Before the end of the week, the manager found himself in relations with
“the family” once more. A telegram from Milan announced that Mr.
Francis Westwick would arrive in Venice on the next day; and would be
obliged if Number Fourteen, on the first floor, could be reserved for
him, in the event of its being vacant at the time.
The manager paused to consider, before he issued his directions.
The re-numbered room had been last let to a French gentleman. It would
be occupied on the day of Mr. Francis Westwick’s arrival, but it would
be empty again on the day after. Would it be well to reserve the room
for the special occupation of Mr. Francis? and when he had passed the
night unsuspiciously and comfortably in “No. 13 A,” to ask him in the
presence of witnesses how he liked his bedchamber? In this case, if the
reputation of the room happened to be called in question again, the
answer would vindicate it, on the evidence of a member of the very
family which had first given Number Fourteen a bad name. After a little
reflection, the manager decided on trying the experiment, and directed
that “13 A” should be reserved accordingly.
On the next day, Francis Westwick arrived in excellent spirits.
He had signed agreements with the most popular dancer in Italy; he had
transferred the charge of Mrs. Norbury to his brother Henry, who had
joined him in Milan; and he was now at full liberty to amuse himself by
testing in every possible way the extraordinary influence exercised
over his relatives by the new hotel. When his brother and sister first
told him what their experience had been, he instantly declared that he
would go to Venice in the interest of his theatre. The circumstances
related to him contained invaluable hints for a ghost-drama. The title
occurred to him in the railway: “The Haunted Hotel.” Post that in red
letters six feet high, on a black ground, all over London—and trust the
excitable public to crowd into the theatre!
Received with the politest attention by the manager, Francis met with a
disappointment on entering the hotel. “Some mistake, sir. No such room
on the first floor as Number Fourteen. The room bearing that number is
on the second floor, and has been occupied by me, from the day when the
hotel opened. Perhaps you meant number 13 A, on the first floor? It
will be at your service to-morrow—a charming room. In the mean time, we
will do the best we can for you, to-night.”
A man who is the successful manager of a theatre is probably the last
man in the civilized universe who is capable of being impressed with
favourable opinions of his fellow-creatures. Francis privately set the
manager down as a humbug, and the story about the numbering of the
rooms as a lie.
On the day of his arrival, he dined by himself in the restaurant,
before the hour of the table d’hote, for the express purpose of
questioning the waiter, without being overheard by anybody. The answer
led him to the conclusion that “13 A” occupied the situation in the
hotel which had been described by his brother and sister as the
situation of “14.” He asked next for the Visitors’ List; and found that
the French gentleman who then occupied “13 A,” was the proprietor of a
theatre in Paris, personally well known to him. Was the gentleman then
in the hotel? He had gone out, but would certainly return for the table
d’hote. When the public dinner was over, Francis entered the room, and
was welcomed by his Parisian colleague, literally, with open arms.
“Come and have a cigar in my room,” said the friendly Frenchman. “I
want to hear whether you have really engaged that woman at Milan or
not.” In this easy way, Francis found his opportunity of comparing the
interior of the room with the description which he had heard of it at
Milan.
Arriving at the door, the Frenchman bethought himself of his travelling
companion. “My scene-painter is here with me,” he said, “on the
look-out for materials. An excellent fellow, who will take it as a
kindness if we ask him to join us. I’ll tell the porter to send him up
when he comes in.” He handed the key of his room to Francis. “I will be
back in a minute. It’s at the end of the corridor—13 A.”
Francis entered the room alone. There were the decorations on the walls
and the ceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! He had just
time to perceive this at a glance, before his attention was diverted to
himself and his own sensations, by a grotesquely disagreeable
occurrence which took him completely by surprise.
He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room,
entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. It was composed (if
such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, which were
separately-discoverable exhalations nevertheless. This strange blending
of odours consisted of something faintly and unpleasantly aromatic,
mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterably sickening that he
threw open the window, and put his head out into the fresh air, unable
to endure the horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer.
The French proprietor joined his English friend, with his cigar already
lit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymen in
general—the sight of an open window. “You English people are perfectly
mad on the subject of fresh air!” he exclaimed. “We shall catch our
deaths of cold.”
Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. “Are you really not
aware of the smell there is in the room?” he asked.
“Smell!” repeated his brother-manager. “I smell my own good cigar. Try
one yourself. And for Heaven’s sake shut the window!”
Francis declined the cigar by a sign. “Forgive me,” he said. “I will
leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy—I had better go
out.” He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the
room to the door.
The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state of
bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of
shutting out the fresh air. “Is it so nasty as that?” he asked, with a
broad stare of amazement.
“Horrible!” Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. “I never smelt
anything like it in my life!”
There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. His employer
instantly asked him if he smelt anything.
“I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly!”
“Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything else—vile,
abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt
before?”
The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy of the
language addressed to him. “The room is as fresh and sweet as a room
can be,” he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at
Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the
interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust.
The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked at
him with grave and anxious scrutiny.
“You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours,
who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!”
He pointed to two little English girls, at play in the corridor. “The
door of my room is wide open—and you know how fast a smell can travel.
Now listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses, in the language of
their own dismal island. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell
here—ha?” The children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically,
“No.” “My good Westwick,” the Frenchman resumed, in his own language,
“the conclusion is surely plain? There is something wrong, very wrong,
with your own nose. I recommend you to see a medical man.”
Having given that advice, he returned to his room, and shut out the
horrid fresh air with a loud exclamation of relief. Francis left the
hotel, by the lanes that led to the Square of St. Mark. The
night-breeze soon revived him. He was able to light a cigar, and to
think quietly over what had happened.