Hotel

by Arthur Hailey

  Behind them the lounge was filling rapidly. Alongside, two of the adjoining bar stools were already occupied. To a growing tempo of sound Warren Trent drummed his fingers thoughtfully upon the leather-topped bar. Strangely, the anger of a few moments ago had left him. In its place was a steely resolution—to hesitate no longer about the second step he had considered earlier.

  He raised his eyes to the man who, for thirty years, he believed he had known, but never had. “Tom, you’ll not know the why or how, but the last thing you’ve done for me has been a favor. Now go—before I change my mind about sending you to jail.”

  Tom Earlshore turned and, looking neither to right nor left, walked out.

  Passing through the lobby on his way to the Carondelet Street door, Warren Trent coldly avoided glances from employees who observed him. He was in no mood for pleasantries, having learned this morning that betrayal wore a smile and cordiality could be a sheathing for contempt. The remark that he had been laughed at for his attempts to treat employees well had cut deeply—the more, because it had a ring of truth. Well, he thought; wait a day or two. We’ll see who’s laughing then.

  As he reached the busy, sunlit street outside, a uniformed doorman saw him and stepped forward deferentially. Warren Trent instructed, “Get me a taxi.” He had intended to walk a block or two, but a twinge of sciatica, knifing sharply as he came down the hotel steps, made him change his mind.

  The doorman blew a whistle and from the press of traffic a cab nosed to the curb. Warren Trent climbed in stiffly, the man holding the door open, then touching his cap respectfully as he slammed it closed. The respect was another empty gesture, Warren Trent supposed. From now on, he knew, he would look suspiciously on a good many things he once accepted at face value.

  The cab pulled away, and aware of the driver’s scrutiny through the rear-view mirror, he instructed, “Just drive me a few blocks. I want a telephone.”

  The man said, “Lotsa those in the hotel, boss.”

  “Never mind that. Take me to a pay phone.” He felt disinclined to explain that the call he was about to make was far too secret to risk the use of any hotel line.

  The driver shrugged. After two blocks he turned south on Canal Street, once more inspecting his fare through the mirror. “’S a nice day. There’s phones down by the harbor.”

  Warren Trent nodded, glad of a moment or two’s respite.

  The traffic thinned as they crossed Tchoupitoulas Street. A minute later the cab stopped at the parking area in front of the Port Commissioner’s building. A telephone booth was a few paces away.

  He gave the driver a dollar, dismissing the change. Then, about to head for the booth, he changed his mind and crossed Eads Plaza to stand beside the river. The midday heat bore down upon him from above and seeped up comfortingly through his feet from the concrete walkway. The sun, the friend of old men’s bones, he thought.

  Across the half-mile width of Mississippi, Algiers on the far bank shimmered in the heat. The river was smelly today, though that was not unusual. Odor, sluggishness, and mud were part of the Father of Waters’ moods. Like life, he thought; the silt and sludge unchangingly about you.

  A freighter slipped by, heading seaward, its siren wailing at an inbound barge train. The barge train changed course; the freighter moved on without slackening speed. Soon the ship would exchange the river’s loneliness for the greater loneliness of the ocean. He wondered if those aboard were aware, or cared. Perhaps not. Or perhaps, like himself, they had come to learn there is no place in the world where a man is not alone.

  He retraced his steps to the telephone and closed the booth door carefully. “A credit card call,” he informed the operator. “To Washington, D.C.”

  It took several minutes, which included questioning about the nature of his business, before he was connected with the individual he sought. At length the bluff, blunt voice of the nation’s most powerful labor leader—and, some said, among the most corrupt—came on the line.

  “Go ahead. Talk.”

  “Good morning,” Warren Trent said. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be at lunch.”

  “You get three minutes,” the voice said shortly. “You’ve already wasted fifteen seconds.”

  Warren Trent said hurriedly, “Some time ago, when we met, you made a tentative proposal. Possibly you don’t remember …”

  “I always remember. Some people wish I didn’t.”

  “On that occasion I regret that I was somewhat curt.”

  “I’ve a stop watch going here. That was half a minute.”

  “I’m willing to make a deal.”

  “I make deals. Others accept them.”

  “If time’s so all-fired important,” Warren Trent shot back, “let’s not waste it hair-splitting. For years you’ve been trying to get a foot in the hotel business. You also want to strengthen your union’s position in New Orleans. I’m offering you a chance for both.”

  “How high’s the price?”

  “Two million dollars—in a secured first mortgage. In return you get a union shop and write your own contract. I presume it would be reasonable since your own money would be involved.”

  “Well,” the voice mused. “Well, well, well.”

  “Now,” Warren Trent demanded, “will you turn off that damned stop watch?”

  A chuckle down the line. “Never was one. Be surprised, though, how the idea gets people moving. When do you need the money?”

  “The money by Friday. A decision before tomorrow midday.”

  “Came to me last, eh? When everybody’d turned you down?”

  There was no point in lying. He answered shortly, “Yes.”

  “You been losing money?”

