Артур Хейли
Hotel / Отель

© Шитова Л. Ф., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2020

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2020

Monday evening

1

If he could, Peter McDermott thought, he would fire the chief house detective[1]. But he couldn't and now, once more, the fat ex-policeman was missing when he was needed most.

“Fifteen things happen at once,” he told the girl standing by the window of the office, “and nobody can find him.”

Christine Francis glanced at her wrist watch. It showed a few minutes before eleven p.m. “There's a bar on Baronne Street[2] you might try to call.”

Peter McDermott nodded. He opened a desk drawer, took out cigarettes and offered them to Christine.

She had been working late and was on the point of going home[3] when she saw the light under the assistant general manager's door.

McDermott spoke briefly into the telephone, then waited again. “You're right,” he said.

As personal assistant to Warren Trent, the owner of New Orleans' largest hotel, Christine knew the hotel's secrets as well as its day-today affairs. She knew, for example, that Peter, who had been promoted to assistant general manager a month or two ago, was virtually running the big St. Gregory, though at a small salary and with limited authority. She knew the reasons behind that, too, which were in a file marked Confidential and involved Peter McDermott's personal life.

Christine asked, “What is going wrong?”

McDermott gave a cheerful grin. “On the ninth the Duchess of Croydon claims her Duke has been insulted by a room-service waiter; there's a report of somebody moaning horribly in 1439; and I've the night manager off sick[4].”

He spoke into the telephone again and Christine returned to the office window which was on the main mezzanine floor[5]. With midnight an hour away, it was early yet for the French Quarter[6], and lights in front of late night bars, bistros, jazz halls, and strip joints[7] would burn well into tomorrow morning.

Somewhere to the north, a summer storm was starting in the darkness. With luck, if the storm moved south toward the Gulf of Mexico[8], there might be rain in New Orleans by morning.

The rain would be welcome, Christine thought. For three weeks the city had sweltered in heat and humidity.

Peter McDermott put down the telephone and she asked, “Do you have a name for the room where the moaning is?”

He shook his head and lifted the phone again. “I'll find out. Probably someone having a nightmare, but we'd better make sure.”

As she dropped into a leather chair, Christine realized suddenly how very tired she was. In the ordinary way she would have been home at her apartment hours ago. But today had been exceptionally full, with a convention moving in and a number of other guests, creating problems.

“All right, thanks.” McDermott wrote a name and hung up. “Albert Wells, Montreal[9].”

“I know him,” Christine said. “A nice little man who stays here every year. If you like, I'll check that one out.”

He hesitated, eying Christine's slight figure.

The telephone rang and he answered it. “I'm sorry, sir,” the operator said, “we can't locate Mr. Ogilvie.”

Even if he couldn't fire the chief-house detective, McDermott thought, he would do some hell raising in the morning[10]. Meanwhile he would handle the Duke and Duchess incident himself. Then he called the bell captain[11], and told him to send a boy with a pass key to meet Miss Francis on the main mezzanine.

“Let's go.” His hand touched Christine's shoulders lightly. “Take the bellboy with you, and tell your friend to have his nightmares under the covers.”

2

Peter McDermott rode the elevator to the ninth floor, leaving Christine who was to continue to the fourteenth with her accompanying bellboy. At the opened elevator doorway he hesitated. “Send for me if there's any trouble.”

“If it's necessary I'll scream.” As the sliding doors came between them her eyes met his own. For a moment he stood thoughtfully watching her, then he strode down the carpeted corridor toward the Presidential Suite[12].

The St. Gregory's largest and most elaborate suite had, in its time, housed a number of distinguished guests, including presidents and royalty. Among them were the suite's present tenants, the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, plus their secretary, the Duchess's maid, and five terriers.

Outside the leather doors, Peter McDermott pressed a mother-of-pearl button and heard a buzz inside. Waiting, he reflected on what he had heard and knew about the Croydons.

Within the past decade, the Duke of Croydon, aided by his Duchess – herself a known public figure and cousin of the Queen – had become ambassador-at-large and successful troubleshooter for the British government. More recently, however, there had been rumors that the Duke's career had reached a critical point, though there were predictions that the Duke of Croydon might soon be named British Ambassador to Washington.

From behind Peter a voice murmured, “Excuse me, Mr. McDermott, can I have a word with you?”

Turning he recognized Sol Natchez, one of the elderly room-service waiters.

“What is it, Sol?”

“I expect you've come about the complaint – the complaint about me.”

McDermott glanced at the double doors not yet opened. He said, “Tell me what happened.”

The other swallowed twice. Ignoring the question, he said in a pleading hurried whisper, “If I lose this job, Mr. McDermott, it's hard at my age to find another.” He looked toward the Presidential Suite. “They're not the hardest people to serve… except for tonight. They expect a lot, but I've never minded, even though there's never a tip.”

Peter smiled. British nobility seldom tipped, thinking perhaps that the privilege of waiting on them was a reward in itself.

He interrupted, “You still haven't told me…”

“I'm gettin' to it, Mr. McDermott.” The man was old enough to be Peter's grandfather. “It was about half an hour ago. They'd ordered a late supper, the Duke and Duchess – oysters, champagne, shrimp Creole[13].”

“Never mind the menu.[14] What happened?”

“It was the shrimp Creole, sir. When I was serving it, the Duchess got up from the table and as she came back she jogged my arm. I'd say she did it on purpose.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“I know, sir, I know. But what happened, you see, was there was a small spot on the Duke's trousers.”

Peter said doubtfully, “Is that all this is about?”

“Mr. McDermott, I swear to you that's all. But you'd think – the fuss the Duchess made – I'd committed murder.

I apologized, I got a clean napkin and water to get the spot off, but it wouldn't do. She insisted on sending for Mr. Trent…”

“Mr. Trent is not in the hotel.”

He would hear the other side of the story, Peter decided, before making any judgment.

As the waiter disappeared, Peter McDermott pressed the bell again. This time the door was opened by a moon-faced, youngish man. Peter recognized him as the Croydons' secretary.

“I beg your pardon,” he told the secretary. “I thought perhaps you hadn't heard.” He introduced himself, then added, “I understand there has been some trouble about our service. I came to see if I could help.”

The secretary said, “We were expecting Mr. Trent.”

“Mr. Trent is away from the hotel for the evening.” While speaking they had moved from the corridor into the hallway of the suite, with two upholstered chairs, and a telephone side table under an engraving of old New Orleans. The door to the large living-room was partially open.

“Why can't he be sent for?” The living-room door opened and the Duchess of Croydon appeared, three of the terriers enthusiastically at her heels. She silenced the dogs and turned her eyes questioningly on Peter. He was aware of the handsome, highcheekboned face, familiar through a thousand photographs. Even in casual clothes, he observed, the Duchess was superbly dressed.

“To be perfectly honest, Your Grace[15], I was not aware that you required Mr. Trent personally.”

Gray-green eyes regarded him appraisingly. “Even in Mr. Trent's absence I expected one of the senior executives.”

Peter flushed. “I'm assistant general manager. That's why I came personally.”

There was amusement in her eyes. “Aren't you somewhat young for that?”

“Not really. Nowadays a good many young men are in management.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

The Duchess smiled. She was five or six years older than himself, he calculated, though younger than the Duke who was in his late forties. Now she asked, “Do you take a course or something?”

“I have a degree from Cornell University – the School of hotel Administration. Before coming here I was an assistant manager at the Waldorf[16].” It required an effort to mention the Waldorf, and he was tempted to add: from where I was fired and blacklisted by the chain hotels. But he would not say it.

The Duchess retorted, “ The Waldorf would never have tolerated an incident like tonight's.”

“I assure you, ma'am, that if we are at fault the St. Gregory will not tolerate it either.” The conversation, he thought, was like a game of tennis.

“Are you aware that your waiter poured shrimp Creole over my husband?”

It was so obviously an exaggeration, he wondered why. It was also uncharacteristic since, until now, relations between the hotel and the Croydons had been excellent.

“I was aware there had been an accident which was probably due to carelessness. In that event I'm here to apologize for the hotel.”

“Our entire evening has been ruined,” the Duchess insisted. “My husband and I decided to enjoy a quiet evening in our suite here, by ourselves. We were out for a few moments only, to take a walk around the block, and we returned to supper – and this!”

Peter nodded, outwardly sympathetic but confused by the Duchess's attitude. It seemed almost as if she wanted to impress the incident on his mind so he would not forget it.

He suggested, “Perhaps if I could express our apologies to the Duke…”

The Duchess said firmly, “That will not be necessary.”

He was about to leave when the door to the living-room opened fully. It framed the Duke of Croydon.

In contrast to his Duchess, the Duke was untidily dressed, in a creased white shirt and the trousers of a tuxedo. Instinctively Peter McDermott's eyes sought the stain. He found it, though it was barely visible. The Duke's face seemed flushed, and more lined than some of his recent photographs showed. He held a glass in his hand and when he spoke his voice was blurry. “Oh, beg pardon.” Then, to the Duchess: “I say, old girl. Must have left my cigarettes in the car.”[17]

She said sharply, “I'll bring some.” With a nod the Duke turned back into the living-room. It was an uncomfortable scene and for some reason it had increased the Duchess's anger.

Turning to Peter, she snapped, “I insist on a full report being made to Mr. Trent, and you may inform him that I expect a personal apology.”

Still confused, Peter went out as the suite door closed firmly behind him.

But he had no more time for reflection. In the corridor outside, the bellboy who had accompanied Christine to the fourteenth floor was waiting. “Mr. McDermott,” he said urgently, “Miss Francis wants you in 1439, and please hurry!”

3

Some fifteen minutes earlier, when Peter McDermott had left the elevator on his way to the Presidential Suite, the bellboy grinned at Christine. “Doing a bit of detectiving[18], Miss Francis?”

“If the chief house officer were around,” Christine told him, “I wouldn't have to.”

A moment later the elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor.

Her own footsteps and the bellboy's were muffled in the carpeted corridor. On the way, the bellboy was saying, “Room 1439 – that's the old gent, Mr. Wells. We moved him from a corner room a couple of days ago.”

Ahead, down the corridor, a door opened and a man, well dressed and fortyish, came out. Closing the door behind him, and ready to pocket the key, he hesitated, eyeing Christine with frank interest. He seemed about to speak but the bellboy shook his head. Christine, who missed nothing of the exchange, supposed she should be flattered to be mistaken for a call girl.

When they had passed by she asked, “Why was Mr. Wells's room changed?”

“The way I heard it, miss, somebody else had 1439 and raised a fuss. So what they did was switch around.”

