The Shining

who just happened to be Sylvia Hunter Derwent from 1942 to 1948.”
“Your three minutes are up,” the operator said. “Signal when through.”
“My dear Mr. Torrance, all of this is public knowledge… and ancient history.”
“It formed no part of my knowledge,” Jack said. “I doubt if many other people know it, either. Not all of it. Thev remember the Gienelli shooting, maybe, but I doubt if anybody has put together all the wondrous and strange shuffles the Overlook has been through since 1945. And it always seems like Derwent or a Derwent associate comes up with the door prize. What was Sylvia Hunter running up there in ’67 and ’68, Mr. Ullman? It was a whorehouse, wasn’t it?”
“Torrance!” His shock crackled across two thousand miles of telephone cable without losing a thing.
Smiling, Jack popped another Excedrin into his mouth and chewed it.
“She sold out after a rather well known U. S. senator died of a heart attack up there. There were rumors that he was found naked except for black nylon stockings and a garter belt and a pair of high-heeled pumps. Patent-leather pumps, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s a vicious, damnable lie!” Ullman cried.
“Is it?” Jack asked. He was beginning to feel better. The headache was draining away. He took the last Excedrin and chewed it up, enjoying the bitter, powdery taste as the tablet shredded in his mouth.
“It was a very unfortunate occurrence,” Ullman said. “Now what is the point, Torrance? If you’re planning to write some ugly smear article… if this is some illconceived, stupid blackmail idea…”
“Nothing of the sort,” Jack said. “I called because I didn’t think you played square with me. And because-”
“Didn’t play square?” Ullman cried. “My God, did you think I was going to share a large pile of dirty laundry with the hotel’s caretaker? Who in heaven’s name do you think you are? And how could those old stories possibly affect you anyway? Or do you think there are ghosts parading up and down the halls of the west wing wearing bedsheets and crying ‘Woe!’?”
“No, I don’t think there are any ghosts. But you raked up a lot of my personal history before you gave me the job. You had me on the carpet, quizzing me about my ability to take care of your hotel like a little boy in front of the teacher’s desk for peeing in the coatroom. You embarrassed me.”
“I just do not believe your cheek, your bloody damned impertinence,” Ullman said. He sounded as if he might be choking. “I’d like to sack you. And perhaps I will.”
“I think Al Shockley might object. Strenuously.”
“And I think you may have finally overestimated Mr. Shockley’s commitment to you, Mr. Torrance.”
For a moment Jack’s headache came back in all its thudding glory, and he closed his eyes against the pain. As if from a distance away he heard himself ask: “Who owns the Overlook now? Is it still Derwent Enterprises? Or are you too smallfry to know?”
“I think that will do, Mr. Torrance. You are an employee of the hotel, no different from a busboy or a kitchen pot scrubber. I have no intention of-”
“Okay, I’ll write Al,” Jack said. “He’ll know; after all, he’s on the Board of Directors. And I might just add a little P. S. to the effect that-”
“Derwent doesn’t own it.”
“What? I couldn’t quite make that out.”
“I said Derwent doesn’t own it. The stockholders are all Easterners. Your friend Mr. Shockley owns the largest block of stock himself, better than thirtyfive per cent. You would know better than I if he has any ties to Derwent.”
“Who else?”
“I have no intention of divulging the names of the other stockholders to you, Mr. Torrance. I intend to bring this whole matter to the attention of-”
“One other question.”
“I am under no obligation to you.”
“Most of the Overlook’s history-savory and unsavory alike-I found in a scrapbook that was in the cellar. Big thing with white leather covers. Gold thread for binding. Do you have any idea whose scrapbook that might be?”
“None at all.”
“Is it possible it could have belonged to Grady? The caretaker who killed himself?”
“Mr. Torrance,” Ullman said in tones of deepest frost, “I am by no means sure that Mr. Grady could read, let alone dig out the rotten apples you have been wasting my time with.”
“I’m thinking of writing a book about the Overlook Hotel. I thought if I actually got through it, the owner of the scrapbook would like to have an acknowledgment at the front.”
“I think writing a book about the Overlook would be very unwise,” Ullman said. “Especially a book done from your… uh, point of view.”
“Your opinion doesn’t surprise me.” His headache was all gone now. There had been that one flash of pain, and that was all. His mind felt sharp and accurate,