The Pink Hotel

by Patrick Dennis; Dorothy Erskine

  Hell, the Imperial was a flea bag, a roach ranch, a riding academy, but Mr. Milner was out of the lobby and it seemed suddenly to Moxley that he had handled a delicate situation very well.

  The cold block in Moxley’s brain began to thaw. He stopped shaking and was lordly with a bellman.

  He was still pleased with himself at eight the next morning and told Purcell with some satisfaction of his master stroke. Purcell went pale under his tan. Moxley had fixed things up in brindle brown. Over, all over, again.

  “My God, Moxley. M. Milner is Miraculous Productions!”

  Julie Templar checked out in hysterics at nine-fifteen with Ma’amselle, little Jane and a mountain of blond luggage.

  M. Milner, as anyone but Moxley would know, was Julie Templar’s producer, one of the five biggest men in Hollywood. He had never married, and he had a sentimental attachment for Julie and little Jane.

  Miraculous Productions would boycott the hotel. Purcell had five empty suites on his hands that might have been filled at season prices. The Old Man . . . but Purcell didn’t like to think about the Old Man.

  Executive Suite

  Purcell’s face was long and straight, but his left eye jerked briefly at Mary across the gold and white Executive Suite. Moxley had been fired resoundingly and in the lobby, bellmen and porters, with no reason to love him, were trying to remember his good points but the Old Man was as righteous as a just God.

  Big, burned-out chunks of his rage fell off into nothing and he subsided, little by little, sputtering occasionally like a dying fire. The Old Man hrr-r-umphed, felt suddenly better and smiled sadly.

  He made a moving, sad little speech about the world being a hard, cruel place where ignorance and bigotry stood between man’s love of man. Jesus, the crematories of Dachau and M. Milner’s selfless contribution to American Culture were touched upon lightly. M. Milner’s millions and his empty suite were mentioned—just. And then the Old Man added that the whole sordid affair would teach Moxley Christian humility and love of God.

  “No use talking about it,” he said, and damned all night clerks to everlasting torment. “Incompetent. No judgment. Irresponsible. Tip hungry. Woman Crazy. Pilferers of the Petty Cash.” The Old Man sighed, meshed irretrievably in detail but poised for Executive Thought.

  Purcell crossed the room and laid a sample menu on Mary’s desk. “Take care of this for me, Miss Street,” he said, indicating DINNER, 6:00 to 9:00 broadly with his thumb. Tonight? he mouthed, and Mary had given him a quick, answering nod behind the Old Man’s back.

  But Moxley wasn’t enough. The Old Man was geared to blood sacrifice now, so he had fired Ernie too, for good measure. Purcell protested, tried to tell the Old Man what a good boy Ernie was, but the Old Man was firm. He called Room Service himself, told the Captain that Ernie would have to go.

  The Old Man seemed to feel, now, that Jane Jeremy’s kidnapping and its heroic sequel had been in the poorest possible taste. He said that the sooner everyone forgot the whole, nasty mess, the better.

  “Lawrence Mendes is checking in tomorrow,” Purcell broke in when he saw that Ernie was done for anyhow.

  “Really, Dave? Very handsome man twenty years ago.”

  “We’ll still have some names. Mrs. Paget Wynne, Ann McCannon’s mother, and little Roger.”

  “Now they’ll really have something to fight about,” Mary told her typewriter, and even the Old Man had laughed.

  J. Arthur became more and more congenial, swinging around in his chair, almost including Mary.

  “Hired a new night clerk today,” he said. “Fine young fellow. Name’s Cantrill. Widowed mother. Ought to do well. Wellborn,” the Old Man added, licking his lips delicately.

  The machinery of seduction was in operation again, and the Old Man became increasingly good-humored. “Charming fellow,” he said. “Having lunch with him in an hour or so. Put him on the Desk in the next few days. Show you a thing or two.” J. Arthur shrugged with feeling, shook his massive head. “When I think about Moxley.”

  “Don’t forget Mendes,” Purcell said. “They still sigh for him. And the Browne-Smythes. Again. And a new Bundle from Britain. With a title. Business is off everywhere. Worse than last year,” Purcell said glibly. Hell, he said it every year. “They tell me the house count’s down at the Imperial,” he hazarded.