Christine remembered 1439 now; there had been complaints before. It was next to the service elevator and appeared to be the meeting place of all the hotel's pipes. The effect was to make the place noisy and unbearably hot. Every hotel had at least one such room which usually was never rented until everything else was full.

“If Mr. Wells had a better room why was he asked to move?” The bellboy shrugged. “You'd better ask the room clerks that.” She persisted, “But you've an idea.”

“Well, I guess it's because he never complains. The old gent's been coming here for years.” Christine's lips tightened angrily as the bellboy went on, “I did hear in the dining-room they give him that table beside the kitchen door, the one no one else will have. He doesn't seem to mind, they say.”

Christine thought: Someone would mind tomorrow morning; she would guarantee it. She felt furious that a regular guest, who also happened to be a quiet and gentle man, had been so badly treated.

They turned a corner and stopped at the door of 1439. The bellboy knocked. They waited, listening. Finally, there was a moaning. “Use your pass key,” Christine instructed. “Open the door – quickly!”

The bellboy went in ahead. The room was in darkness and he turned on the ceiling light and went around a corner. Almost at once he called back, “Miss Francis, you'd better come.”

The room, as Christine entered, was very hot, though the air-conditioning was set to “cool.” But that was all she had time to see before observing the struggling figure in the bed. It was the little man she knew as Albert Wells. His face gray, eyes bulging and with trembling lips, he was attempting desperately to breathe.

She went quickly to the bedside. Once, years before, in her father's office she had seen a patient fighting for breath. One thing her father had done she remembered. She told the bellboy decisively, “Get the window open. We need air in here.”

The bellboy's eyes were focused on the face of the man in bed. He said nervously, “The window's sealed. They did it for the air conditioning.”

“Then force it. If you have to, break the glass.”

She had already picked up the telephone beside the bed. When the operator answered, Christine said, “This is Miss Francis. Is Dr. Aarons in the hotel?”

“No, Miss Francis; but he left a number. If it's an emergency I can reach him.”

“It's an emergency. Tell Dr. Aarons room 1439, and to hurry, please.”

Replacing the phone, Christine turned to the still struggling figure in the bed. The frail, elderly man was breathing no better than before and she noticed that his face was turning blue. The moaning which they had heard outside had begun again.

“Mr. Wells,” she said, trying to convey a confidence she was not feeling, “I think you might breathe more easily if you kept perfectly still.” The bellboy, she noticed, was having success with the window.

As if in response to Christine's words, the little man's struggles stopped. Reaching for pillows, she propped them behind, so that he could lean back, sitting upright at the same time. His eyes were fixed on hers, trying to express gratitude. She said reassuringly, “I've sent for a doctor. He'll be here at any moment.” As she spoke, the bellboy made an extra effort and the window slid open wide. At once a draft of cool fresh air filled the room. In the bed Albert Wells gasped greedily at the new air. As he did the telephone rang. Signaling the bellboy to take her place beside the sick man, she answered it.

“Dr. Aarons is on his way, Miss Francis,” the operator announced. “He said to tell you he'll be at the hotel in twenty minutes.”

Christine hesitated. She told the operator, “I'm not sure we can wait that long. Would you check our own guest list to see if we have any doctors registered?”

“I already did that. There's a Dr. Koenig[19] in 221, and Dr. Uxbridge in 1203.”

Christine noted the numbers on a pad beside the telephone.

“All right, ring 221, please.”

There were several clicks as the ringing continued. Then a sleepy voice with a German accent answered, “Yes, who is it?”

Christine identified herself. “I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Koenig, but one of our other guests is extremely ill.” Her eyes went to the bed. For the moment, she noticed, the blueness around the face had gone, with breathing as difficult as ever. She added, “I wonder if you could come.”

There was a pause, then the same voice: “My dearest young lady, it would be a matter of happiness if I could assist. Alas, I fear that I could not.” A gentle chuckle. “You see, I am a doctor of music, here in your beautiful city to 'guest conduct' a fine symphony orchestra.”

She apologized, “I'm sorry for disturbing you.”

Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once in a no-nonsense tone of voice[20]. In reply to Christine's first question he responded, “Yes, I'm a doctor of medicine.” He listened without comment while she described the problem, then said, “I'll be there in a few minutes.”

The bellboy was still at the bedside. Christine instructed him, “Mr. McDermott is in the Presidential Suite. Go there, and as soon as he's free ask him to come here quickly.” She picked up the telephone again. “The chief engineer, please.”

Fortunately there was no doubt about the chief's availability. Doc Vickery was a bachelor who lived in the hotel and had one ruling passion: the St. Gregory's mechanical equipment. The chief was a friend of Christine's, and she knew that she was one of his favorites. In a moment his Scottish accent was on the line. “Aye?”[21]

In a few words she told him about Albert Wells. “ The doctor isn't here yet, but he'll probably want oxygen. We've a portable set in the hotel, haven't we?”

“Aye, we've oxygen cylinders, Chris, but we use them just for gas welding.”

“Oxygen is oxygen,” Christine argued. Some of the things her father had told her were coming back.

“Could you order one of your night people to send it up?”

The chief nodded in agreement. “I will; and soon as I get my breeks[22] on, lassie[23], I'll be along mysel'.”

“Please hurry!” She replaced the phone, turning back to the bed.

The little man's eyes were closed. No longer struggling, he appeared not to be breathing at all.

There was a light tap at the opened door and a tall man stepped in from the corridor. He had a thin face, and hair graying at the temples. Beige pajamas showed beneath his dark blue suit. “Uxbridge,” he announced in a quiet, firm voice.

“Doctor,” Christine said, “just this moment…” The newcomer nodded and from a leather bag, which he put down on the bed, swiftly produced a stethoscope. Without wasting time he reached inside the patient's flannel nightshirt and listened to the chest and back. Then, returning to the bag, he took out a syringe, filled it with a medicine, and pushed a sleeve of the nightshirt upward.

Christine whispered, “What is it that's wrong?”

“Severe bronchitis, with asthma as a complication. I suspect he's had these attacks before.”

Suddenly the little man started breathing. His eyes opened.

The tension in the room had lessened. “Mr. Wells,” Christine said. “Mr. Wells, can you understand me?”

She was answered by a series of nods. “You were very ill when we found you, Mr. Wells. This is Dr. Uxbridge who was staying in the hotel and came to help.”

The eyes shifted to the doctor. Then, with an effort: “Thank you.” The words were the first the sick man had spoken. A small amount of color was returning to his face.

“If there's anyone to thank it should be this young lady.” The doctor gave a smile, then told Christine, “The gentleman is still very sick and will need further medical attention. My advice is for immediate transfer to a hospital.”

“No, no! I don't want that.” The words came from the elderly man in the bed. He was leaning forward from the pillows. The change in his condition was remarkable, she thought.

For the first time Christine had time to study his appearance. Originally she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she added a half dozen years.

The first occasion she met Albert Wells was two years earlier. He had come to the hotel's executive suite, concerned about a difference in his bill which he had been unable to settle with the front office. The amount, she recalled, was seventy-five cents and though the chief cashier had offered to cancel the charge, Albert Wells wanted to prove that he had not made the expense. After patient inquiry, Christine made sure that the little man was right and she sympathized and respected him for his stand. She also decided – from his bill, which showed modest spending, and his clothes which were obviously ready-to-wear – that he was a man of small means[24], perhaps a pensioner, whose yearly visits to New Orleans were high points of his life.

Now Albert Wells declared, “I don't like hospitals. I never have liked them.”

“If you stay here,” the doctor explained, “you'll need medical attention, and a nurse for twenty-four hours at least.”

The little man insisted, “The hotel can arrange about a nurse.” He addressed Christine, “You can, can't you, miss?”

“I suppose we could.” She wondered, though, if he had any idea of the high cost of private nursing.

There was a noise from the corridor. A coveralled mechanic came in[25], wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley. He was followed by the chief engineer, carrying a rubber tube, some wire and a plastic bag.

“This isn't hospital style, Chris,” the chief said. “I hope it'll work, though.”

Dr. Uxbridge seemed surprised. Christine explained her original idea that oxygen might be needed, and introduced the chief engineer. With his hands still busy, the chief nodded. A moment later, the tube was connected.

The doctor returned to the bed. “The oxygen will make you more comfortable, Mr. Wells. I imagine you've had this bronchial trouble before.”

Albert Wells nodded. He said, “The bronchitis I picked up as a miner. Then the asthma came later.” His eyes moved on to Christine. “I'm sorry about all this, miss.”

“I'm sorry too, but mostly because your room was changed.”

The chief engineer had connected the rubber tube to the cylinder. Together with Dr. Uxbridge they arranged the improvised mask around the sick man's face. A steady hiss meant that the oxygen was on.[26]

The doctor checked his watch, then inquired, “Have you sent for a local doctor?”

Christine explained about Dr. Aarons.

Dr. Uxbridge nodded approval. “He'll take over when he arrives. I'm from Illinois and not licensed to practice in Louisiana.” He bent over Albert Wells. “Easier?” Beneath the plastic mask the little man moved his head confirmingly.

There were firm steps down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in, his big frame filling the doorway. “I got your message,” he told Christine. His eyes went to the bed. “Will he be all right?”

“I think so, though I believe we owe Mr. Wells something.” Beckoning Peter into the corridor, she described the change in rooms which the bellboy had told her about. As she saw Peter frown, she added, “If he does stay, we ought to give him another room, and I imagine we could get a nurse without too much trouble.”

Peter nodded agreement. There was a house telephone across the hallway. He went to it and asked for Reception.

“I'm on the fourteenth,” he informed the room clerk who answered. “Is there a vacant room on this floor?”

There was a pause. The night room clerk was an old-timer, appointed many years ago by Warren Trent.

“Well,” Peter said, “is there a room or isn't there?”

“I have 1410,” the clerk said, “but I'm about to give it to a gentleman who has this moment checked in.” He added, “We are very close to a full house.”

Number 1410 was a room Peter remembered. It was large and airy and faced St. Charles Avenue. He asked reasonably, “If I take 1410, can you find something else for your man?”

“No, Mr. McDermott. All I have is a small suite on five, and the gentleman does not wish to pay a higher rate.”

Peter said, “Let your man have the suite at the room rate for tonight. He can be relocated in the morning. Meanwhile I'll use 1410 for a transfer from 1439, and please send a boy up with the key right away. And another thing: before you go off duty leave word for the day clerks that tomorrow I want an explanation of why Mr. Wells was shifted from his original room to 1439.”

He winked at Christine as he replaced the phone.

4

“You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon said. “Absolutely insane.” She had returned to the living-room of the Presidential Suite after Peter McDermott's departure, carefully closing the door behind her.

