Face-Off. Chris Karsten

      1.

      “Took your time, didn’t you?” Rabie Saadi said over his shoulder to the two policemen. “Could be a murder, all that blood and hair, and now you show up.” He unlocked the last door in the passage, next to the fire escape, and stepped aside. “What good is it I phone, do my bit as a law-abiding citizen, and the cops take four hours to arrive? I run a business here, can’t wait all day. Time is money.”

      “You’re not the only one calling the police.” The sergeant’s big belly brushed against Rabie as he entered the room. “What’s that stink? Place smells rotten. Do all your rooms smell like this?”

      “That’s what I mean,” said Rabie. “We could have cleaned it up by now, if we hadn’t had to wait all day for the cops.” He waved towards the vacuum cleaner, mop and bucket in the passage, next to the trolley with rags, brushes and bottles of Ajax, Vim and Mr. Clean. Fresh linen and towels lay folded on the trolley’s bottom shelf. “Look at the place. Looks like someone butchered a pig in here.”

      “Where’s the body? I thought you said it was a murder?” said the second policeman, a constable.

      The sergeant pointed at the carpet. “Is this old blood, these stains?”

      Rabie looked at the sergeant. “What? I run a hotel – I’m not a blood expert.”

      “You’ll never get this carpet clean. Better lay a new one.”

      The constable opened a window for fresh air.

      “Bathroom looks even worse,” said Rabie.

      The sergeant peered into the bathroom. “He definitely killed something in here, in the bath. But not a pig, not with that long hair.”

      Rabie came to the door, pointed at the old blood and hair caked in the bathtub, the sticky splatters and stains on the wall and floor tiles. “Plughole’s blocked. I’ll have to get in a plumber.”

      “Not before Forensics.” The sergeant clicked his tongue, sucked on his teeth. He turned to Rabie. “And you only discovered it this morning?”

      “Not me, Evangeline. She knocked. When no one answered, she opened and found this mess.”

      “The cleaner?”asked the sergeant, rubbing his huge belly.

      “Housekeeper,” said Rabie.

      “But this is old blood – been congealed for some time. Doesn’t Evangeline clean every day? What kind of fleabag joint do you run here? If the health inspectors come, they’ll shut you down.”

      “What do you mean ‘fleabag’? This is a respectable establishment. A residential hotel’s what it is.”

      “It’s a brothel, man! Everyone knows the Sleep Inn. Who stays in these rooms, hey? The Minister of Police, Speaker of Parliament, chairman of Anglo-American? You’ve got whores and strippers, Rabie, swinging around on those shiny poles in your bar.”

      “So you’ve been here then?”

      “How’s it work? They rent rooms by the month and you get a cut? Hard cash, tax-free?”

      “Exotic dancers,” said Rabie, “is what they’re called.”

      “How many rooms d’you have?”

      “Twenty-four.”

      “All occupied?”

      “No. I keep a few for walk-in guests.”

      “Like this one? Was he a walk-in guest? How long did he stay?”

      “A month and a half.”

      “And then he just left?”

      “Paid two months in advance.”

      “So he doesn’t owe you anything?”

      “Well, he owes me for a new carpet. And for a plumber.”

      “But he put down a deposit and paid two months in advance.”

      “Ja.”

      “Didn’t claim back his deposit when he left?”

      “He left in the middle of the night without a word. Left this mess.”

      “It’s not a crime to leave in the middle of the night. You’ve got the deposit and half a month’s rental for damages.”

      “But it is a crime to kill someone in the bath. And I can’t afford that publicity. It’s bad for business, bad for my reputation.”

      The sergeant smirked. “Your reputation?”

      Rabie took exception. “I could have kept quiet, but I phoned you, didn’t I? Sat twiddling my thumbs for four hours before the police decided to show up. Now you talk about fleabags and brothels. Is that how a good citizen of this country is rewarded when he reports a crime, Sergeant? Hey?”

      “When last did Evangeline clean this hellhole? Is that blood on the sheets as well? And those dirty pots and plates on the stove, all crusty with old food?”

      “Ants and cockroaches all over the place,” said the constable. “You’ll have to get the fumigators in as well. If the health inspectors . . .”

      “So you’ve said.” Rabie motioned at the trolley again. “The guest asked not to be disturbed, said he’d clean the place himself. Evangeline had to leave the cleaning trolley and new linen at the door. He said he was sick, being treated by the doctor, medication made him sleepy. Evangeline said the trolley’d been standing at the door for three days untouched, so this morning she knocked. Thought he might have died, being so sick and everything. Didn’t want a corpse lying in the room. That’s why she came in.”

      “And she didn’t touch anything? What time was that?”

      “Seven. I took one look and phoned the police.”

      “Because you think it’s a murder? Without a body?”

      Rabie looked at the sergeant, who was picking at a pimple or ingrown hair on a cheek that quivered with fat. “How should I know where the body is? It doesn’t look like a murder to you? You think he nicked himself shaving? Then bled all over the floor, inside the bath, on the walls? And what about the hair, hey? Black hair. His is thin and mousy, as far as I remember.”

      “A beard, maybe?”

      “Er . . .”

      “You don’t remember, Rabie? Didn’t you ever see your guest?”

      “Not often. He kept to himself, didn’t mingle. I think he was growing a beard.”

      “He didn’t drink at the bar, watch the bare bums on the poles?”

      “No. He asked for a room far from the music and the noise. Said he wanted peace and quiet because he wasn’t feeling so great.”

      “A room near the fire escape, to come and go unnoticed,” said the constable.

      “Could you describe him for an Identikit?” asked the sergeant. “In case Forensics find something that points to a crime?”

      “How about all the blood?” Rabie replied wryly.

      “Well,