Hotel / Отель

“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.

“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!”

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.”

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.”

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.