In Deep – 11: Madame Klopp

Outside in the rain, I rubbed the deep scratches on the back of my hand and looked about, wondering what to do next. All around stood closed and lightless doors and windows, offering no refuge; the only light not descending from the heavens, spilled out from the Gilman House across the way. Seeing this, I paused and stood upright. A little tiddler of a thought wriggled at the base of my brain: would anyone connected to the E.O.D. think to look for me inside the bastion of the Gilman legacy? Fearful that Remora would soon be back in business, I decided it was worth putting money down on that number and I loped off across the square.

Not that I intended to waltz through the front doors of course – that would truly be madness. Instead, I circled around to the deliveries entrance to one side and loitered there in the shadows. Here, on the unseen and largely dilapidated back end of the hotel, stood a series of tacked-on outbuildings, reeking of bleach and mould with an undertone of wet dog: obviously the laundries. Peering out from below the eaves, I discerned that I might well be able to climb up onto their roofs and then make my way into the hotel via one of the windows.

I crouched, then jumped cautiously upwards, gripping the guttering that ran the length of the overhang. It groaned beneath my weight as I hung there, trying to gain purchase with my toes on the brick wall. Using a burst of thunder from overhead, I pulled myself up onto the corrugated iron. The metalwork shrieked and complained, but otherwise stayed in place. I lay there momentarily letting the rain wash over me, checking the wall of the hotel for lights suddenly illuminating the windows. Nothing happened.

I staggered to my feet and walked gingerly up to the peak of the laundry roof. Beyond, there was a sharp slope downwards until the steel sheeting met the brickwork of the hotel wall. Where the two structures met, there was a series of metal pipes that ran upwards to the hotel roof far above. Along the ascending line of these pipes, a number of windows indicated possible access points.

I gripped onto the strongest-looking of them and slowly let it take my weight. I was rewarded by a small shower of brick fragments but, on the whole, the project seemed worth pursuing. Slowly, hand over hand, I began hauling myself upwards, trying as much as possible to keep my body as still as I could and not swing about too much.

After a few nervous minutes and many groans and pops from the metal struts, I reached the first window. I hooked a toe onto the window ledge and let it support me. Reaching for the window frame I tried to haul it upwards: no joy. The pane was locked tight. Growling under my breath, I swung as gently as I could back to the pipe and began squirming my way up to the next level. The next window also proved to be shut tight, but I perceived something through the glass, due to the fact that it was cleaner than the one below, which lightened my mood a little. These windows all seemed to open into a stairwell, something which would make staying hidden a bit easier. Another bright note was that I could see from here that the next window up was slightly open.

I muttered an invocation to Dagon and began shimmying up the pipe once more. After a few awkward minutes when my trouser cuff snagged on a projecting nail, I managed to just get into range of the window ledge when the inevitable happened: with a prolonged moan and several alarming cracks, the pipe gave way and began to swing out away from the wall, releasing all of the water which had been sluicing away inside of it. Cursing, I launched myself towards the window and grabbed hold of the frame, my shoes sliding crazily across the brickwork as I desperately tried to gain some kind of purchase. I managed to wedge my shoulder into the gap offered by the open window, then I forced my way inside rolling wetly to the linoleum floor, a sodden, panting mess. Lacking a downspout to carry the excess water down from the rooftop, a cascade of water was blown in from outside, guided by the wind. Angrily, I reached up and slammed the window fully closed. In the sudden silence that followed, I heard a disturbing noise.

It was like someone was slowly letting the air out of a bicycle tyre. The light in the stairwell was limited to the erratic bursts of lightning from without and shadows writhed deep in every nearby corner. Eventually, I seemed to place the hissing as emanating from the bottom of the steps leading to the next floor and there seemed to be two dully glowing points of light hovering there. I very slowly slid my hand into my coat pocket, grasping the small but powerful torch I carry around with me. In one smooth motion I produced it and snapped it on:

There, cowering against the wall, was a bizarre creature at which I peered closely, trying to comprehend. Initially, I thought I was looking at some weird, emaciated and drug-hazed parody of Mickey Mouse. It seemed to have two enormous ears – triangular instead of round – and its feet and head were oversized in proportion to the rest of the body. I blinked, then realised that I was looking at a small woman – she would barely have cleared my knee if I’d been standing – of a strangely wizened and pinched Asian appearance. She was dressed in one of those completely functional dress uniforms which hotel cleaning staff are wont to wear, accessorised by pink rubber gloves which went up to her elbows, and white sensible tennis shoes. What I had taken for ears was actually her hair, styled ornately into two triangular wings off the back of her head. Then I tuned in to what she was saying:

‘Forgive me!’ she whined in a shrill mousey voice, ‘I didn’t mean to disobey! But the urges, they are so strong...!’

I didn’t get what she was on about until I saw the myriad cigarette butts crushed beneath her feet. I added this fact together with the partially opened window I had just entered by and came to a solid conclusion. I pulled my smokes out of my pocket, pulled one out of the packet with my lips and held the rest out to her.

‘Have one on me,’ I offered.

A slow light of realisation crept across her features and soon a cunning smile appeared to replace the look of dismay and horror which had been there previously. Her teeth were blunt and spaced widely apart in her pink little gums. She struck me kind of like some peculiar breed of demented rodent, harmless if caught alone, but possibly dangerous in numbers.

I lit both our cigarettes and we spent a moment inhaling gratefully. Then she began chuckling crazily, a breathy, gurgling mirth that definitely sounded like it belonged in a padded room. She was acting like a schoolgirl delighting in being deliberately out of bounds. She savoured every moment of that coffin nail like it was a Cuban stogie.

When I felt that we’d enjoyed enough pleasantries, I held out my hand. ‘Benson Waite’, I offered.

She cringed as if she thought I was going to wallop her, then gingerly took my fingertips with her rubber paw. Leaning forward conspiratorially she looked left and right and then declaimed sotto voce:

‘I,’ she waited a beat, ‘am Madame Klopp.’

Lightning cast gruesome shadows across her face, and thunder added the necessary emphasis.

To Be Continued...