The Night Manager exuded quiet confidence, taste.
His Gieves & Hawkes suit was impeccably tailored, yet not at all ostentatious. The subtle pattern of his Brioni necktie quietly matched the hotel wallpaper. In five languages he would give guests comfort, guidance, bits of colorful lore about the city or the hotel itself.
He solved problems efficiently, discretely, his demeanor projecting an almost overwhelming calm. There was nothing about the hotel or the city he did not know, no specialization of service in which he was not expert.
He would tell arriving guests about the amenities and luxuries they could expect, the small touches that made his hotel one of the finest in the world– sheets of Egyptian cotton with so high a thread count that their softness could not be measured, bottled mineral water from an ancient village where people routinely surpassed their hundredth birthday, the healing powers of the hotel spa.
He did not tell them of the man in room 2146 lying naked in a tub of ice, his newly harvested organs stored in the basement refrigeration units, nor of the background checks routinely performed on guests to see who might make inquiries should they suddenly go missing.
Credit for the idea must go to the lovely K. Rawson, who has a sick mind but insufficient time to express it.