The Keyhole

La Parissiene is an excuisite French hotel right in the busy suburbs of downtown Las Vegas. Built by a French contemporary architect in the last decade of the 19th Century, La Parissiene stands tall and elegant in all its French glory.

William Holder stood on the opposite pavement, admiring the huge glass double doors and the little elephants that flanked them. Las Vegas had always been his get-away location whenever he needed a quick breather from his private detective duties. He always made it a point to check in at a different hotel every time he visited the Casino City.

As he made his way towards the reception, he looked around. Impressionist paintings lined the walls on the left, while a pedigree of French monarchs adorned those on the right. William had no doubt this was a hotel built by sheer class. The pretty woman at the reception smiled, as she always had to, and addressed the new customer, "Bonjour monsieur! Welcome to La Parissiene!" She spoke in a thick French accent. William admired her graceful conservative haircut and the white and gold clothing that he was told was the hotel's little tradition since 1890. "How may I be of assistance, monsieur?"

"I would like a room, deluxe, for the weekend, ya know. Nothin' like revelin in some French otherworld while takin' a breather." The receptionist smiled and led the new customer through the formalities. After all her years of dedicated service, she had come to easily recognise the Texan accent. No doubt this man needed a break, no one comes on a weekend in the middle of the year to 'take a breather' in Las Vegas. She handed William a key-card, one of the many changes the hotel made to keep abreast with latest technology, and told him that a porter near the lift will help him to his room.

William glanced at his key-card as he made his way to the lift. He didn't need a porter to tell him that room number 521 would be on the fifth floor. As the automatic doors opened to reveal the fifth floor atrium, William couldn't help but to marvel at the artistic brilliance of the French. A thick threadbare carpet spread out to guide the visitors from the atrium to the rooms ahead. Golden embroidery on black. More paintings lined the walls as William went in search of his room. "517, 518, 519... Hey! What the..." William stopped short. Where there should have been a number 520 on the door, there was nothing. Just a blank door. William stood staring, his cogs turning in his brain. What intrigued the detective more was that there was a keyhole on the door. "How weird!" thought William. Why would there be a keyhole on this door whereas all the others in the hotel have slots for key-cards? He pushed the thought out of his mind for the time being and found out his room next to the blank door. He swiped the key-card and entered his room.

The lights came to life automatically as he closed the door. More white, gold and black. The room was the final layer of the good impression the La Parissiene had on Detective Holder. A huge antique chandelier hung in the exact middle of the celing. Forty holders held bright CFL tubes, a smart move according to William. The chandelier alone illuminated the room so much that he didn't need to turn on any of the five wall-mounted lamps. The bed was an imposing king-size, not hogging room, but comfortably lying in a recessed space in the bedroom. William undressed quickly as he ran a hot bath. He was going to spend a long time in the tub tonight, sipping one of those French pink champagnes, complimentary of the hotel.

As he entered the hot water, his body eased, the strung up tensions evaporating, as a soft sigh escaped his lips. He always enjoyed a hot bath. As was his own little custom, he started humming. The music connoisseur that he was, it came as no surprise to him that Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata reverberated the walls of the plush bath room with his own voice.

After just over an hour, William made his way to the bedroom, draped in a white and gold bathrobe and holding a glass of Veuve-Clicquot Rosé Champagne. Class in every single detail, thought William. He lounged on the bed, sipping the rosé, lost in his thoughts, when there was a tap on the door. William checked the time on the antique grandfather. 15 minutes to midnight, who could be knocking at this time? As he opened the door, he recoiled a bit! Standing before him was a porter, with old pock-marked skin and a hunch on his back. The hair on his balding head jutted out in wisps and he had a slight tremor on his lower lip. The porter seemed out of place in the elegant and beautiful hallway. The name tag on his breast pocket read Jacques.

"What do you want Jacks?" asked William, not at all well-versed with French pronunciation. If the porter noticed the mispronunciation, he didn't react. He spoke in a drawl, "Monsieur Holder. I have come to warn you. The room that is adjacent to you is out of bounds. You should not dwell around it or try to peep into the keyhole. Whatever you do, do not peep into the keyhole!" Before William could ask how he knew his name, Jacques bustled away. Looking back, he shook his crooked finger, motioning to not do anything with the room with the blank door. William noticed he had a limp.