  The Old Man chuckled with appreciation, all good fellow. “No one like you, Dave. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Too much responsibility. All work and no play, you know,” he said archly.

  Purcell didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help it. “Who’s Jack?” he asked.

  The Old Man laughed apoplectically. “He-hen-h-henh-hen-h. Han-h-han-hh-han-hahann-h. “Please,” he said. “Remember our virgin serf. Get back to work. Yes, I said work!” he shouted suddenly. “It’s all they’re good for, Dave. Muliebris Miamiensis. Slaves. Chattels. . . .”

  “Chattels go moo-h-h and they’re contented,” Purcell said.

  “Women are strange, Dave.” The Old Man sighed heavily. “My wife . . . Now you understand me. My wife is a sow.” He snapped his fingers. “As simple as that!” he said. “And now, let’s give a thought to our beautiful, beautiful Christmas.”

  711

  It had been easy after all, Purcell thought the next morning, and Mary was wonderful. They weren’t all alike either, this Ben Franklin to the contrary. They were as different as Ravel and Irving Berlin, and Mary had the best features of both. “My girl!” Purcell said. He sighed and blew his nose. She had looked like such a little lady, too, riding up in the elevator, walking down the corridor, in some kind of tailored white silk thing. Her pearls had been small enough to be real, not that they were, but he had been damned proud of her. And then to have her turn out such a honey. Well, bless her sweet heart.

  He was damned lucky, he told himself, to have found her, the woman who satisfies but does not cloy. Shakespeare had said it first, he guessed, and then all the wise money had said it all over again about Mrs. Simpson. Even now, he could still see Mary’s eyes, big and grave, and her mouth had been like a red flower.

  He hadn’t intended to do it this way either, and he was still sorry. Not for his sake, but for hers. He wouldn’t trade what had happened for all the Mendelssohn in the First National Presbyterian, but women liked icing on their cake, all the trimmings.

  They had had dinner and drinks at the Palmetto Patch, but Mary hadn’t eaten much, she had just sort of looked at him, and then he had taken her up to his room. For a Drambuie, it says here. There was a little smear of her lipstick on the pillow. Purcell picked up the pillow, ran his fingers over it in wonder. Bless her sweet heart.

  He had intended to be good, but they had had a lot of drinks and danced between courses and, dancing, he had known what he wanted to do. She should have slapped his face right then. He looked at the bed. Christ, and she had been a virgin at that.

  He saw her eyes as they had been when he had locked the door and kissed her. She had looked up at him like a kitten and he had told her that he was no good, that he would try to make her, but not to let him, that she was better than that, that he loved her.

  “I think you’re wonderful,” Mary said, and then he had kissed her again.

  She had cried, afterwards, in a forlorn, little-girl sort of way, and he had held her hand and patted her and told her how it was, that she was the one for him, that he was sorry, that he loved her, hadn’t meant it to happen like this.

  He had kissed her hands and mouth, plighting his troth, when a long shudder had run through both of them. Afterwards, he had told her again that he loved her, that he would make it up to her. Mariana. But after that, he didn’t know what had happened. He had gone to sleep, he guessed.

  When he woke, Mary was gone. It had been broad daylight, seven o’clock in fact. His night light was on and a bellman had been pounding at the door. Christ, he hadn’t even taken her home, not that he usually took them home, but this was different. Mary was the sweetest thing he’d eve
r seen, had it all over the others like a tent. She was fun and she looked like a lady and she was better in bed.

  Purcell felt wonderful, better than he had in years. He was happy, he supposed, for maybe the first time in his life, and he could see why it was so popular. He’d make it up to her, Purcell told himself largely. She was the one for him, sweetest thing in the world.

  He’d walk Mary down that aisle prouder than a turkey cock. This was it. Bless her sweet heart. Purcell picked up the pillow, touched it gently with his fingers, kissed the scarlet smear, put it down and gave his face a dry wash with his hands.

  “Bless her sweet, sweet heart!”

  He’d telephone Mary right now, catch her before she’d even left the house. This time he’d pop the question, get things on the proper footing. Let Mary know that this was it—and not just a quick toss in the feathers. Here comes the bride!

