The lift that waited for a story

An original fictional scene set in an imaginary hotel.

The lift doors opened onto a chair, a lamp and an elderly attendant reading a newspaper. The lift itself was hardly larger than the chair. A card above the buttons said that the journey would take one minute, regardless of the floor requested.

“Fourth,” I said.

The attendant folded his paper and pressed the fourth button. The doors closed. Nothing seemed to move. He began telling me about a guest who had once asked for a room with a view of the sea. The hotel was a hundred miles from the coast, but the guest had been quite certain about the booking.

I watched the floor indicator. It remained on the ground floor while the attendant described the argument at reception. As he reached the moment when the guest opened the wrong guidebook, the indicator jumped to four. The doors parted.

Outside stood the landing I expected. The attendant unfolded his newspaper, already losing interest in me. I stepped out and looked back at the card. One minute, it said. I could not decide whether the lift had carried us while I listened, or whether the story had given the hotel time to move the landing into place.

How does the writer make the hotel lift seem unusual and mysterious?