Hotel / Отель

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.