  Purcell reached out for the telephone. And just as he did it started ringing like a thing bewitched.

  “Yes?” he said impatiently.

  It was Rosalie at the controls. “You better git right down here, honey,” she screeched. “All hell’s breakin’ loose in the lobby an’ nobody here but the new pretty boy to look after things.”

  “What’s—”

  “What’s up? Well, fer one thing, the Silver Meteor got in early insteada late. Browne-Smythe baggage is here. So’s Mrs. Paget Wynne an’ that brat, Roger. Then there’s about a hunrud early check-ins and some screwball is talkin’ about a truck fulla reindeers. I can’t hardly hear myself think! Also, the Queen wants to see you in the Executive Suite.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Purcell moaned. “Keep everything under control. I’ll be right down.”

  495 Palm Frond Avenue

  Mr. Baldwin’s asthmatic wheeze, his daily platitudes, his nation-wide roundup of weather conditions, summoned Mary from her bed. Not that she’d been in it for more than an hour or two, not that she’d closed an eye. Instead, she had lain there happily, thinking of David and Life and Love and Important Things like that.

  Last night had been wonderful. When David said, “You know I love you, baby,” she’d been so happy that she didn’t think she’d ever know trouble again. Then afterwards, up in David’s room, watching the deep rise and fall of his chest in easy sleep, she’d been so happy that she wanted to laugh and shout, sing and pray.

  But it had been dreadful, going down in the elevator with George by herself, walking through the lobby. She’d felt like a tramp when the doorman was solicitous, got her a cab. “Gee, miss, the Old Man sure cracks the whip, don’t he? I seen Miss Williams work this late manys the time.”

  “Pretty soft,” Mary managed to say with the proper inflection.

  “Why’nt you get married? Look at Miss Williams,” the doorman continued. “I seen ‘em come and go. With your build and that face, you ought to marry a million bucks. Don’t misunderstand me, miss, but this ain’t no place for you.”

  She decided in the taxicab that it showed; that Mother had been right; that the minute a girl gave herself to a man without benefit of clergy something happened to her face so that all the world could see her as a Fallen Woman. But in the privacy of the Baldwins’ bathroom, when she had scrutinized her face, she couldn’t see any change at all, except that she looked happier, more relaxed, her skin pearlier than ever before. If that was how a woman looked when she fell, then Mary was all for sin and lots of it.

  Mary had always been a virtuous girl, disapproving—though still loyal—when Darlene Sheets had confessed to going All the Way with Frank Kissner that summer at the De Molay Outing. She had talked with Darlene, pleaded with her to be less generous of herself, watched in anguish for signs of pregnancy, urged self-control, cold baths and double-dates only to learn that Darlene was going every bit as far with the Bittner boys, the manual training teacher and that insurance adjuster from East St. Louis, wantonly indifferent to Mary’s entreaties.

  Now, lying in her bed, Mary began to come around to Darlene’s more liberal point of view. Mary had given herself freely, willingly, gladly. There had been no fumbling, no hesitation, no remorse. It hadn’t been humiliating or disgusting or painful or any of the things Mary had always feared it would be. With David it had been—well—beautiful, she supposed. Blind animal rut like Darlene’s was one thing; true love like theirs, quite another. And David did love her. Hadn’t he told her so again and again and again?

  Stretching her toes out for her slippers, Mary wondered vacantly if she were pregnant. She hadn’t Done Anything and it had all happened so quickly that she was sure that David hadn’t used one of those things Darlene had told her about. At least she didn’t think he had. Mary realized once again that there was a great deal she didn’t know about a lot of things. All she did know, she told herself, was that she was head over heels in love with the nicest, the handsomest, the most wonderful man in the world and that he loved her, too. Hugging her breasts, Mary got up and looked again at her reflection. Yes, if this was the way a woman looked after she had sinned, Mary wanted to be scarlet—but only with David. She almost hoped now that she was pregnant. A baby—hers and David’s—would be so sunny and beautiful and bright. She’d love it so much she’d almost eat it up and David would make a wonderful, wonderful father. They’d . . .

  “Ornj juice and Sugar Jets all right this morning, Mary?” Mr. Baldwin wheezed through the door. “Seems like we’re fresh outa Grape Nuts.”

