Jerry spoke up. "That's okay, except don't forget I'm to talk with him if he has anything to say. Have to get an interview for the paper."
"We'll bring him down," Rick promised confidently. "Let's go, Cap'n."
The stairs leading up into the hotel were creaky with age, and the accumulation of dust and dirt showed months without a broom. At the top of the stairs was what had once been quite a nice lobby. But now the rug was worn to strings and the wallpaper had acquired a glaze of dirt that made it look like ancient newspapers. Behind the scarred ruin of an oak counter stood a clerk so fat Rick wondered how the floor could support him. He was reading a comic book, and he didn't even look up as they came in.
Cap'n Mike addressed him politely. "Excuse me, sir. I wonder if you can help me?"
Tired eyes looked up from the comic book. "What can I do for you?" The words and tone were surprisingly courteous.
"I'm looking for my brother," Cap'n Mike said. "He's a man about my height, five years younger, still a lot of black in his hair. Red complexion, pretty well lined. Smokes a corncob pipe. His real name is Killian, but I don't think you'd know him by that." He touched his head significantly. "Mind is going. He thinks he's being persecuted."
"What makes you think he might be here?"
Cap'n Mike's expressive face assumed a look of infinite sadness. "Once, many years ago, he spent his honeymoon here. Lost his wife shortly after in an auto crash, but since his mind went he won't believe she's dead. Even though it was nigh onto twenty years ago. Poor soul. Keeps looking for her. We try to keep him home, so he sneaks off and takes an assumed name. Found him here once before."
"When?" the tone was suspicious. "I've been here five years myself, and I don't remember anything like that."
"Oh, it was longer ago than that," Cap'n Mike added hastily. "Must be over eight." He coughed apologetically. "We've had him in an old seaman's home for a few years, but he wasn't happy there."