During the course of a short sojourn on the Mayan Riviera a couple of years ago I discovered that the key I had been given opened every room in the hotel. This immediately struck me as good material for a short story. The circumstances of my discovery would provide the impulse for the narrative.
I've probably mentioned here before that I have a particular affinity with stories set in hotels, the older and grander the better, so this particular title did rather jump out at me.
In truth the room in question here, and the hotel which contains it, are not quite as central as Dicker's title might suggest, or rather they are, but as the drain around which the rest of the plot eddies and circles. Slowly and rather over-elaborately.
Still, this is good clean Eurotrashy fun, an enjoyably middlebrow mystery set amidst Geneva’s banking community.