  “Not so much that the trend can’t be changed. The O’Keefe people believe it can. They’ve made an offer to buy.”

  “Might be smart to take it.”

  “If I do, you’ll never get this chance from them.”

  There was a silence which Warren Trent did not disturb. He could sense the other man thinking, calculating. He had not the least doubt that his proposal was being considered seriously. For a decade the International Brotherhood of Journeymen had attempted to infiltrate the hotel industry. So far, however, unlike most of the Journeymen’s intensive membership campaigns, they had failed dismally. The reason had been a unity—on this one issue—between hotel operators, who feared the Journeymen, and more honest unions who despised them. For the Journeymen, a contract with the St. Gregory—until now a nonunion hotel—could be a crack in this massive dam of organized resistance.

  As to the money, a two-million-dollar investment—if the Journeymen chose to make it—would be a small bite from the union’s massive treasury. Over the years they had spent a good deal more on the abortive hotel membership campaign.

  Within the hotel industry, Warren Trent realized, he would be reviled and branded a traitor if the arrangement he was suggesting went through. And among his own employees he would be heatedly condemned, at least by those informed enough to know they had been betrayed.

  It was the employees who stood to lose most. If a union contract was signed there would have to be a small wage increase, he supposed, as was usual in such circumstances, as a token gesture. But the increase was due anyway—in fact, overdue—and he had intended to award it himself if the hotel refinancing had been arranged some other way. The existing employees’ pension plan would be abandoned in favor of the union’s, but the only advantage would be to the Journeymen’s treasury. Most significant, union dues-—probably six to ten dollars monthly—would become compulsory. Thus, not only would any immediate wage increase be wiped out, but employees’ take-home pay would be decreased.

  Well, Warren Trent reflected, the opprobrium of his colleagues in the hotel industry would have to be endured. As to the rest, he stifled his conscience by reminding himself of Tom Earlshore and the others like him.

  The blunt voice on the telephone broke in on his thoughts.

  “I’ll send two
of my financial people. They’ll fly down this afternoon. Overnight they’ll take your books apart. I really mean apart, so don’t figure on holding back anything we should know.” The unmistakable threat was a reminder that only the brave or foolhardy ever attempted to trifle with the Journeymen’s Union.

  The hotel proprietor said huffily, “I’ve nothing to conceal. You’ll have access to all the information there is.”

  “If tomorrow morning my people report okay to me, you’ll sign a three-year union shop contract.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Naturally, I’ll be glad to sign. Of course, there’ll have to be an employees’ vote, though I’m certain I can guarantee the outcome.” Warren Trent had a moment’s uneasiness, wondering if he really could. There would be opposition to an alliance with the Journeymen; that much was certain. A good many employees, though, would go along with his personal recommendation if he made it strong enough. The question was: Would they provide the needed majority?

  The Journeymen’s president said, “There won’t be a vote.”

  “But surely the law …”

  The telephone rasped angrily. “Don’t try teaching me labor law! I know more of it, and better’n you ever will.” There was a pause, then the growled explanation, “This will be a Voluntary Recognition Agreement. Nothing in law says it has to be voted on. There will be no vote.”

  It could, Warren Trent conceded, be done in just that way.

  The procedure would be unethical, immoral, but unquestionably legal. His own signature on a union contract would, in the circumstances, be binding on every hotel employee, whether they liked it or not. Well, he thought grimly, so be it. It would make everything a great deal simpler, with the end result the same.

  He asked, “How will you handle the mortgage?” It was a ticklish area, he knew. In the past, Senate investigating committees had scathingly censured the Journeymen for investing heavily in companies with whom the union had labor contracts.

  “You will give a note, payable to the Journeymen’s Pension Fund, for two million dollars at eight per cent. The note to be secured by a first mortgage on the hotel. The mortgage will be held by the Southern Conference of Journeymen, in trust for the pension fund.”

  The arrangement, Warren Trent realized, was diabolically clever. It contravened the spirit of every law affecting use of union funds, while remaining technically inside them.

  “The note will be due in three years, forfeited if you fail to meet two successive interest payments.”

  Warren Trent demurred, “I’ll agree to the rest, but I want five years.”

  “You’re getting three.”

  It was a hard bargain, but three years would at least give him time to restore the hotel’s competitive position.

  He said reluctantly, “Very well.”

  There was a click as, at the other end, the line went dead.

  Emerging from the telephone booth, despite a renewed onset of sciatic pain, Warren Trent was smiling.

  8

  After the angry scene in the lobby, culminating in the departure of Dr. Nicholas, Peter McDermott wondered disconsolately what came next. On reflection he decided there was nothing to be gained by hasty intervention with officials of the Congress of American Dentistry. If the dentists’ president, Dr. Ingram, persisted in his threat to pull the entire convention out of the hotel, it was not likely to be accomplished before tomorrow morning at the earliest. That meant it would be both safe and prudent to wait an hour or two, until this afternoon, for tempers to cool. Then he would approach Dr; Ingram, and others in the congress if necessary.