William retired to his bed, bottle drained, almost asleep. He thought he heard a piano playing somewhere as he drifted off. About two hours later, William awoke with a start as he strained his ears. Surely there was someone playing a piano in the vicinity. As he stopped moving to listen carefully, William smiled. The person playing the piano was no doubt playing the same movement of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata which he had hummed in the bath. William listened for a while. His surprise wilted away slowly as pleasure took over. He was enjoying this masterful pianist. Pulling over his robe, he made his way out into the hallway. As he walked, his ears told him that the sound came from the room adjacent to his. As he turned around, he saw it was the room with the blank door. He recalled what the shady porter had told him. Was he a porter at all? As curiosity took the better of him, he approached the door and placed his ears on the door.

He could hear the most beautiful rendition of the fourth movement of his favourite sonata. He bent down to glance through the keyhole. As his eyes adjusted to the small hole, he noticed it was a woman playing the piano. He could recognise that piano anywhere in the world. A white Steinway & Sons grand. Quite fitting the elegance around, he thought. The woman had her hair tied up in a bun and had her back facing the door. She wore a long flowing black dress which accentuated her gracious body. Her hands moved over the keys with a dexterity only a skilled pianist could possess. As she finished the sonata, William returned to his room, joyful and sleepy. He slept like a baby.

Next morning as he made his way out of the lift in the ground lobby, he passed the old porter, who was looking at him with a suspicious eye. William didn't notice. He approached the receptionist and said, "Well good mornin' lady! I'd like it if you pass on my compliments to the woman staying in the room next to me. Quite spiffing piano work if ya ask me! Loved to hear what she played! Anyway, I'll be on my way now, ciao!" As he turned and made his way out of the hotel, William didn't notice the look of horror on the receptionist's face.

§ *** §

That night, William again heard the same Moonlight Sonata being played in the room next to him. He quickly dressed in what he considered his best. Navy blue striped trousers, white Hugo Boss shirt with stiff collar and his favourite navy blue dinner jacket. He called up room service and asked for a bottle of Rosé Brut Sovignon to be delivered up to room number 521. As he approached the unmarked door, he stopped to revel in the mastery of this woman's playing. He had decided, at the spur of the moment, that he'd compliment the woman on her beautiful playing and maybe ask her out to dinner. He straightened his frantic hair on his head and knocked loudly three times. The music stopped. William waited. But no one came to open the door. He waited. 15 minutes. Twenty. He knocked again. Still no answer. He bent down and glanced through the keyhole. He could not see anything but redness. No woman, no piano. Just a plain red colour. Thinking the woman wouldn't want to be disturbed, he turned to return to his room when he saw him. Jacques was standing still-shocked, rooted to the floor, the bottle of red wine at his feet, saved by the threadbare carpet.

"Monsieur! I had warned you! You never heeded! You peeped through the keyhole, didn't you?" Jacques drawled in shock.

"The woman there was playin' some amazin' piano. I thought I'd ask her out to dinner or somethin'. But now when I peeped through the keyhole, there's just some red cloth draped. Maybe she don't wanna be disturbed." William said, unnerved.

"Monsieur, it is time you come to know of the story about Madame Monique."

"Monique? That her name? Name's as spiffing as her!" William said, turning around.

"Monsieur, listen to me carefully. Sixty years ago, Madame Monique was a resident royal here in room 520. She was known to be a gifted piano player. Men were drawn to the music she played. She would leave the door ajar, with her back to the door. Sometimes, a man would visit her, pleased by the music he heard. He'd close the door. The music would stop. There wouldn't be any music for the remainder of the night, but the man never returned. This would happen for many times over the next three years. This intrigued the hotel staff and they went to investigate. As they opened the door, the woman lay sprawled on the piano, and there was no man in sight. What happened to all those men forever remained a mystery."

William had turned numb. He could not believe what he was hearing. "But if that woman is dead, how did I hear and see her playing that piano so brilliantly?"

"Monsieur, it is said that her spirit still roams the room and she plays the piano at night time to invite men inside. But the local priest believed that Madame Monique would sometimes peep through the keyhole to wait for the man she loved. General LeGrande. He was a war martyr and was supposed to be married to her after he returned from war. Only, he never returned. And so, Madame Monique would play the piano every night in the hope that her fiancé would come to her and hear her play. She was a beautiful lady. Everyone held her in awe. Except her eyes."

"What about her eyes?" asked William, exasperated.

"Monsieur, her eyes were red!"