“May I help you, Monsieur?”

The question had been posed in English. The response came in the same language, with a distinct Slavic accent.

“I’m checking into the hotel.”

“Really? I wasn’t told about any pending arrivals this afternoon. I’m sure it was just a slipup. Why don’t you have a word with my colleague at Reception? I’m confident he’ll be able to rectify the situation.”

Lubin murmured something under his breath and tramped up the steep steps. Philippe took hold of the first bag and nearly ruptured a disk trying to hoist it out. He’s a Russian anvil salesman and he’s brought along a case filled with samples. By the time he had managed to heave the bags into the lobby, Lubin was slowly reciting his confirmation number to a perplexed-looking Ricardo, who, try as he might, had been unable to locate the reservation in question. The problem was finally resolved- “A small mistake by one of our staff, Monsieur Lubin. I’ll be certain to have a word with her”-only to be followed by another. Due to an oversight by the housekeeping staff, the room was not yet ready. “It will just be a few moments,” Ricardo said in his most silken voice. “My colleague will place your bags in the storage room. Allow me to show you to our lounge bar. There will be no charge for your drinks, of course.” There would be a charge-a rather bloated one, in fact-but Ricardo planned to spring that little surprise when Monsieur Lubin’s defenses were at their weakest.

Sadly, Ricardo’s optimism that the delay would be brief turned out to be misplaced. Indeed, ninety additional minutes would elapse before Lubin was shown, sans baggage, to his room.