Chapter Fifty-Seven
In the wing of the hotel furthest from Voot, Mifkin set up his own office in a storage room whose contents he ordered be removed elsewhere. He obtained a comfortable chair and writing-desk from a reading room, and now turned his attention to the sign he required for the door.
“It should say Directeur de l’hôtel,” he ordered. “I want it to look exactly like that of the antimanager.”
“Even with Voot’s name underneath?” asked Aloysius.
“No. With my name underneath.”
“That makes more sense,” Aloysius agreed. “I’ll find Larry. He’s the one who puts up signs.”
“Very good. I. . .”
“Yes?”
Mifkin turned around to ensure no one else was listening. “I want to thank you, Aloysius, for your support.”
Aloysius shrugged. “There’s not much else around to do.”
Mifkin nodded at his friend; he’d always respected him, but then, at the same time, resented his unimpeachable heterosexuality. “We must do more than simply defeat Voot,” he whispered.
“What do you mean by that? And why are you whispering?”
“We must seize control of the hotel. . .”
“Yes, of course. . .and then. . .?”
“I want him humiliated,” Mifkin growled. “I want him exposed—all his vanities—before staff and guests!”
Aloysius nodded, his gaze fixed on a lampshade. “You know. . .we might do even more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
Aloysius shrugged. “What would he do to us, do you think? What do you think he and Curtis—”
“You mean, ‘Thaddeus’.”
“Do you really want to call him ‘Thaddeus’?”
“No. Well, I mean, that is what he likes to be called, these days. Why? Don’t you think people have an innate human right to be called what they wish?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying.”
“He’s our mortal foe, you realise.”
“Yes, yes, of course. ‘Curtis’. We must call him ‘Curtis’, and to hell with what he or anyone thinks of it!”
“Right. That’s the spirit, General Manager.”
Mifkin beamed at being so called. “Now, what were you going to say?” he eventually asked.
“When?”
“Just now. Er, before we had that whole debate about what to call Thaddeus.”
“You mean ‘Curtis’.”
“What did I say?”
“‘Thaddeus’.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am.”
“Sorry. Even after all we’d just talked about?”
“I’m afraid so. But let’s move on.”
“Please, let’s.”
“I was going to say, what do you think he and Voot are plotting to do to us, right now?”
“Right now?”
“Certainly.”
“I—I can’t imagine. Dock our wages, perhaps?”
“No-o-o. . .I’m thinking more along the lines of: murder.”
Mifkin gasped.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s really serious!”
“I’ll say.”
“We must plot as well, then!”
“You said it.”
“Stratagems!”
“Yes.”
“Machinations!”
“Right.”
“Intrigues!”
“All that.”
“When shall we begin?”
“After tea. I’m famished.”