  “O-oh, yes, Mr. Baldwin. That would be lovely. I—I’ll be right down.”

  Awakened from her daydream, Mary looked at her wrist watch and rapidly, mechanically, began to dress for another day at the hotel.

  It was only when Mary reached the porte-cochere of the hotel that her courage began to fail her. It was one thing to share a man’s kisses, his embraces, his bed. But to face him again the next morning was quite a different matter. What if he should break the spell by leering at her; by being cavalier, casually possessive; by winking lewdly, licking his chops? What if he should redden, lower his head in mock busy-ness, shuffle and reshuffle papers meaninglessly in his trembling hands? Or, worst of all, what if he were to ignore her; act as if nothing had ever happened between them?

  Mary’s knees buckled slightly as she mounted the two marble steps leading to the hotel. She took a deep breath, grasped the bronze handle on the glass and lucite sheet that served as a front door and marched hopefully into the lobby.

  Mary had worked at the hotel for almost a year—on season and off—but she had never seen the lobby quite like it was this morning. Usually vast and elegant, with only the most sedate sort of bustling, today the lobby seethed. Suitcases, trunks and golf bags were piled in great, haphazard pyramids everywhere. Bellmen dashed back and forth—their stocks and dickies askew, dark stains spreading under the arms of their livery—jostling one another profanely, bickering ominously over whose baggage was whose. A noisy knot of expensively dressed people surrounded the Desk, haranguing the clerk with shrill demands. “I believe I was here first.” . . . “The reservations were made through Cook’s. I have the correspondence and the coupon right here and it distinctly says parlor and two bedrooms.”. . . “But I’ve been coming here every winter for the past. . .”

  Mary looked quickly, furtively, for David Purcell, but he was not at his desk. Confused, she cast a glance toward the cashier’s cage, but Mrs. Dukemer looked right through her. She wondered if . . .

  The harassed Bell Captain touched her elbow. “If I was you, Miss Street, I’d git right upstairs. The Old Man’s been yellin’ for you for the last half hour.”

  “B-but it’s only. . .”

  “I’m jus’ tellin’ ya, Miss Street. Fer yer own good, like.”

  Executive Suite

  J. Arthur Wenton had passed a restless night, a night of anticipation. He had many things to anticipate—some most pleasant; others most unpleasant.

  On the positive side had been young Mr. Cantrill, the new night man. They had dined, just the two of them, by ca
ndlelight here in the Executive Suite. There had been Delice of Crab, sweetbreads and champagne with a parfait so superb as to elicit Mr. Wenton’s telephoned compliments to the new pantrywoman. Mr. Wenton had allowed himself the extravagance of a satin smoking jacket, a splash of Pour un Homme and a touch of mascara. The Liebeslieder Waltzes had issued softly from the Executive Suite’s invisible hi-fi. The conversation had been general, but gratifyingly intimate. Young Mr. Cantrill was the spawn of a wastrel father—wellborn but worthless—whose memory he obviously detested. All to the good. Young Mr. Cantrill was interested in the little theatre movement, liked nonobjective painting, loved period furniture, adored the ballet and worshipped his mother. Splendid. Young Mr. Cantrill was twenty-one years of age. Perfect!

  Mr. Wenton had quivered with admiration for his new find. But he had been discreet, allowed himself no more than a man-to-man slap on the back, a fatherly arm about Mr. Cantrill’s square shoulders as they went down to the Bar-Oque for one good-night brandy. The one brandy had extended to three and Mr. Wenton had allowed their knees to touch lightly under the table, but nothing more. He had sent Mr. Cantrill home to Mother in the hotel limousine, which he had spoken of as the voiture de maison, to the astonishment of the mulatto who drove it, and then returned to the bar for one last meditative brandy.

  And that was when the Other Thing happened.

  From his table in the bar he had seen Purcell enter the hotel, bold as brass, with that buxom little slut Mary Street. At first Mr. Wenton had been unable to believe it. He had groped for his glasses. Put them on with shaking hands. Yes. It was true. There they were, laughing and gazing into one another’s eyes with a look of love that was unmistakable even to Mr. Wenton.