The Duke shifted uncomfortably as he always did under one of his wife's periodic tongue lashings[27]. “Damn sorry, old girl. Telly was on. Couldn't hear the fellow. Thought he'd cleared out.” He took a deep draught from the whiskey and soda, then added, “Besides, with everything else I'm bloody upset.”

“Sorry! Upset! You make it sound as if it's all some sort of game.” The Duchess went on accusingly, “I was doing the best I could. The very best, after your incredible folly, to establish that both of us spent a quiet evening in the hotel. I even invented a walk that we went for in case anyone saw us come in. And then stupidly you blunder in to announce you left your cigarettes in the car.”

“Only one heard me. That manager chap. Wouldn't notice.”

“He noticed. I was watching his face.” With an effort the Duchess kept her self-control. “Have you any notion of the awful mess we're in?”

The Duke drained his drink. “If you hadn't persuaded me… Bloody ashamed too.”

“You were drunk! You were drunk when I found you, and you still are.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Sober now.”

“There was nothing we could do. Nothing! And there was a better chance my way.”

“Not so sure. “If the police get their teeth in…”

“We'd have to be suspected first. That's why I made that trouble with the waiter. It isn't an alibi but it's the next best thing. It's set in their minds we were here tonight… or would have been if you hadn't thrown it all away. I could weep.”

“Be interesting that[28],” the Duke said. “Didn't think you were enough of a woman.”

The Duke went to a side table where he splashed Scotch generously into his glass, followed by soda. With his back turned, he added, “Why'd you marry me?”

“I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who was doing something worth while.”

He held up his glass, studying it like a crystal ball. “Not proving it now. Eh?”[29]

“If you appear to be, it's because I prop you up.” “Washington?” The word was a question.

“We could manage it,” the Duchess said. “If I could keep you sober and in your own bed.”

“Aha!” Her husband laughed. “A damn cold bed at that.” “I already said that isn't necessary.”

“Ever wondered why I married you?”

“I've formed opinions.”

“Tell you most important.” He drank again, as if for courage, then said, “Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally. Knew was only way.”

“I'm surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from – before and since.”

His bloodshot eyes were on her face. “Didn't want others. Wanted you. Still do.”

She snapped, “That's enough! This has gone far enough.”[30]

He shook his head. “Something you should hear. Your pride, old girl. Always appealed to me. You on your back. Passionate. Trembling.”

“Stop it! Stop it! You… you lecher!” Her face was white. “I don't care if the police catch you! I hope they do! I hope you get ten years!”

5

After his dispute with Reception, Peter McDermott went down the fourteenth floor corridor to 1439.

“If you approve,” he informed Dr. Uxbridge, “we'll transfer your patient to another room on this floor.”

The doctor glanced around the tiny room with its mess of heating and water pipes. “Any change can only be an improvement.”

As the doctor returned to the little man in the bed, Christine reminded Peter, “What we need now is a nurse.”

“We'll let Dr. Aarons arrange that. Do you think your friend Wells is good for it?” They had returned to the corridor, their voices low.

“I'm worried about that. I don't think he has much money.” When she was concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine's nose had a charming way of crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint perfume.

When the key arrived, Christine went ahead to open the new room, 1410. “It's ready,” she announced, returning.

“The best thing is to switch beds,” Peter told the others. “Let's wheel this one into 1410 and bring back a bed from there.” But the doorway, they discovered, was an inch too narrow.

“Never mind,” Peter said. “There's a quicker way – if you agree, Mr. Wells.”

The other smiled, and nodded.

Peter bent down, put a blanket around the elderly man's shoulders and picked him up.

“You've strong arms, son,” the little man said.

Peter smiled. Then, as easily as if his burden were a child, he strode down the corridor and into the new room.

Fifteen minutes later all was functioning well. The resident physician[31], Dr. Aarons, had arrived. He accepted the offer of Dr. Uxbridge to drop in as a consultant the following day. A private duty nurse, telephoned by Dr. Aarons, was on the way.

As the chief engineer and Dr. Uxbridge left, Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

It was a quarter to twelve.

Walking toward the elevators, Christine said, “I'm glad we let him stay.”

Peter seemed surprised. “Mr. Wells? Why wouldn't we?”

“Some places wouldn't. You know how they are: the least thing out of the ordinary, and no one can be bothered. All they want is people to check in, check out, and pay the bill; that's all.”

“Those are sausage factories. A real hotel is for hospitality; and assistance if a guest needs it. The best ones started that way. Unfortunately too many people in this business have forgotten.”

She regarded him curiously. “You think we've forgotten here?” “You're damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way there'd be a good many changes…” He stopped, embarrassed at his own forcefulness. “Never mind. Most of the time I keep such thoughts to myself.”

“You shouldn't, and if you do you should be ashamed.” Behind Christine's words was the knowledge that the St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways. Currently, too, the hotel was facing a financial crisis. “There's heads and brick walls,” Peter objected. “Beating one against the other doesn't help. W.T. isn't keen on new ideas.”

“That's no reason for giving up.”

He laughed. “You sound like a woman.”

“I am a woman.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I've just begun to notice.”

It was true, he thought. For most of the time he had known Christine – since his own arrival at the St. Gregory – he had taken her for granted[32]. Recently, though, he had found himself increasingly aware of just how attractive she was. He wondered what she was doing for the rest of the evening.

He said tentatively, “I didn't have dinner tonight; too much going on. If you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?”

Christine said, “I love late suppers.”

At the elevator he told her, “There's one more thing I want to check.” He took her arm, squeezing it lightly. “Will you wait on the main mezzanine?”

His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone of his size. Christine glanced at his strong, energetic profile with its jutting jaw. It was an interesting face, she thought. She was aware of her senses quickening.[33]

“All right,” she agreed. “I'll wait.”

6

Peter waited alone for the elevator on the fifth floor. It had been a full evening, Peter thought – with some unpleasantness – though not exceptional for a big hotel.

When the elevator arrived he told the operator, “Lobby, please,” reminding himself that Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.

He noted with impatience that although the elevator doors were closed, they had not yet started down. The operator was moving the control handle back and forth. Peter asked, “Are you sure the gates are fully closed?”

“Yes, sir, they are. It isn't that; it's the connections I think, either here or up top.” The man turned his head in the direction of the roof where the elevator machinery was housed, then added, “Had quite a bit of trouble lately. The chief was probing around the other day.” He worked the handle vigorously. With a jerk the elevator started down.

“Which elevator is this?”

“Number four.”

Peter made a mental note[34] to ask the chief engineer exactly what was wrong.

It was almost half-past twelve by the lobby clock as he stepped from the elevator. As was usual by this time, some of the activity in the lobby had quieted down, but there was still a number of people, and the sounds of music from the nearby Indigo Room showed that supper dancing was in progress. Peter turned right toward Reception but had gone only a few paces when he saw an obese, waddling figure approaching him. It was Ogilvie, the chief house officer, who had been missing earlier. As always, he was accompanied by an odor of stale cigar smoke.

“I hear you were looking for me,” Ogilvie said.

Peter felt some of his earlier anger return. “I certainly was. Where the devil were you?”

“Doing my job, Mr. McDermott.” Ogilvie had a surprisingly falsetto voice. “If you want to know, I was over at police headquarters reporting some trouble we had here. There was a suitcase stolen from the baggage room today.”

“Well, you just missed an emergency,” Peter said. “But it is taken care of now.” Deciding to put Ogilvie out of his mind, with a nod he moved on to Reception.

The night clerk whom he had telephoned earlier was at the desk. Peter tried a friendly approach. He said pleasantly, “Thank you for helping me out with that problem on the fourteenth.

We have Mr. Wells settled comfortably in 1410. Dr. Aarons is arranging nursing care, and the chief has fixed up oxygen.”

The room clerk's face had frozen as Peter approached him. Now it relaxed. “I hadn't realized there was anything that serious.”

“It was touch and go for a while[35], I think. That's why I was so concerned about why he was moved into that other room.”

The room clerk nodded. “In that case I'll certainly make inquiries. Yes, you can be sure of that.”

Peter recrossed the lobby and entered an elevator. This time he rode up one floor only, to the main mezzanine.

Christine was waiting in his office. She had kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her in the leather chair she had occupied an hour and a half before. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts far away in time and distance. She looked up as Peter came in.

“Don't marry a man,” he told her. “There's never an end to it.”[36]

“It's a timely warning,” Christine said. “I hadn't told you, but I've a crush on that new sous-chef[37]. The one who looks like Rock Hudson.” She uncurled her legs, reaching for her shoes. “Do we have more troubles?”

He grinned, finding the sight and sound of Christine immensely cheering. “Other people's, mostly. I'll tell you as we go.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere away from the hotel. We've both had enough for one day.”

Christine considered. “We could go to the Quarter. There are plenty of places open. Or if you want to come to my place, I'm a whiz at omelets[38].”

Peter helped her up and followed her to the door where he switched off the office lights. “An omelet,” he declared, “is what I really wanted and didn't know it.”

7

They walked together to a parking lot not far from the hotel. A sleepy parking attendant brought down Christine's Volkswagen and they climbed in. “This is the life! You don't mind if I spread out?” He draped his arm along the back of the driver's seat, not quite touching Christine's shoulders.

Christine was driving in silence, heading the little car northeast, as Peter talked about the inefficiencies within the hotel which he lacked authority to change. In the St. Gregory, a good deal of organization was unwritten, with final judgments depending upon Warren Trent.

In ordinary circumstances, Peter – an honors graduate[39] of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration – would have started looking for more satisfying work elsewhere. But circumstances were not ordinary.

At the Waldorf, where he had gone to work after graduation from Cornell, Peter McDermott had been the bright young man who appeared to hold the future in his hand. As a junior assistant manager, he had been selected for promotion when bad luck, plus indiscretion, intervened. At a time when he was supposedly on duty and required elsewhere in the hotel, he was discovered in a bedroom with a woman guest.

Two factors were against Peter. The woman's husband was aided by private detectives, and a divorce case resulted, with publicity, which all hotels feared.

As if this was not enough, there was a personal problem. Three years before the Waldorf event, Peter McDermott had married impulsively and the marriage, soon after, ended in separation. To an extent, his loneliness and disillusion had been a cause of the incident in the hotel. However, Peter's wife sued successfully for divorce. The end result was his dismissal and blacklisting by the major chain hotels.[40]

Only at the St. Gregory, an independent house, had he been able to obtain work, at a salary which Warren Trent thought appropriate.

