The Last Key in Room Six

By the time the police reached the hotel, the tide had covered the steps below the terrace. Rain tapped against the lobby glass. Mrs. Venn stood behind the desk, insisting that no one had entered her office between nine and ten.

The envelope had held a week’s wages in cash. Now it held a folded menu. The office door was locked when she returned from breakfast, and its key had been on the lobby board throughout. Only Tomas, the porter, had a master key. His suitcase was already beside the front door.

“I gave notice a month ago,” Tomas said. “My sister is expecting me.”

The officer asked him to wait.

Nell, who cleaned the bedrooms, carried a bucket past them twice before anyone noticed her. On the third trip she stopped. “Did you check room six?”

“It’s empty,” Mrs. Venn said.

“It should be.”

The hotel had been a private house before anyone thought of numbered doors. Room six shared a narrow cupboard with the office, a remnant of a passage blocked during renovations. Nell knew because every spring she removed moths from both sides.

Nell opened room six with the spare she carried on her cleaning ring. Inside were clean sheets, an untouched water glass, and damp sand scattered beside the wardrobe.

“That proves someone came from the beach,” said Mrs. Venn.

“Perhaps,” Nell said. She picked up one grain on her fingertip. “But the beach sand is gray. This is from the fire buckets outside the kitchen.”

At breakfast, the cook had spilled oil. Nell had fetched sand to cover it. She remembered two people stepping through the patch: herself and Mr. Pike, the hotel’s accountant, who had hurried in for coffee.

Pike smiled when the officer turned toward him. “I have no key to that room.”

“No,” Nell said. “You have a key to the office.”

Mrs. Venn protested that hers had never left its hook. Nell pointed at the board. The hotel keys hung from brass tags of different sizes. The office tag was large enough to hide its blade.

The officer lifted it. Attached to the tag was the room-six key.

Pike had exchanged the blades on their little split rings. The office tag could stay on its hook while he borrowed what appeared to be the room-six key. He had opened the envelope in the empty bedroom, away from the lobby glass, then returned the key to the room-six hook. He had counted on nobody testing an office key that apparently had never moved.

They found the envelope inside his folded newspaper. He offered three explanations before saying nothing.

Tomas’s bus had gone. Mrs. Venn offered a taxi and an extra week’s pay. He accepted the taxi, then asked that the pay be divided among the kitchen staff.

When the lobby emptied, Nell emptied her bucket. Mrs. Venn watched her for a moment.

“How did you know about the keys?”

“I clean the board on Tuesdays,” Nell said. “You notice a thing’s shape when you are always wiping around it.”