"Terry Dowling - Clownette" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

their rooms. I had plenty of horror stories from other establishments, and Gordon had shared some of
Macklin's with me: about guests painting the walls with their feces, jumping into completely filled
bathtubs, playing autoerotic hanging games from the pelmets and light fittings. Bob Jackson rearranging a
few pieces of furniture was rather small-time in that larger scheme of things.

With the television cabinet borrowed for other duties, I had no choice but to turn in, though falling asleep
took some doing. It only served me right, of course. Try as I might, I kept thinking of the Motley there in
the darkness, grinning away. It'd beenтАФwhat?тАФat least seven hours now, probably more. In a single
night I could hardly expect anything. But what if there was a trace, some sign?

I switched on the bedside lamp. There was nothing visible around the edges of the painting that I could
tell, but there simply wasn't enough light to be sure.

I reached along the headboard and switched on the main room lights. Nothing. The Motley was still in
hiding.

I was tempted to leave a light on, but there was my nine-thirty sales meeting to consider. This would have
to be just a rehearsal for the Happy Trails outing I'd originally planned. I'd try the whole thing again when
I was in town for more than an overnighter.

I felt much better once that was decided. I switched off the lights and actually managed to doze for a few
hours.

But just a few hours.

Something woke me at 1:47тАФa sound, a movement; I couldn't be sure.

The sense of the Motley's presence was stronger than ever. All imagined, no doubt, but such a thing had
never happened before.

I didn't turn on the light this time, just lay in the dark thinking. The whole thing with Gordon had me again.
There'd been something about him, the intensity. I couldn't shake it. It wasn't the "Mr. Jackson" or the
"sir" business. That was easy enough to understand once staff appraisals were factored in, or the
possibility of some influential guest complaining about too much familiarity among the staff.

It was how he was when he'd given me the wine. It should have made things betterтАФthat was clearly the
intentionтАФbut it hadn't. It was like being with someone who thanked you too much or apologized too
many times or asked if there was anything he could do once too often. It was overreaction.

That was part of it, most of it! Just a few words out in the hall and he'd said Mr. J.тАФwhat?тАФthree, four
times? As if overcompensating. As if he'd remembered to do it all of a sudden.

And there was something else, a body-language thing. Aside from the edginess, the anxiety, there'd been
something about his eye line. His gaze had been wrong. What had those sales-training videos said? True
friendly gaze went from the eyes in a triangle down to the smile. Formal business gaze went up from the
eyes to a point on the forehead.

Hard to be sure now, but maybe that was it. Gordon may have been genuinely worried, but something
had made him seem detached as well. Not sorry at all. It had happened all too quickly.