Peter watched as she maneuvered the little car expertly through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Then she said, “There's something I think you should know. Curtis O'Keefe is arriving in the morning.” It was the kind of news that he had feared, yet half-expected. Curtis O'Keefe was Head of the worldwide O'Keefe chain, he bought hotels as other men chose ties and handkerchiefs. Obviously, the appearance of Curtis O'Keefe in the St. Gregory meant his interest in acquiring the hotel for the constantly expanding O'Keefe chain. Peter asked, “Is it a buying trip?”

“It could be.” Christine kept her eyes on the dimly lighted street ahead. “W.T. doesn't want it that way. But it may turn out there isn't any choice.” She was about to add that the last piece of information was confidential, but checked herself. And as for the presence of Curtis O'Keefe, that news would telegraph itself around the St. Gregory tomorrow morning within minutes of the great man's arrival.

“I suppose it had to come. All the same, I think it's a pity.”

Christine reminded him, “It hasn't happened yet. I said W.T. doesn't want to sell.”

Peter nodded without speaking.

Christine said, “There are problems about refinancing. W.T. has been trying to locate new capital. He still hopes he may.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then I expect we shall be seeing a lot more of Mr. Curtis O'Keefe.”

And a whole lot less of Peter McDermott, Peter thought. It seemed likely that he might soon have to look for other employment. He decided to worry when it happened.

“The O'Keefe – St. Gregory,” Peter said. “When shall we know for sure?”

“One way or the other by the end of this week.”[41]

“That soon!”

There were some reasons, Christine knew, why it had to be that soon. For the moment she kept them to herself. Peter said emphatically, “The old man won't find new financing.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because people with money want a sound investment[42]. That means good management, and the St. Gregory hasn't got it. It could have, but it hasn't.”

They were headed north when abruptly a flashing white light loomed directly ahead. Christine braked and, as the car stopped, a uniformed traffic officer walked forward. Directing his flashlight onto the Volkswagen, he circled the car, inspecting it. While he did, they could see that the section of road immediately ahead was blocked off by a rope barrier. Beyond the barrier other uniformed men, and some in plain clothes[43], were examining the road surface with the aid of powerful lights.

Christine lowered her window as the officer came to her side of the car. Apparently satisfied by his inspection, he told them, “You'll have to detour, folks. Drive slowly through the other lane, and the officer at the far end will wave you back into this one.”

“What is it?” Peter said. “What's happened?”

“Hit and run[44]. Happened earlier tonight.”

Christine asked, “Was anyone killed?”

The policeman nodded. “Little girl of seven.” Seeing their shocked expressions, he told them, “Walking with her mother. The mother's in the hospital. Kid was killed outright. Whoever was in the car must have known. They drove right on.” He added, “Bastards!”

“Will you find out who it is?”

“We'll find out.” The officer nodded grimly, indicating the activity behind the barrier. “The boys usually do. There's glass on the road, and the car that did it must be marked.” More headlights were approaching from behind and he motioned them on.

They were silent as Christine drove slowly through the detour and, at the end of it, was waved back into the regular lane.

Somewhere in Peter's mind was a half-thought he could not define. He supposed the incident itself was bothering him, as sudden tragedy always did, but it was something different. Then, with surprise, he heard Christine say, “We're almost home.”

A moment later the little car turned right, then left, and stopped in the parking area of a modern, two-story apartment building.

“If all else fails,” Peter called out cheerfully, “I can go back to bartending.” He was mixing drinks in Christine's living-room.

“Were you ever one?”[45]

“For a while.” He measured three ounces of rye whiskey, dividing it two ways, then reached for some bitters. “Sometime I'll tell you about it.”

Straightening up, he cast a glance around the living-room, with its comfortable mixture of furnishings and color. The walls held some prints and a modern impressionist oil. The effect was of warmth and cheerfulness, much like Christine herself, he thought. On the sideboard there was an unmistakably Victorian mantel clock, ticking softly. Peter looked at it curiously.

When he took the drinks to the kitchen, Christine was emptying beaten eggs from a mixing dish into a softly sizzling pan.

“Three minutes more,” she said, “that's all.”

He gave her the drink and they clinked glasses.

“Keep your mind on my omelet,” Christine said. “It's ready now.”

It proved to be everything she had promised – light, fluffy, and seasoned with herbs. “The way omelets should be,” he assured her, “but seldom are.”

“I can boil eggs too.”

He waved a hand airily. “Some other breakfast.”

Afterward they returned to the living-room and Peter mixed a second drink. It was almost two a.m.

Sitting beside her on the sofa he pointed to the odd-appearing clock. “I get the feeling that thing is looking at me – announcing the time in a disapproving tone.”

“Perhaps it is,” Christine answered. “It was my father's. It used to be in his office where patients could see it. It's the only thing I saved.”

There was a silence between them. Once before Christine had told him about the airplane accident in Wisconsin. Now he said gently, “After it happened, you must have felt desperately alone.”

She said simply, “I wanted to die. Though you get over that, of course – after a while.”

“How long?”

She gave a short, swift smile. “The human spirit mends quickly.[46] That part – wanting to die, I mean – took just a week or two.”

“And after?”

“When I came to New Orleans,” Christine said, “I tried to concentrate on not thinking. It got harder, and I had less success as the days went by. I knew I had to do something but I wasn't sure what – or where.”

She stopped and Peter said, “Go on.”

“For a while I considered going back to university, then decided not. Getting an arts degree just for the sake of it[47] didn't seem important and besides, suddenly it seemed as if I'd grown away from it all.”

“I can understand that.”

Christine sipped her drink. “Anyway,” Christine went on, “one day I was walking and saw a sign which said 'Secretarial School'. I thought – that's it! I'll learn what I need to, then get a job involving endless hours of work. In the end that's exactly what happened.”

“How did the St. Gregory fit in?”

“I was staying there. I had since I came from Wisconsin.[48] Then one morning the Times-Picayune[49] arrived with breakfast, and I saw in the classifieds[50] that the managing director of the hotel wanted a personal secretary. It was early, so I thought I'd be first, and wait. In those days W.T. arrived at work before everyone else. When he came, I was waiting in the executive suite.”

“He hired you on the spot[51]?”

“Not really. Actually, I don't believe I ever was hired. It was just that when W.T. found out why I was there he called me in and began dictating letters, then sending instructions to other people in the hotel. By the time more applicants arrived I'd been working for hours, and I took it on myself to tell them the job was filled.”

Peter chuckled. “It sounds like the old man.”[52]

“Three days later I left a note on his desk. I think it read 'My name is Christine Francis,' and I suggested a salary. I got the note back without comment – just initialed, and that's all there's ever been.”

“It makes a good bedtime story.” Peter rose from the sofa, stretching his big body. “That clock of yours is staring again. I guess I'd better go.”

“It isn't fair,” Christine objected. “All we've talked about is me.” She was aware of Peter's masculinity. And yet, she thought, there was a gentleness about him too. She had seen something of it tonight in the way that he had picked up Albert Wells and carried him to the other room. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be carried in his arms.

“I enjoyed it – a lovely antidote to a lousy day. Anyway, there'll be other times.” He stopped, regarding her directly. “Won't there?”[53]

As she nodded in answer, he leaned forward, kissing her lightly.

In the taxi for which he had telephoned from Christine's apartment, Peter McDermott relaxed, reviewing the events of the past day. The daytime hours had produced their usual quota of problems, culminating in the evening with several more. Finally there was Christine, who had been there all the time, but whom he had not noticed before in quite the way he had tonight.

But he warned himself: women had been his undoing twice already. Whatever, if anything, developed between Christine and himself should happen slowly, with caution on his own part.

Tuesday

1

In his private six-room suite on the hotel's fifteenth floor, Warren Trent stepped down from the barber' chair in which Aloysius Royce had shaved him. W.T. walked stiffly into the bathroom now, pausing before a mirror to inspect the shave. He could find no fault with it[54] as he studied the reflection facing him.

It showed a deep-seamed face, a loose mouth which could be humorous on occasion, beaked nose and deep-set eyes. His hair, jet-black in youth, was now a distinguished white, thick and curly still. He made a typical picture of an eminent southern gentleman.

So, he reminded himself, now it was Tuesday of the final week. Including today, there were only four more days remaining: four days in which to prevent his lifetime's work from dissolving into nothingness.

Scowling at his own thoughts, the proprietor limped into the dining-room where Aloysius Royce had laid a breakfast table. The oak table had a trolley beside it which had come from the kitchen a few moments earlier. Warren Trent sat into the chair which Royce held out, then gestured to the opposite side of the table. At once the young Negro laid a second place, slipping into the vacant seat himself. There was a second breakfast on the trolley, available for such occasions when the old man changed his usual custom of breakfasting alone.

Serving the two portions Royce remained silent, knowing his employer would speak when ready. At length, pushing away his plate, Warren Trent observed, “You'd better make the most of this. Neither of us may be enjoying it much longer.”[55]

Royce said, “The trust people[56] haven't changed their mind about renewing?”

“They haven't and they won't. Not now.” Without warning the old man slammed his fist upon the table top. “By God! – there was a time when I'd have called the tune, not danced a jig to theirs[57]. Once they were lined up – banks, trust companies, all the rest – trying to lend their money.”

“Times change for all of us.” Aloysius Royce poured coffee. “Some things get better, others worse.”

Warren Trent said sourly, “It's easy for you. You're young. You haven't lived to see everything you've worked for fall apart.”

And it had come to that, he reflected sadly. In four days from now – on Friday – a twenty-year-old mortgage on the property was due for redemption and the investment syndicate had declined to renew. At first, on learning of the decision, his reaction had been surprise, though not concern. Plenty of other lenders, he assumed, would willingly take over – at a higher interest rate[58], no doubt – but, on whatever terms, producing the two million dollars needed. It was only when he had been decisively turned down by everyone approached[59] – banks, trusts, insurance companies, and private lenders – that his original confidence waned. One banker whom he knew well told him frankly, “Hotels like yours are out of favor, Warren. A lot of people think the day of the big independents is over, and nowadays the chain hotels are the only ones which can show reasonable profit. Besides, look at your balance sheet. You've been losing money steadily.”

His protestations that present losses were temporary and would reverse themselves when business improved, achieved nothing. He was simply not believed.

It was at this time that Curtis O'Keefe had telephoned suggesting their meeting in New Orleans this week. “Absolutely all I have in mind is a friendly chat, Warren,” the magnate had declared. “After all, we're a couple of aging innkeepers, you and me. We should see each other sometimes.” But Warren Trent was not deceived by the words. The vultures are hovering, he thought. Curtis O'Keefe would arrive today and there was not the slightest doubt that he was fully briefed on the St. Gregory's financial problems.

