. For the benefit of her audience, Hazel threw up her hands in mock frustration.

“Wrong floor,” she muttered, returning to the elevator.

The tiny woman was already pushing her cart through the doors. “Up?”

“Yes, please.”

The maid, however, had not selected a floor—maybe she planned to polish the mirrors next—so Hazel pressed the top floor. For the next several seconds, the woman attacked the surrounding brass trim.

Hazel exited onto the seventh floor. After the elevator shut behind her, she started toward room 713, but a noise made her stop. It was the faint mechanical jerk of the elevator doors opening again, not below, but above. The sound was followed by the rattle of the cleaning cart. There was an eighth floor.

Hazel hit the only call button, and when the doors opened, she inspected the elevator’s panel. There were in fact eight buttons, four on each side, but the one next to 7 was blank. She pressed it. The button glowed, and the car ascended. When it stopped abruptly, and the doors creaked open, she found the surprised maid standing on the other side, still gripping her rag. The woman said nothing, just waited to see what Hazel would do.

This floor was not like the others. The carpet was the same, but the hall stopped short, with only a single unnumbered door at one end. She hesitated, staring back and forth between the maid and the door. Finally, the woman made a comic sweep of her rag for Hazel to pass.

“Thanks,” Hazel said, moving past her down the carpet. It was only when she was a few feet away from the door that she saw something was attached to it: a small, white tag taped below the peephole, like a label on an old library card catalog. In pencil, someone had written: 137.

The housekeeper cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Miss.”

Hazel turned.

“Are you with Mr. Diver?”

“Diver?”

Diver! Of course. Keeping with the theme, Isaac had taken his alias from Tender Is the Night’s charming but ill-fated main character.

“Yes, yes. Dick Diver,” Hazel said. “He’s my grandfather.”

“Then you probably know that Mr. Diver requested complete privacy and no maid service.” The woman said this in clear, unbroken English, as if she had been waiting to spring her fluency on Hazel. “But I imagine we’re overdue for some freshening and clean towels. You’ll let us know, won’t you, please?”

“Of course.”

“I’m Flor. Just ask for me at the desk.”

Flor turned back to her cart.

“Flor? Do you know how long Mr. Diver’s had this room?”

The woman frowned. “He didn’t tell you?”

“He’s not well.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. He’s been here many years. Five maybe?”

“Five years? Are you sure?”

Flor nodded. “It’s a special room, you know. We rent it only by word of mouth—for people who wish a certain isolation. The story is that the original owner wanted a secret apartment where his wife couldn’t find him.”

Hazel looked back at the number on this secret door, imagining that it had been taped there quite recently for her benefit; the curl of the 3 seemed distinctly Isaac’s. She thought of asking Flor what she made of the improvised room number, but the housekeeper had already disappeared into the elevator, taking her cart with her.

Hazel waved the key card in front of the lock, and when the light blinked green, she swung the door wide and flipped on the light. A small chandelier came on, revealing a carpeted entry with a hallway breaking off to the right, a bedroom to her left, and a living room ahead. The hotel’s distinct odor had evaporated and was replaced with a stuffy though not unpleasant bouquet of leather, wood, dust, and card games, the smell of an extinct sort of bachelorhood. Clearly, someone hadn’t opened a window in a while.