  As for the presence of the newspaperman during the unhappy scene, obviously it was too late to change whatever damage had been done. For the hotel’s sake, Peter hoped that whoever made decisions about the importance of news stories would see the incident as a minor item only.

  Returning to his office on the main mezzanine, he occupied himself with routine business for the remainder of the morning. He resisted a temptation to seek out Christine, instinct telling him that here, too, a cooling-off period might help. Sometime soon, though, he realized, he would have to make amends for his monumental gaffe of earlier today.

  He decided to drop in on Christine shortly before noon, but the intention was eclipsed by a telephone call from the duty assistant manager who informed Peter that a guest room, occupied by Mr. Stanley Kilbrick of Marshalltown, Iowa, had been robbed. Though reported only a short time earlier, the robbery apparently occurred during the night. A long list of valuables and cash was alleged to be missing, and the guest, according to the assistant manager, seemed extremely upset. A house detective was already on the scene.

  Peter placed a call for the chief house officer. He had no idea whether Ogilvie was in the hotel or not, the fat man’s hours of duty being a mystery known only to himself. Shortly afterward, however, a message advised that Ogilvie had taken over the inquiry and would report as soon as possible. Some twenty minutes later he arrived in Peter McDermott’s office.

  The chief house officer lowered his bulk carefully into the deep leather chair facing the desk.

  Trying to subdue his instinctive dislike, Peter asked, “How does it all look?”

  “The guy who was robbed’s a sucker. He got hooked. Here’s what’s missin’.” Ogilvie laid a handwritten list on Peter’s desk. “I kept one o’ these myself.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get it to our insurers. How about the room—is there any sign of forced entry?”

  The detective shook his head. “Key job for sure. It all figures. Kilbrick admits he was on the loose in the Quarter last night. I guess he shoulda had his mother with him. Claims he lost his key. Won’t change his story. More’n likely, though, he fell for a B-girl routine.”

  “Doesn’t he realize that if he levels with us we stand a better chance of recovering what was stolen?”

  “I told him that. Didn’t do no good. For one thing, right now he feels plenty stupid. For another, he’s already figured the hotel’s insurance is good for what he lost. Maybe a bit more; he says there was four hundred dollars cash in his wallet.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “No.”

  Well, Peter thought, the guest was due for an awakening. Hotel insurance covered the loss of goods up to a hundred dollars’ value, but not cash in any amount. “What’s your feeling about the rest? Do you think it was a once-only job?”

  “No, I don’t,” Ogilvie said. “I reckon we got ourselves a professional hotel thief, an’ he’s workin’ inside the house.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Somethin’ that happened this mornin’—complaint from room 641. Guess it ain’t come up to you yet.”

  “If it has,” Peter said, “I don’t recall it.”

  “Early on—near dawn’s far’s I can make out—some character let himself in 641 with a key. The man in the room woke up. The other guy made like he was drunk and said he’d mistook it for 614. The man in the room went back to sleep, but when he woke up started wondering how the key of 614 would fit 641. That’s when I heard about it.”

  “The desk could have given out a wrong key.”

  “Could have, but didn’t. I checked. Night-room clerk swears neither of them keys went out. And 614’s a married couple; they went to bed early last night an’ stayed put.”

  “Do we have a description of the man who entered 641?”

  “Not enough so’s it’s any good. Just to be sure, I got the two men—641 and 614—together. It wasn’t 614 who went in 641’s room. Tried the keys too; neither one’ll fit the other room.”

  Peter said thoughtfully, “It looks as if you’re right about a professional thief. In which case we should start planning a campaign.”

  “I done some things,” Ogilvie said. “I already told the desk clerks for the next few days to ask names when they hand out keys. If they smell anything funny, they’re to let the key go, but get a good look at whoever takes it, then tell one of my people fast.
The word’s bein’ passed around to maids and bellhops to watch for prowlers, an’ anything else that don’t sit right. My men’ll be doin’ extra time, with patrols round every floor all night.”

  Peter nodded approvingly. “That sounds good. Have you considered moving into the hotel yourself for a day or two? I’ll arrange a room if you wish.”

  Fleetingly, Peter thought, a worried expression crossed the fat man’s face. Then he shook his head. “Won’t need it.”

  “But you’ll be around—available?”

  “Sure I’ll be around.” The words were emphatic but, peculiarly, lacked conviction. As if aware of the deficiency, Ogilvie added, “Even if I ain’t right here all the time, my men know what to do.”

  Still doubtful, Peter asked, “What’s our arrangement with the police?”

  “There’ll be a couple of plain-clothes men over. I’ll tell ’em about the other thing, an’ I guess they’ll do some checkin’ to see who might be in town. If it’s some joe with a record, we could get lucky’n pick him up.”

  “In the meantime, of course, our friend—whoever he is—won’t sit still.”

  “That’s for sure. An’ if he’s smart as I think, he’ll figure by now we’re on to him. So likely he’ll try to work fast, then get clear.”

  “Which is one more reason,” Peter pointed out, “why we need you close at hand.”