Many years earlier, Aloysius Royce's father served Warren Trent first as body servant and later as companion and privileged friend. Aloysius was little more than a boy when his father had died over a decade ago, but he had never forgotten Warren Trent's face at the old Negro's funeral. They had walked away from the cemetery together, Aloysius with his hand in Warren Trent's, who told him, “You'll stay on with me at the hotel. Later we'll work something out.” The boy agreed trustingly – his father's death had left him entirely alone, his mother having died at his birth – and the “something” had turned out to be college followed by law school, from which he would graduate in a few weeks' time. In the meanwhile, as the boy became a man, he had taken over the running of the owner's suite and, though most of the physical work was done by other employees, Aloysius performed personal services which Warren Trent accepted. And yet, despite their intimacy and the knowledge that he could take liberties[60] which Warren Trent would never tolerate in others, Aloysius Royce was conscious of a border never to be crossed. Now he told W.T. about the last night's events. Warren Trent listened, and at the end said, “McDermott handled everything properly. Why don't you like him?”

He answered, “Maybe there's some chemistry between us doesn't mix. Or perhaps I don't like big white football players proving how kind they are by being nice to colored boys.”

Warren Trent eyed Royce quizzically. “You're a complicated one. Have you thought you might be doing McDermott an injustice?”

“Just as I said, maybe it's chemical.”

“Your father had an instinct for people. But he was a lot more tolerant than you.”

“A dog likes people who pat him on the head. That's because his thinking isn't complicated by knowledge and education.”

“Even if it were[61], I doubt he'd choose those particular words.” Trent's eyes, appraising, met the younger man's and Royce was silent. The remembrance of his father always disturbed him. He answered now, “Maybe I used wrong words, but it doesn't change the sense.”

Warren Trent nodded without comment and took out his old– fashioned watch. “You'd better tell young McDermott to come and see me. Ask him to come here. I'm a little tired this morning.”

The two were in the lavishly furnished living-room of Warren Trent's suite, the older man relaxed in a deep, soft chair, his feet raised upon a footstool. Peter sat facing him.

“Something I'd like to deal with concerns the room clerks.” Peter described the Albert Wells incident and saw Warren Trent's face harden at the mention of the room change.

The older man growled, “We should have closed off that room years ago. Maybe we'd better do it now.”

“I don't think it need be closed, if we use it as a last resort and tell the guest what he's getting into.”

Warren Trent nodded. “Attend to it.”

Peter hesitated. “What I'd like to do is give some specific instructions on room changes generally. There have been other incidents and I think it needs pointing out that our guests aren't to be moved around like checkers on a board.”

“Deal with the one thing. If I want general instructions I'll issue them.”

The curt response, Peter thought, showed what was wrong with the hotel's management. Mistakes were dealt with after they happened, with little or no attempt to correct their root cause. Now he said, “I thought you should know about the Duke and Duchess of Croydon. The Duchess asked for you personally.” He described the incident of the spilled shrimp Creole and the differing version of the waiter Sol Natchez.

Warren Trent grumbled, “I know that damn woman. She won't be satisfied unless the waiter's fired.”

“I don't believe he should be fired.”

“Then tell him to go fishing for a few days – with pay – but to keep the hell out of the hotel. And warn him from me that next time he spills something, to be sure it's boiling and over the Duchess's head. I suppose she still has those damn dogs.”

“Yes.” Peter smiled.

A Louisiana law forbade animals in rooms. In the Croydons' case, Warren Trent had agreed that the presence of the terriers would not be noticed officially, if they got in and out by a rear door. The Duchess, however, paraded the dogs each day through the main lobby.

“I had some trouble with Ogilvie last night.” Peter reported the chief house officer's absence.

Reaction was quick. “I've told you before to leave Ogilvie alone. He's responsible directly to me.”

“It makes things difficult ifthere's something to be done…” “You heard what I said. Forget Ogilvie!” Warren Trent's face was red, but less from anger, Peter suspected, than embarrassment. The hands-off-Ogilvie rule didn't make sense and the proprietor knew it.

Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent announced, “Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives.”

“Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?”

“I don't know. It depends on a lot of things.”

For a moment Peter felt sympathy for the older man. The St. Gregory was to Warren Trent more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's work. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high. It must be hard to accept that the St. Gregory had slipped behind the times. And Peter thought that new financing and a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders[62], even, perhaps, restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were, both the capital and control would have to come from outside – he supposed through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days here might well be numbered.

The proprietor asked, “What's our convention situation?”

“The Congress of American Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two hundred and eighty rooms.”

Warren Trent nodded approval. At least, he reflected, the news was not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of business, and the dentistry convention was an achievement.

“We had a full house last night,” Warren Trent said. He added, “In this business it's either feast or famine[63]. Can we handle today's arrivals?”

“I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our overbookings are a little high.”[64]

The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no accommodation was available. He felt awful as a fellow human being and also because he was absolutely sure that those people would never again come back to his hotel.

In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers' convention could move in. Recollection of the chaos, with hundreds of angry engineers and their women in the lobby, some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the new arrivals were sent to motels in outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel – more than the profit on both conventions.

Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from a box beside him. When he had done so, Peter said, “I talked with the Roosevelt[65]. If we're in a jam[66] tonight they can help us out with maybe thirty rooms.” Even fiercely competitive hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the roles would be reversed[67].

“All right,” Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, “now what's the outlook for the fall?”

“It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union conventions falling through.”

“Why have they fallen through?”

“It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act[68], and the unions resent it.” Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.

Without looking up the young Negro said, “Don't yo' worry about sparing my feelings[69], Mistuh McDermott” – Royce was using the exaggerated accent – “because us colored folks are right used to that.”

Warren Trent said, “Cut out the comic lines[70].”

“Yessir!” Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two. Now his voice was normal. “But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to stay away until this and others like it admit that times have changed.”

Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. “Answer him,” he told Peter McDermott. “Around here we don't mince words.”[71]

“It so happens[72],” Peter said quietly, “that I agree with what he said.”

“Why so, Mr. McDermott?” Royce taunted. “You think it'd be better for business? Make your job easier?”

“Those are good reasons,” Peter said.

Warren Trent slammed down his hand hard upon the chair arm. “Never mind the reasons! What matters is, you're being damn fools, both of you.”

It was a recurring question. In Louisiana, most hotel chains had nominally complied with the Civil Rights Act, but then, quietly went back to their long-established segregation policies. As for the St. Gregory, it simply resisted change.

“No!” Viciously, Warren Trent stubbed out his cigar. “Whatever's happening anywhere else, I say we're not ready for it here. So we've lost the union conventions. All right, it's time we got off our backsides[73] and tried for something else.”

It was quiet in the big living-room, with only a whisper from the air conditioning, and occasional sounds from the city below. Warren Trent could feel his heart pounding heavily – an effect of the anger. It was a warning, he supposed, which he should heed more often. Yet nowadays so many things upset him, making emotions hard to control and to remain silent. It was because he sensed so much was disappearing beyond his control. Besides, anger had always come easily – except for those few brief years when Hester had taught him to use patience and a sense of humor, and for a while he had. How long ago it seemed! – more than thirty years since he had carried her, as a young bride, across the threshold of this very room. And how short a time they had had: those few brief years, joyous beyond measure, until the paralytic polio struck without warning. It had killed Hester in twenty-four hours, leaving Warren Trent, mourning and alone, and the St. Gregory.

He rose awkwardly from the deep chair and moved to the window, looking across the rooftops of the French Quarter. Was the hotel worth fighting for? Why not give up, sell out and let time and change take them both? Curtis O'Keefe would make a fair deal[74]. There would be enough money left on which he could live, at whatever standard he chose, for the remainder of his life.

Surrender: perhaps that was the answer. Surrender to changing times. After all, what was a hotel except so much brick and mortar?[75] He had tried to make it more, but in the end he had failed. Let it go!

And yet… if he did, what else was left?

Nothing. For himself there would be nothing left. He waited, wondering, his eyes looking at the city spread before him. It too had seen change, had been French, Spanish, and American, yet had somehow survived as itself.

No! He would not sell out. Not yet. While there was still hope, he would hold on. There were still four days in which to raise the mortgage money[76] somehow, and beyond that the present losses were a temporary thing. Soon the tide would turn[77], leaving the St. Gregory solvent and independent.

He walked stiffly across the room to an opposite window. His eyes caught the gleam of an airplane high to the north. It was a jet, losing height and preparing to land at the Airport. He wondered if Curtis O'Keefe was aboard.

2

When Christine Francis found him, Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, was standing at the Reception, making his daily check. Most hotels cared nothing about the morals of those who stayed within their walls. Their concern was a single basic question: Could a guest pay?

With a swift movement Sam Jakubiec put the ledger cards back in place and closed the file drawer containing them. “Now,” he said, “what can I do?”

“We've hired a private duty nurse for 1410.” Briefly Christine reported the previous night's crisis concerning Albert Wells. “I'm a little worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it, and I'm not sure he realizes how much it will cost.” She might have added, but didn't, that she was more concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.

Jakubiec nodded. “That private nursing can run into big money.” Walking together, they moved away from Reception to the credit manager's office.

“Madge,” Sam Jakubiec said, “see what we have on Wells, Albert.”

Without answering, the secretary opened a drawer. Jakubiec took the card the secretary offered him. Scanning it, he observed, “He looks all right. Stayed with us six times. Paid cash. One small problem which seems to have been settled.”

“I know about that,” Christine said. “It was our fault.”

The credit man nodded. “I'd say there's nothing to worry about. I'll look into it, though; find out what the charge is going to be, then have a talk with Mr. Wells. If he has a cash problem we could maybe help out, give him a little time to pay.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Christine felt relieved, knowing that Jakubiec could be helpful and sympathetic. She recrossed the main lobby, acknowledging “good mornings” from bellboys, the florist, and one of the assistant managers. Then, bypassing the elevators, she ran lightly up the central stairway to the main mezzanine.

Since last night Christine had found herself thinking about Peter a good deal. She wondered if the time they had spent together had produced the same effect in him. At several moments she caught herself wishing that this was true. Over the years in which she had learned to live alone there had been men in Christine's life, but none she had taken seriously. At times, it seemed as if instinct were protecting her from renewing the kind of close relationship which five years ago had been broken so savagely. All the same, at this moment she wondered where Peter was and what he was doing. Well, she decided practically, sooner or later in the course of the day their ways would cross.

