12 "Better Get a Travelodge"?

I stepped through the glazed doors, with my messenger bag over my shoulder. You can go a long way with a spare pare of underpants, a toothbrush and some toothpaste, which was just about all that would fit inside the bag apart from my ancient laptop. 20.25 hrs, twenty-five past eight, civvy time. There was no-one behind the desk. No bell nowadays. The only place you see those is a charity shop. Perhaps they have a ring of master and servant about them. Whatever, there was no one visible in the tiny office to the rear of the reception desk and the space for the seat behind it.
Eventually someone came through the doorway leading to the rooms on the ground floor. A bloke of about 50, maybe he'd worked in a factory, back when people still did. He certainly didn't look comfortable in the company's livery. He looked me up and down,
'No reservation, eh?'
'I haven't booked, no.'
'Reservation. They make us say that, you know. Makes me think of Westerns.'
'Me too,' I said, since it's always been important to build rapport with any kind of gatekeeper, although some are as intractable as end-of-level bosses in a text-based RPG.

He let out a sigh as he sat on the less-than-comfortable-looking swivel chair behind the desk.  'I'll have a look and see if there's anything. There might be someone who hasn't turned up for an early check-in. No-one arrives 10 hours late without 'phoning first.'

His keyboard skills were better than I expected. 'Got one!' I just caught the note of triumph in his voice, before he burst out laughing.
'What's so funny?'
'I shouldn't tell you, it's the guy who booked the room. The one who hasn't turned up.'
I knew what he was going to say before he did. 'His name's Prospero Vint.'
We did the deal. Cash, obviously. The Receptionista gave me the key-card for a room. On the ground floor.
'I'm glad the guy didn't turn up,' he said. 'Don't use the bathroom for fifteen minutes or so, though. That's where I was, when you came in. It's closer than the staff loos.'

It was the first door of many off a corridor so long that it almost had a vanishing point at the end of it. I dropped my bag onto the bed and decided to wait before putting my toothbrush in the bathroom. I plugged my laptop in the socket for the kettle, then sat down at the sort of desk to wait for the machine to wake up. How, in the name of whatever Gods there might be, had Prospero Vint known I would make for any Travelodge, never mind the one in Hastings? I hadn't known myself until I decided to get a cab. The log-in screen was showing. I logged in. Looked in the browser history. Did a scan for malware. Checked everywhere I thought Vint might have hidden something. Nor could anyone have done it remotely. I used a VPN on my laptop, since I used it so often in public places. Not foolproof, but even so, there was nothing.
I turned the machine off again. A nice orderly shutdown, before I opened up the case to look inside. I used the Swiss Army knife I've always carried since my days in uniform. It had a Philips-head screwdriver, but nothing to use on horses' hooves. Progress