of
American tourists who had been floating around the neighborhood for
some days. They were taking a week ashore, having left their ship in
Table Bay at Cape Town, and I bumped into portions of the party
wherever I went in Johannesburg. In fact, I was crowded out of my hotel
by them, for it was a well-organized party that had booked rooms
months in advance. I moved into another hotel farther out of town but
nearer Pretoria, on my way to the mine, and though it was a very bad
hotel even by South African standards, which are not exacting, the
tourists were there too. We shared our misfortunes. Early on the
Premier day I got up, in my sixth-floor room, and attempted to order
breakfast by telephone. There was no reply, nor did anybody come in,
and that in itself was odd, because room boys are always coming into
your room in South African hotels, especially when you haven't invited
them. A Johannesburg hotel boy is one of the most persistent creatures
on earth. If your door is locked he scratches at it until you open up,
when with a sweet smile he pads past you and either puts down a
diminutive cake of soap, or picks up one that is already there and
carries it out. The fact that nobody had disturbed my sleep at
five-thirty in the morning with a cup of tea I hadn't ordered was also
worrying because it was abnormal. I began to feel lonely as well as
hungry. After waiting on the phone, and clicking it, and waiting again
for some minutes, I decided to go downstairs and investigate. The
elevator didn't work either. Was this, perhaps, the beginning of an
uprising like that of the Mau Mau in Kenya?
A
hush of death pervaded the floor; I couldn't even hear the bell buzz.
Finally I found a staircase and walked down the six flights. On the
last floor but one I began to hear a noise, like a