Back in her own office in the executive suite, Christine looked briefly into Warren Trent's, but the proprietor had not yet come down from his fifteenth-floor apartment. The morning mail was stacked on her own desk, and several telephone messages required attention soon. She decided first to complete the matter which had taken her downstairs. Lifting the telephone, she asked for room 1410. A woman's voice answered – presumably the private duty nurse. Christine identified herself and inquired politely after the patient's health.

“Mr. Wells passed a comfortable night,” the voice informed her, “and his condition is improved.”

Wondering why some nurses felt they had to sound like official bulletins, Christine replied, “In that case, perhaps I can drop in.”

“Not for some time, I'm afraid. Dr. Aarons will be seeing the patient this morning, and I wish to be ready for him.”

It sounded, Christine thought, like a state visit. The idea of the pompous Dr. Aarons being attended by an equally pompous nurse amused her. Aloud she said, “In that case, please tell Mr. Wells I called and that I'll see him this afternoon.”

3

The conference in the owner's suite left Peter McDermott in a mood of frustration. Striding away down the fifteenth-floor corridor he reflected that his meetings with Warren Trent always went the same way. As he had on other occasions, he wished that he could have six months and a free hand to manage the hotel himself.

Near the elevators he stopped to use a house phone, asking Reception what accommodation had been reserved for Mr. Curtis O'Keefe's party. There were two adjoining suites on the twelfth floor, and Peter used the service stairway to descend the two flights. Like all big hotels, the St. Gregory pretended not to have a thirteenth floor, naming it the fourteenth instead.

All four doors to the two reserved suites were open and, from within, the noise of a vacuum cleaner was heard. Inside, two maids were working under the critical eye of Mrs. Blanche du Quesnay, the St. Gregory's sharp-tongued but highly competent housekeeper. She turned as Peter came in, her bright eyes flashing.

“I might have known that one of you men would be checking up to see if I'm capable of doing my own job.”

Peter grinned. “Relax, Mrs. Q. Mr. Trent asked me to drop in.” He liked the middle-aged red-haired woman, one of the most reliable department heads. The two maids were smiling. He winked at them, adding for Mrs. du Quesnay, “If Mr. Trent had known you were giving this your personal attention he'd have wiped the whole thing from his mind[78].”

“And if we run out of soft soap in the laundry we'll send for you,” the housekeeper said.

He laughed, then inquired, “Have flowers and a basket of fruit been ordered?” The magnate, Peter thought, probably grew tired of the inevitable fruit basket – standard salutation of hotels to visiting VIPs. But its absence might be noticed.

“They're on the way up.” Mrs. du Quesnay looked up and said pointedly, “From what I hear, though, Mr. O'Keefe brings his own flowers, and not in vases either.”

It was a reference – which Peter understood – to the fact that Curtis O'Keefe was seldom without a feminine escort on his travels. He ignored it.

Both suites, Peter saw as he walked through them, had been gone over thoroughly. There was nothing else to be done, Peter thought.

Then a thought struck him. Curtis O'Keefe, he remembered, prayed frequently, sometimes in public. One report claimed that when a new hotel interested him he prayed for it as a child did for a Christmas toy; another, that before negotiations a private church service was held which O'Keefe executives attended dutifully.

The thought prompted Peter to check the Bibles – one in each room. He was glad he did.

As usually happened when they had been in use for any length of time, the Bibles' front pages were dotted with call girls' phone numbers, since a Bible – as experienced travelers knew – was the first place to seek that kind of information. Peter showed the books silently to Mrs. du Quesnay. “Mr. O'Keefe won't be needing these, now will he? I'll have new ones sent up.”

Taking the Bibles under her arm, she regarded Peter questioningly. “I suppose what Mr. O'Keefe likes or doesn't is going to be important to people keeping their jobs around here.”

He shook his head. “I honestly don't know, Mrs. Q. Your guess is as good as mine.”[79]

Mrs. du Quesnay, he knew, supported an invalid husband and any threat to her job would be cause for anxiety. He felt a genuine sympathy for her as he rode an elevator to the main mezzanine.

In the event of a management change, Peter supposed, most of the younger and brighter staff members would have an opportunity to stay on. He imagined that most would take it since the O'Keefe chain had a reputation for treating its employees well. Older employees, though, had a good deal more to worry about.

As Peter McDermott approached the executive suite, the chief engineer, Doc Vickery, was leaving it. Stopping, Peter said, “Number four elevator was giving some trouble last night, chief. I wondered if you knew.”

The chief nodded his bald head. “It's a poor business when machinery that needs money spending on it doesna' get it.”

“Is it really that bad?” The engineering budget, Peter knew, had been cut down recently, but this was the first he had heard of serious trouble with the elevators.

The chief shook his head. “If you mean shall we have a big accident, the answer's no. But we've had small breakdowns and sometime there'll be a bigger one.”

Peter nodded. He inquired, “What is it you need?”

“A hundred thousand dollars to start. With that I'd rip out most of the elevator guts and replace them, then some other things as well.”

Peter whistled softly.

“I'll tell you one thing,” the chief observed. “Good machinery's a lovely thing, and most times it'll do more work than you think it could. But somewhere along there's a death point you'll never get by, no matter how much you – and the machinery – want to.”

Peter was still thinking about the chief's words when he entered his own office. What was the death point, he wondered, for an entire hotel?

There was a pile of mail, memos and telephone messages on his desk. Another thing: he must drop in soon to see Christine. There were several small matters requiring decisions from Warren Trent. Then, grinning, he told himself: Stop rationalizing! You want to see her, and why not?

As he debated which to do first, the telephone bell shrilled. It was Reception, one of the room clerks. “I thought you'd want to know,” he said. “Mr. Curtis O'Keefe has just checked in.”

4

Curtis O'Keefe marched swiftly into the busy lobby. Glancing around, his experienced man's eye noticed the signs. Small signs, but significant: a newspaper left in a chair and uncollected; a half-dozen cigarette butts in a sand urn by the elevators; a button missing from a bellboy's uniform; two burned-out light bulbs in the chandelier above.

In a hotel of the O'Keefe chain, there would have been whip-cracking action[80], and perhaps dismissals. But the St. Gregory isn't my hotel, Curtis O'Keefe reminded himself. Not yet.

He headed for Reception, a slender, six-foot figure in a pressed gray suit, moving with dance-like steps. His lithe athlete's body had been his pride through most of his fifty-six years.

At the marble-topped counter, barely looking up, a room clerk pushed a registration pad forward. The hotelier ignored it. He announced evenly, “My name is O'Keefe and I have reserved two suites, one for myself, the other in the name of Miss Dorothy Lash.” Now he could see Dodo entering the lobby: all legs and breasts, radiating sex like a pyrotechnic. Heads were turning, as always happened. He had left her at the car to supervise the baggage. She enjoyed doing things like that occasionally. Anything requiring more cerebral strain[81] passed her by.

His words had the effect of a thrown grenade. The room clerk stiffened, straightening his shoulders. As he faced the cool gray eyes which seemed to bore into him, the clerk's attitude changed from indifference to respect. With nervous instinct, a hand went to his tie.

“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Curtis O'Keefe?”

The hotelier nodded.

“Yes, sir. I'm sure your suites are ready, sir. If you'll wait one moment, please.”[82]

O'Keefe stepped back a pace from the counter, allowing other arrivals to move in. Outside, in bright, warm sunshine, airport limousines and taxis were discharging passengers who had come on the breakfast jet flight from New York. He noticed a convention was assembling. A banner suspended from the vaulted lobby roof proclaimed:

WELCOME DELEGATES

CONGRESS OF AMERICAN DENTISTRY

Dodo joined him, “Curtie, they say there's a lotta dentists staying here.”

He said drily, “I'm glad you told me. Otherwise I might never have known.”[83]

“Geez, well maybe I should get that filling done[84]. I always mean to, then somehow never…”

“They're here to open their own mouths, not other people's.” Dodo looked puzzled. Some of O'Keefe's acquaintances, he knew, wondered about his choice of Dodo as a traveling companion when, with his wealth and influence, he could have anyone he chose. He thought of her mild stupidities as merely amusing – perhaps because he grew tired at times of being surrounded by clever minds.

He supposed, though, he would part with Dodo soon. She had been with him for almost a year – longer than most of the others. There were always plenty more starlets to choose from the Hollywood galaxy. He would, of course, take care of her, using his influence to arrange a supporting role[85] or two.

The room clerk returned to the front counter. “Everything is ready, sir.”

Curtis O'Keefe nodded. Then, led by the bell captain, their small procession moved to a waiting elevator.

5

Shortly after Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had been escorted to their suites, Julius “Keycase”[86] Milne obtained a single room.

Keycase telephoned from the Airport to confirm a reservation made several days earlier. In reply he was assured that his booking was in order and he could be accommodated without delay.

Keycase was pleased at the news, as he had planned to make reservations at all of New Orleans' major hotels, employing a different name for each. At the St. Gregory he had reserved as “Byron Meader,” a name of a major sweepstake winner. This seemed like a good omen, and omens impressed Keycase very much indeed.

They had seemed to work out well. His night entry into various Detroit hotel rooms had gone smoothly and rewardingly, largely – he decided afterward – because all room numbers except the last contained the numeral two, his lucky number. It was this final room, without the digit, whose occupant awakened and screamed just as he was packing her mink coat into a suitcase, having already put her cash and jewelry in one of his topcoat pockets.

It was bad luck that a house dick had been within hearing of the screams. But now, having served his time[87] and having enjoyed a successful ten-day foray in Kansas City, he was anticipating a profitable fortnight or so in New Orleans.

It had started well.

He arrived at the Airport, driving from the cheap motel where he had stayed the night before. It was a fine, modern terminal building, Keycase thought, with lots of glass and chrome as well as many trash cans, the latter important to his present purpose.

Strolling through the airport terminal, a trim, well-dressed figure, carrying a folded newspaper beneath his arm, Keycase stayed carefully alert. He gave the appearance[88] of a well-to– do businessman, relaxed and confident. Only his eyes moved ceaselessly, following the movements of the travelers, pouring into the terminal from limousines and taxis which had delivered them from downtown hotels. Twice he saw the beginning of the thing he was looking for. Two men, reaching into pockets for tickets or change, found a room key which they had carried away by mistake. The first took the trouble to locate a postal box and mail the key, as suggested on its plastic tag. The other handed his to an airline clerk who put it in a cash drawer, probably for return to the hotel.

Both incidents were disappointing, but Keycase was a patient man. Soon, he knew, what he was waiting for would happen.

Ten minutes later he was rewarded.

A balding man, carrying a topcoat, stopped to choose a magazine on his way to the departure hall. At the newsstand cash desk he discovered a key which passing a trash can he threw in.

