Ritual by Graham Masterton

West Hartford, in the same hotel,
which meant only one thing that Charlie could think of. Real or imaginary, it
was following them. Worse than following them, it was tracking them down.
    For a moment,
Charlie hesitated. Maybe he should go back and warn Martin that the dwarf was
around. On the other hand, if Martin had been talking to it, maybe Martin knew
that it was around. Maybe Martin had even gone so far as to tell it where they
were going. Maybe it was nothing more than his own imagination, creating a
demon or a devil which could take the blame for his own failure to make friends
with the son he was supposed to have taken care of, and hadn’t. He felt
confused and uncertain, as if he had been drinking. But at last he pressed his
hand against the fire door, opened it, and stepped out.
    There was no
sign of any creature. Only the dry hunchbacked bushes and the
untidy flowerbeds.
    Only the dark clouds rolling overhead as if they were hurrying on
their way to some distant battle.
    The food at the
Windsor Hotel was relentlessly dull. In an attempt to console himself for not
having been able to eat at Le Reposoir ,
Charlie ordered the Grande Royale menu, which started off with steamers,
followed by charcoal-broiled blue-fish, carpetbag steak, and peach pie. In the
hands of a competent chef, any one of these traditional American dishes could
have been a masterpiece. In the Windsor Hotel, they were tough, dry, slimy, and
canned, in that order.
    Charlie sat
alone at an underlit table, facing a badly painted frieze of Windsor Castle in
England, chewing his way through this unappetizing menu while a four-piece band
played ‘Tie A Yellow Ribbon’ and the six businessmen
sitting next to him chain-smoked cigars throughout their meal.
    When he had
finished, Charlie was approached by the maitre d’, who stood beside his table
with his hands folded over his groin. ‘You didn’t care for the dinner, sir?’
the maitre d’ asked, with unconcealed annoyance.
    ‘The dinner was
– acceptable,’ said Charlie.
    ‘Perhaps a
small glass of brandy on the house?’ the maitre d’ suggested. His tone of voice
was almost ferocious.
    ‘That won’t be
necessary.’
    The maitre d’
bent forward. He had huge open pores in his nose and his breath smelled of
Binaca. ‘It isn’t my fault this place is so bad.’
    Charlie stared
at him without expression.
    The maitre d’
went on, ‘I do my best, I used to work at the Hyatt
Pilgrim in Boston. But what can I do with a place like this? They won’t invest
any money on it.’
    Charlie said,
‘What does this have to do with me?’
    ‘Come on, Mr
Restaurant Inspector. You can’t kid me. I know a restaurant inspector when I
see one.’
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘I was
expecting you. I knew what you were, the moment you walked into the room. All
restaurant inspectors have that same look. Most men who are forced to eat alone
will keep their eyes on their food, or on a book. But you – your eyes are never
still. You are looking at the cutlery, at the glasses, at the table linen. You
are timing the waiters, you are testing the food.
    After you have
finished your coffee you will go to the men’s room to make sure it is clean.
You may even try to dodge into the ladies’. I know your kind.’
    Charlie slowly
shook his head. ‘You must be making some kind of mistake here, friend. I’m a
salesman, dealing in hydraulic valves. You want to come out and look at what
I’m carrying in the back of my car?’
    ‘You can’t kid
me,’ the maitre d’ hissed at him, triumphant now. ‘I was told. I was expecting
you.
    You don’t fool
me for one moment.’
    ‘Bring me the
bill,’ said Charlie.
    ‘No, sir, no
charge,’ retorted the maitre d’.
    ‘I want the
bill,’ Charlie insisted. ‘In fact, if you don’t bring me the bill right now I’m
going to call for the manager.’
    ‘No charge,’
the maitre d’ challenged him.
    Charlie paused
for a moment, and then stood up. ‘All right,’ he said.