Hotel / Отель

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

© ООО «Издательство «Антология», 2020

Monday evening

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.”

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!”

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?”