For Keycase the rest was routine. Strolling past the trash can, he tossed in his own folded newspaper, then, as if abruptly changing his mind, turned back and recovered it. At the same time he looked down, found the key and took it quietly. A few minutes later in the privacy of the men's toilet he read that it was for room 641 of the St. Gregory Hotel.

Half an hour later, a similar incident ended with the same kind of success. The second key was also for the St. Gregory – a convenience which prompted Keycase to telephone at once, confirming his own reservation there.

From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the five-year-old Ford sedan. It was an ideal car for Keycase, neither old nor new enough to be noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were the Michigan license plates – an attractive green on white. He had considered using fake Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk.

He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits, and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located the day before. He parked a few blocks from the hotel, and removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel room. It was expensive to maintain an extra room. But it was prudent. The motel would serve as a hiding place for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be left at once. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was personally identifiable.

He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, giving his bags to a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room clerk, conscious of well-cut clothes and firm features of his face, treated the newcomer with respect and allocated room 830. Now, Keycase thought agreeably, there would be three St. Gregory keys in his possession – one the hotel knew about and two it didn't.

Room 830 turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway was only a few yards away.

When he was alone he unpacked carefully. Later, he decided, he would have a sleep in preparation for the serious night's work ahead.

6

The morning newspapers lay around the Duchess of Croydon's bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly and now she lay back, propped against pillows, her mind working busily.

On a bedside table a room-service tray had been used and pushed aside. Even in moments of crisis the Duchess was accustomed to breakfasting well.

The Duke, who had eaten alone in the living-room, had returned to the bedroom a few moments earlier. He too had read the newspaper as soon as it arrived. Now, he was pacing restlessly. Occasionally he passed a hand through his disordered hair.

“For goodness sake, keep still!” The tenseness was in his wife's voice. “I can't possibly think when you're parading like a stallion at Ascot[89].”

He turned, his face lined and despairing in the bright morning light. “What bloody good will thinking do? Nothing's going to change.”

“Thinking always helps. That's why some people make a success of things and others don't.”

His hand went through his hair once more. “Nothing looks any better than it did last night.”

“At least it isn't any worse,” the Duchess said practically, “and that's something to be thankful for. We're still here – intact.”

He shook his head wearily. He had had little sleep during the night. “How does it help?”

“As I see it, it's a question of time. Time is on our side. The longer we wait and nothing happens…” She stopped, then went on slowly, thinking aloud, “What we need is to have some attention focused on you.”

The Duke resumed his pacing. “Only thing likely to do that is an announcement confirming my appointment to Washington.”

“Exactly.”

“You can't hurry it. If Hal feels he's being pushed, he'll blow the roof off Downing Street.”[90]

There was a trace of hysteria in the Duke of Croydon's voice. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking.

“We shall not give up!” In contrast to her husband, the Duchess's tone was businesslike. “Even prime ministers respond to pressure if it's from the right quarter. Hal's no exception. I'm going to call London.”

“Why?”

“I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to speed up your appointment.”

The Duke shook his head doubtfully.

“Geoffrey's good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides, if we sit here and wait it may be worse still.” Matching action to her words, the Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed the operator, “I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn.”

The call came through in twenty minutes. When the Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was unenthusiastic. From across the bedroom the Duke could hear his brother-in-law's deep voice, “Simon's appointment to Washington is a long shot right now.[91] Some of those in Cabinet feel he's the wrong man for the time.”

“If things are left as they are, how long will a decision take?”

“Hard to say for sure, old thing. The way I hear, though, it could be weeks.”

“We simply cannot wait weeks,” the Duchess insisted. “You'll have to take my word, Geoffrey, it would be an awful mistake not to make an effort now.”

“Can't see it myself.” The voice from London was annoyed.

“What I'm asking is for the family's sake as well as our own.” There was a pause, then the cautious question, “Is Simon with you?”

“Yes.”

“What's behind all this? What's he been up to?”[92]

“Even if there were an answer,” the Duchess of Croydon responded, “I'd scarcely be so foolish as to give it on the public telephone.”

There was a silence once more, then the reluctant admission, “Well, you usually know what you're doing.”

The Duchess caught her husband's eye. She gave a nod before inquiring of her brother, “Am I to understand, then, that you'll act as I ask?”

“I don't like it, sis[93]. I still don't like it.” But he added, “Very well, I'll do what I can.”

In a few more words they said goodbye.

The bedside telephone had been replaced only a moment when it rang again. Both Croydons started, the Duke moistening his lips nervously. He listened as his wife answered.

“Yes?”

A nasal voice inquired, “Duchess of Croydon?”

“This is she.”

“Ogilvie. Chief house officer.” There was the sound of heavy breathing down the line, and a pause as if the caller were allowing time for the information to sink in.

The Duchess waited. When nothing further was said she asked pointedly, “What is it you want?”

“A private talk. With your husband and you.” It was a blunt unemotional statement.

“If this is business I suggest you have made an error. We are accustomed to dealing with Mr. Trent.”

“Do that this time, and you'll wish you hadn't.”[94] The cold, insolent voice held an unmistakable confidence. It caused the Duchess to hesitate. As she did, she was aware her hands were shaking.

She managed to answer, “It is not convenient to see you now.” “When?” Again a pause and heavy breathing.

Whatever this man wanted, she realized, he knew how to take a psychological advantage[95].

She answered, “Possibly later.”

“I'll be there in an hour.” It was a declaration, not a question.

“It may not be…”

Cutting off her protest, there was a click as the caller hung up.

“Who was it? What did they want?” The Duke approached tensely. His gaunt face seemed paler than before.

Momentarily, the Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate desire to have someone else carry the burden of decision making for them both. She knew it was a vain hope, just as it had always been for as long as she could remember. Even Geoffrey always listened to her in the end, as he had just now. Her eyes opened.

“It was a detective. He insists on coming here in an hour.”

“Then he knows! My God – he knows!”

“Obviously he's aware of something. He didn't say what.”

Unexpectedly the Duke of Croydon straightened, his head moving upright and shoulders squaring. His hands became steadier, his mouth a firmer line. He said quietly, “It might go better, even now, if I went… if I admitted.”[96]

“No! Absolutely and positively no!” His wife's eyes flashed. “Understand one thing. Nothing you can possibly do could improve the situation.” There was a silence between them, then the Duchess said, “We shall do nothing. We will wait for this man to come, then discover what he knows and intends.”

Momentarily it seemed as if the Duke would argue. Then, changing his mind, he nodded dully and went out to the adjoining room. A few minutes later he returned carrying two glasses of Scotch. As he offered one to his wife she protested, “You know it's much too early…”

“Never mind that. You need it.” He pressed the glass into her hand.

She held the glass and drained it. The liquor burned, but a moment later flooded her with welcome warmth.

7

At her desk in the outer office[97], Christine Francis had been reading letters. Now she looked up to see Peter McDermott's cheerful face peering around the doorway.

“By the way”, he said, “I suppose you know Curtis O'Keefe's arrived.”

“You're the seventeenth to tell me. I think the phone started ringing the moment he stepped on the sidewalk.”

“It's not surprising. By now many are wondering why he's here. Or rather, when we shall be told officially why he's here.”

Christine said, “I've just arranged a private dinner for tonight in W.T.'s suite – for Mr. O'Keefe and friend. Have you seen her? I hear she's something special.”

He shook his head. “I'm more interested in my own dinner plan involving you, which is why I'm here.”

“If that's an invitation for tonight, I'm free and hungry.”

“Good!” He jumped up, towering over her. “I'll collect you at seven. Your apartment.”

Peter was leaving when, on a table near the doorway, he observed a folded copy of the Times-Picayune. Stopping, he saw it was the same edition – with black headlines proclaiming the hit-and-run fatalities which he had read earlier. He said, “I suppose you saw this.”

“Yes I did. It's horrible, isn't it? When I read it I had an awful sensation of watching the whole thing happen because of going by there last night.”

He looked at her strangely. “It's funny you should say that. I had a feeling too. It bothered me last night and again this morning.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“I'm not sure. The nearest thing is – it seems as if I know something, and yet I don't.” Peter shrugged, dismissing the idea. “I expect it's as you say – because we went by.” He replaced the newspaper where he had found it. As he strode out he turned and waved back to her, smiling.

At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells.

She took an elevator to the fourteenth floor then, turning down the long corridor, saw a stocky figure approaching. It was Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager. As he came nearer, she observed that he was holding a slip of paper and his expression was dour.

Seeing Christine, he stopped. “I've been to see your invalid friend, Mr. Wells.”

“If you looked like that, you couldn't have cheered him up much.”

“Tell you the truth,” Jakubiec said, “he didn't cheer me up either. I got this out of him, but lord knows how good it is.”

Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. It was a soiled sheet of stationery with a grease stain in one corner. On the sheet, Albert Wells had written and signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.

“In his quiet sort of way,” Jakubiec said, “he's an obstinate old cuss[98]. Wasn't going to give me anything at first. Said he'd pay his bill when it was due.”

“People are sensitive about money,” Christine said. “Especially being short of it.”

The credit man noted impatiently. “Hell! – most of us are short of money. I always am.”

Christine regarded the bank draft doubtfully. “Is this legal?”

“It's legal if there's money in the bank to meet it. You can write a check on sheet music[99] or a banana skin if you feel like it. But most people who have cash in their accounts at least carry printed checks. Your friend Wells said he couldn't find one.”

As Christine handed the paper back, “You know what I think,” Jakubiec said, “I think he's honest and he has the money. Trouble is, he already owes more than half of this two hundred, and that nursing bill is soon going to swallow the rest.”

“What are you going to do?”

The credit manager rubbed a hand across his baldness. “First of all, I'm going to invest in a phone call to Montreal to find out if this is a good check.”

“And if it isn't good, Sam?”

“He'll have to leave – at least as far as I'm concerned. Of course, if you want to tell Mr. Trent and he says differently”, – Jakubiec shrugged – “that's something else again.”

Christine shook her head. “I don't want to bother W.T. But I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me before you do anything.”

“Be glad to, Miss Francis.” The credit manager nodded, then continued down the corridor.

A moment later Christine knocked at the door of room 1410.

It was opened by a uniformed, serious-faced, middle-aged nurse. Christine identified herself and the nurse instructed, “Wait here, please. I'll inquire if Mr. Wells will see you.”

There were footsteps inside and Christine smiled as she heard a voice say, “Of course I'll see her. Don't keep her waiting.”

When the nurse returned, Christine suggested, “If you'd like to have a few minutes off, I can stay until you come back.”

“Well…” The older woman hesitated.

