Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

He staggered to the window and parted the yellow drapes. Outside was a small balcony with a wrought-iron rail. He was on the third floor of an L-shaped building, in the wing that extended at a right angle to the building’s main entrance. Between his window and the entrance was a small parking lot. The entrance had a tattered canopy and a couple of newspaper vending machines out in front. Above the entrance, three stories of white stucco and small balconies and drawn yellow drapes. On the roof, neon letters spelled, “E — Z REST MOTEL.”

On the floor beneath the window was his attaché case. He picked the case up. It felt heavier than usual. It rattled. He set it back down and it let out a ring, like a jostled telephone. He bent and tried to open it. The latches were locked. The key was in his suit, wherever that was.

He turned from the window, saw an armchair and a writing desk and a coin-operated TV. A partly open door led into a small bathroom. On the door was a full-length mirror, in the mirror his reflection.

The face in the mirror wasn’t his face at all. It was a Halloween mask of flesh-colored plastic with a big, dopey grin and slits for the eyes, nose, and mouth.

Louis took a startled step backward, stumbled over the attaché case. Grabbing the drapes to check his fall, he nearly yanked them off their runners. It had to be some sort of bizarre practical joke. Someone must have dragged him sound asleep from the alley, stolen his suit and put the mask on his face. But who? His friends weren’t the type. His wife was too lazy. Louis reached around to grab the mask’s elastic band. He couldn’t find one. Instead he found a large, tender lump.

He tried to pull the mask off. The mask wouldn’t budge.

The damn thing was glued to his face.

The desk clerk sat in his little yellow alcove and grinned across the curving yellow counter at his guest, his elbow propped on a Chicago phone book that looked old enough to have Mrs. O’Leary listed. The grin kept growing on his face, and a laugh worked its way in gruff chuckles from his belly.

“It’s what?” he finally whooped.

“It’s glued to my face,” Louis said.

The desk clerk’s elbow didn’t like the phone book. It searched around in lazy circles, found a comfy stack of See Chicago brochures and settled down. “Musta been some costume party,” he said. He was a barrel-chested man in a black-and-white checked shirt, the sleeves rolled up on massive forearms. The hair on his arms was curly, and almost as thick as the hair on his head. It was a large, fleshy head with little toy ears. The stubble on his face was dark as coffee grounds. “Yes siree, musta been a real roof-raiser.”

On the curving yellow counter was a postcard carousel leaning like the Tower of Pisa, shedding postcards onto the blond carpet. Against a blondwood wall stood a soda-pop machine. Brass reading lamps sat on blondwood end tables. Between the end tables sat a sofa. On the sofa sat a blonde. She was lounging in pink culottes and a lavender blouse, using her tapestry shoulder bag as a pillow.

The blonde winked at Louis. Then she giggled through her nose as though she smelled something funny. Louis set his attaché case down, turned back to face the clerk. “Look, all I know is, I was sleeping in an alley last night and this morning I woke up in one of your rooms, and my suit was gone and I was wearing this T-shirt and blue jeans, and this mask was on my face...” He paused for breath. “...and I can’t get it off.”

“Maybe I can,” said the clerk. He reached across the counter and made a grab for the mask. Louis dodged the clerk’s thick fingers.

“Easy, pal. I won’t hurt you,” said the clerk. “Not on purpose.”

“It’s not coming off without taking the skin,” Louis said. “Believe me, I tried. It must be some kind of super glue, like the one they advertise on TV.”

The blonde rose a bit awkwardly from the sofa, slouched her way over to Louis and took his arm. Her eyes looked like pebbles in mucky ponds of eyeshadow. Her plump lower lip drooped lazily over a chin that would have looked too small on a bird. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Mimi. Listen, Lou, that stuff’ll wear off. Just give it a couple of weeks.”

“How did you know my name?” Louis said. Before she could answer, he eased his arm from her grip and picked up his attaché case. “Oh, never mind.” Pondering, he fingered the mask’s plastic contours. “Maybe I could soak it off. No, wait. I’d probably drown.”

“How about some nail polish remover?” suggested Mimi. She reached into her shoulder bag.

That was when Louis’s attaché case started ticking.

The clerk, whose nametag identified him as Rodney, eyed the case. “Whatcha got in there, hot watches?”

Louis shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Go on,” said Mimi. “Tell him, Lou.”

“Tell him what?” Louis said.

Mimi faced Rodney, her droopy lip forming a well-cushioned grin. “There’s a time bomb in that case.”

“There is?” Louis gulped.