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He steepled his fingers beneath his chin。
'It's also possible that some people react more quickly and more violently to whatever lives in that room； just as some people who go scuba…diving are more prone to the bends than others。 Over the Dolphin's near…century of operation； the hotel staff has grown ever more aware that 1408 is a poisoned room。 It has bee part of the house history； Mr。 Enslin。 No one talks about it； just as no one mentions the fact that here； as in most hotels； the fourteenth floor is actually the thirteenth 。 。 。 but they know it。 If all the facts and records pertaining to that room were available； they would tell an amazing story 。 。 。 one more unfortable than your readers might enjoy。
'I should guess； for example； that every hotel in New York has had its suicides； but I would be willing to wager my life that only in the Dolphin have there been a dozen of them in a single room。 And leaving Celeste Romandeau aside； what about the natural deaths in 1408？ The so…called natural deaths？'
'How many have there been？' The idea of so…called natural deaths in 1408 had never occurred to him。
'Thirty；' Olin replied。 'Thirty； at least。 Thirty that I know of。'
'You're lying！' The words were out of his mouth before he could call them back。
'No； Mr。 Enslin； I assure you I'm not。 Did you really think that we keep that room empty just out of some vapid old wives' superstition or ridiculous New York tradition 。 。 。 the idea； maybe； that every fine old hotel should have at least one unquiet spirit； clanking around in the Suite of Invisible Chains？'
Mike Enslin realized that just such an idea…not articulated but there； just the same…had indeed been hanging around his new Ten Nights book。 To hear Olin scoff at it in the irritated tones of a scientist scoffing at a bruja…waving native did nothing to soothe his chagrin。
'We have our superstitions and traditions in the hotel trade； but we don't let them get in the way of our business； Mr。 Enslin。 There's an old saying in the Midwest； where I broke into the business： 'There are no drafty rooms when the cattlemen are in town。' If we have empties； we fill them。 The only exception to that rule I have ever made…and the only talk like this I have ever had…is on account of room 1408； a room on the thirteenth floor whose very numerals add up to thirteen。'
Olin looked levelly at Mike Enslin。
'It is a room not only of suicides but of strokes and heart attacks and epileptic seizures。 One man who stayed in that room…this was in 1973…apparently drowned in a bowl of soup。 You would undoubtedly call that ridiculous； but I spoke to the man who was head of hotel security at that time； and he saw the death certificate。 The power of whatever inhabits the room seems to be less around midday； which is when the room…turns always occur； and yet I know of several maids who have turned that room who now suffer from heart problems； emphysema； diabetes。 There was a heating problem on that floor three years ago； and Mr。 Neal； the head maintenance engineer at that time； had to go into several of the rooms to check the heating units。 1408 was one of them。 He seemed fine then…both in the room and later on…but he died the following afternoon of a massive cerebral hemorrhage。'
'Coincidence；' Mike said。 Yet he could not deny that Olin was good。 Had the man been a camp counselor； he would have scared ninety per cent of the kiddies back home after the first round of camp…fire ghost stories。
'Coincidence；' Olin repeated softly； not quite contemptuously。 He held out the old…fashioned key on its old…fashioned brass paddle。 'How is your own heart； Mr。 Enslin？ Not to mention your blood…pressure and psychological condition？'
Mike found it took an actual； conscious effort to lift his hand 。 。 。 but once he got it moving； it was fine。 It rose to the key without even the minutest trembling at the fingertips； so far as he could see。
'All fine；' he said； grasping the worn brass paddle。 'Besides； I'm wearing my lucky Hawaiian shirt。'
Olin insisted on acpanying Mike to the fourteenth floor in the elevator； and Mike did not demur。 He was interested to see that； once they were out of the manager's office and walking down the hall which led to the elevators； the man reverted to his less consequential self； he became once again poor Mr。 Olin； the flunky who had fallen into the writer's clutches。
A man in a tux…Mike guessed he was either the restaurant manager or the ma？tre d'…stopped them； offered Olin a thin sheaf of papers； and murmured to him in French。 Olin murmured back； nodding； and quickly scribbled his signature on the sheets。 The fellow in the bar was now playing 'Autumn in New York。' From this distance； it had an echoey sound； like music heard in a dream。
The man in the tuxedo said 'Merci bien' and went on his way。 Mike and the hotel manager went on theirs。 Olin again asked if he could carry Mike's little valise； and Mike again refused。 In the elevator； Mike found his eyes drawn to the neat triple row of buttons。 Everything was where it should have been； there were no gaps 。 。 。 and yet； if you looked more closely； you saw that there was。 The button marked 12 was followed by one marked 14。 As if； Mike thought； they could make the number nonexistent by omitting it from the control…panel of an elevator。
Foolishness 。 。 。 and yet Olin was right； it was done all over the world。
As the car rose； Mike said； 'I'm curious about something。 Why didn't you simply create a fictional resident for room 1408； if it scares you all as badly as you say it does？ For that matter； Mr。 Olin； why not declare it as your own residence？'
'I suppose I was afraid I would be accused of fraud； if not by the people responsible for enforcing state and federal civil rights statutes…hotel people feel about civil rights laws as many of your readers probably feel about clanking chains in the night…then by my bosses； if they got wind of it。 If I couldn't persuade you to stay out of 1408； I doubt that I would have had much more luck in convincing the Stanley Corporation's board of directors that I took a perfectly good room off the market because I was afraid that spooks cause the occasional travelling salesman to jump out the window and splatter himself all over Sixty…first Street。'
Mike found this the most disturbing thing Olin had said yet。 Because he's not trying to convince me anymore； he thought。 Whatever salesmanship powers he had in his office…maybe it's some vibe that es up from the Persian rug…he loses it out here。 petency； yes； you could see that when he was signing the ma？tre d's chits； but not salesmanship。 Not personal magnetism。 Not out here。 But he believes it。 He believes it all。
Above the door； the illuminated 12 went out and the 14 came on。 The elevator stopped。 The door slid open to reveal a perfectly ordinary hotel corridor with a red…and…gold carpet （most definitely not a Persian） and electric fixtures that looked like nineteenth…century gaslights。
'Here we are；' Olin said。 'Your floor。 You'll pardon me if I leave you here。 1408 is to your left； at the end of the hall。 Unless I absolutely have to； I don't go any closer t