The voice from inside said, “You do that. Miss Francis knows what she's up to. If she didn't I'd have been a goner last night.”[100]

“All right,” the nurse said. “I'll just be ten minutes and if you need me, please call the coffee shop.”

Albert Well smiled as Christine came in. The little man was sitting propped by a pile of pillows. He was still pale, but the pallor of the previous day had gone.

He said, “This is good of you to come 'n see me, miss.”

“It isn't a question of being good,” Christine assured him. “I wanted to know how you were.”

“Thanks to you, much better.” He gestured to the door as it closed behind the nurse. “But she's a dragon, that one.”

“She's probably good for you.” Christine looked around the room approvingly. Everything in it, including the old man's personal belongings, had been neatly rearranged. A tray of medication was set out on a bedside table. The oxygen cylinder they had used the previous night was still in place, but the improvised mask had been replaced by a more professional one.

“Oh, she knows what she's up to all right,” Albert Wells admitted, “though another time I'd like a prettier one.”

Christine smiled. “You are feeling better.” She wondered if she should say anything about her talk with Sam Jakubiec, then decided not. Instead she asked, “You said last night, didn't you, that you started getting these attacks when you were a miner?”

“The bronchitis, I did; that's right.”

“Were you a miner for very long, Mr. Wells?”

“More years'n[101] I like to think about, miss. Though there's always things to remind you of it – the bronchitis for one, then these.” He spread his hands, palms up and she saw they were gnarled and toughened from the manual work of many years.

Impulsively she reached out to touch them. “It's something to be proud of, I should think. I'd like to hear about what you did.”

He shook his head. “Sometime maybe when you've a lot of hours and patience. Mostly, though, it's old men's tales, 'n[102] old men get boring if you give 'em[103] half a chance.”

Christine sat on a chair beside the bed. “I do have patience, and I don't believe about it being boring.”

He chuckled. “ There are some in Montreal who'd argue that.” “I've often wondered about Montreal. I've never been there.” “It's a mixed-up place – in some ways a lot like New Orleans.”

She asked curiously, “Is that why you come here every year? Because it seems the same?”

The little man considered. “I guess I come here because I like things old-fashioned and there aren't too many places left where they are. It's the same with this hotel. It's a bit rubbed off in places – you know that. But mostly it's homely, 'n I mean it the best way. I hate chain hotels. They're all the same – slick and polished, and when you're in 'em it's like living in a factory.”

Christine hesitated, then told him, “I've some news you won't like. I'm afraid the St. Gregory may be part of a chain before long.”

“If it happens I'll be sorry,” Albert Wells said. “Though I figured you people were in money trouble here.”

“How did you know that?”

The old man ruminated. “Last time or two I've been here I could tell things were getting wrong. What's the trouble now?”

She answered, smiling, “I've probably talked too much already. What you'll certainly hear, though, is that Mr. Curtis O'Keefe arrived this morning.”

“Oh no! – not him.” Albert Wells' face showed genuine concern. “If that one gets his hands on this place he'll make it a copy of all his others. It'll be a factory, like I said. This hotel needs changes, but not his kind.”

Christine asked curiously, “What kind of changes, Mr. Wells?”

“A good hotel man could tell you better'n me, though I've a few ideas. I do know one thing, miss – just like always, the public's going through a fad[104]. Right now they want the slickness 'n the chrome and sameness. But in time they'll get tired and want to come back to older things – like real hospitality and a bit of character and atmosphere. Only trouble is, by the time they understand it, most of the good places – including this one maybe – will have gone.” He stopped, then asked, “When are they deciding?”

“I really don't know,” Christine said. “Except I don't suppose Mr. O'Keefe will be here long.”

Albert Wells nodded. “He doesn't stay long anywhere from all I've heard. Works fast when he sets his mind on something[105]. Well, I still say it'll be a pity, and if it happens I won't be back.”

“We'd miss you, Mr. Wells. At least I would – assuming I survived the changes[106].”

“You'll survive, and you'll be where you want to be, miss.”

She laughed without replying and they talked of other things until the nurse returned. She said, “Thank you, Miss Francis.” Then, looking at her watch: “It's time for my patient to have his medication and rest.”

“I have to go anyway,” Christine said. “I'll come to see you again tomorrow if I may, Mr. Wells.”

“I'd like it if you would.”

As she left, he winked at her.

A note on her office desk requested Christine to call Sam Jakubiec. She did, and the credit manager answered.

“I thought you'd like to know,” he said. “I phoned that bank at Montreal. It looks like your friend's okay.”

“That's good news, Sam. What did they say?”

“Well, they just said to present the check for payment. I told them the amount, though, and they didn't seem worried, so I guess he's got it.”

“I'm glad,” Christine said.

“I'm glad too.”

She laughed. “And thanks for calling.”

8

Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had settled comfortably into their suites, with Dodo unpacking for both of them as she always enjoyed doing. Now, in the larger of the two living rooms, the hotelier was studying a financial statement, labeled Confidential – St. Gregory.

Dodo, after a careful inspection of the magnificent basket of fruit which Peter McDermott had ordered delivered to the suite, selected an apple and was slicing it as the telephone at O'Keefe's elbow rang twice within a few minutes.

The first call was from Warren Trent – a polite welcome and an inquiry whether everything was in order. After an acknowledgment that it was – “Couldn't be better, my dear Warren, even in an O'Keefe” – Curtis O'Keefe accepted an invitation for himself and Dodo to dine privately with the St. Gregory's proprietor that evening.

“We'll be truly delighted,” the hotelier said graciously, “and, by the way, I admire your house.”

“That,” Warren Trent said drily down the telephone, “is what I've been afraid of.”

O'Keefe laughed, “We'll talk tonight, Warren. A little business if we must, but mostly I'm looking forward to a conversation with a great man.”

As he replaced the telephone, Dodo's brow was furrowed. “If he's such a great man, Curtie, why's he selling out to you?”

“Mostly because we've moved into another age and he doesn't know it. Nowadays it isn't sufficient to be a good innkeeper; you must become a cost accountant too.”

“Gee,”[107] Dodo said, “these sure are big apples.”

The second call, which followed immediately, was from a pay telephone in the lobby. “Hullo, Ogden,” Curtis O'Keefe said when the caller identified himself, “I'm reading your report now.”

The caller, an accountant, whose name was Ogden Bailey, had been registered in the hotel for the past two weeks as Richard Fountain of Miami. With caution he had avoided using a house phone or calling from his own room on the fourth floor. Now, he stated, “There are some points we'd like to discuss, Mr. O'Keefe, and some information I think you'll want.”

“Very well. Give me fifteen minutes, then come to see me.”

Hanging up, Curtis O'Keefe said to Dodo, “I'm glad you enjoy the fruit. If it weren't for you, I'd put a stop to all these harvest festivals.”

“Well, it isn't that I like it so much.” The baby blue eyes were turned widely upon him. “But you never eat any, and it just seems awful to waste it.”

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Примечания

1

начальник охраны

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2

улица в Новом Орлеане, штат Луизиана

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3

собиралась уходить

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и ночной портье на больничном

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5

бельэтаж

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6

Французский квартал, старейшая часть Нового Орлеана

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7

стриптиз-бар

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8

Мексиканский залив

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9

Монреаль, город в Канаде

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утром он устроит разнос

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11

старший коридорный

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12

президентский номер (люкс-апартамент)

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13

креветки по-креольски

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14

Меню не важно.

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15

ваша светлость

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16

Уолдорф / Вальдорф – гостиничная сеть

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17

Наверное, оставил сигареты в машине.

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18

Разбирательством занимаетесь?

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19

Есть некий д-р Кёниг

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деловым тоном

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21

Да. / Слушаю.

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брюки (шотл.)

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милочка (шотл.)

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что он был небогатым человеком

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Вошёл механик в комбинезоне

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26

Ровное шипение означало, что кислород пошёл.

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упрёки

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Было бы интересно посмотреть

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29

Больше не оправдываю надежд, да?

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30

Ты далеко зашёл.

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31

штатный врач

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он её просто не замечал

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Она почувствовала желание.

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взял на заметку

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Он был на волосок от смерти

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36

Его делам конца-края не будет.

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я запала на нового повара

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я мастер омлетов

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закончивший университет с отличием

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40

В результате его уволили и внесли в чёрный список крупных сетевых отелей.

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41

Так или иначе к концу этой недели.

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надёжное капиталовложение

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в штатском

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авария, виновник которой скрылся с места преступления

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Ты работал барменом?

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46

Человеческий дух быстро выздоравливает.

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просто ради диплома

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48

Приехав из Висконсина, я там жила.

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Ежедневная газета, издававшаяся в Новом Орлеане

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раздел объявлений в газете

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тотчас

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Это похоже на старика.

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Или не будет?

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Придраться было не к чему

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Ты не стесняйся, клади побольше. Может, нам недолго осталось этим пользоваться.

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доверенные лица

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было время, когда я заказывал музыку, а не танцевал под их жигу

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с более высокой процентной ставкой

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И только когда ему решительно отказали все, к кому он обращался

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позволить себе вольности

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Даже если это так

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творить чудеса

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то пусто, то густо

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У нас превышение заявок на номера.

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Гостиница в Новом Орлеане

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Если мы окажемся в затруднительном положении

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когда им придётся поменяться ролями

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Закон о гражданских правах

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Можете со мной не церемониться

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Прекрати паясничать

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Здесь мы говорим напрямую.

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Получается

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поднять задницу

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заключит честную сделку

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В конце концов, разве отель – это не просто коробка?

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раздобыть закладные деньги

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Скоро дела пойдут на поправку

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он бы выбросил это из головы

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Поживём – увидим.

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разнос

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умственного напряжения

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Одну секундочку, пожалуйста.

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Хорошо, что ты мне сказала. А то я никогда бы не догадался.

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может, мне пломбу поставить

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роль второго плана (в кино)

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Отмычка

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отсидев тюремный срок

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он производил впечатление

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место проведения самых престижных скачек в 40 км от Лондона

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он снесёт крышу с Даунинг-стрит (резиденция премьер– министра Великобритании)

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Назначение Саймона в Вашингтон сейчас маловероятно.

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Что он натворил?

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sister

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В таком случае вы об этом горько пожалеете.

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как давить на психику

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Будет лучше даже сейчас, если я пойду. если я сознаюсь.

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приёмная

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упрямый старый хрыч

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ноты

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Мисс Фрэнсис знает, что делает. Если бы не она, я вчера отдал бы концы.

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years than

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and

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them

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прихоти людей меняются

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когда он задаётся какой-то целью

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если меня здесь оставят

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Вот здорово!

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