Hotel

by Arthur Hailey

  Once more he used the credit manager’s office on the main floor and dialed the Preyscott number. Marsha answered on the first ring.

  “Oh, Peter,” she said, “I’ve been sitting by the telephone. I waited and waited, then called twice and left my name.”

  He remembered guiltily the pile of unacknowledged messages on his office desk.

  “I’m genuinely sorry, and I can’t explain, at least not yet. Except that all kinds of things have been happening.”

  “Tell me tomorrow.”

  “Marsha, I’m afraid tomorrow will be a very full day …”

  “At breakfast,” Marsha said. “If it’s going to be that kind of day, you need a New Orleans breakfast. They’re famous. Have you ever had one?”

  “I don’t usually eat breakfast.”

  “Tomorrow you will. And Anna’s are special. A lot better, I’ll bet, than at your old hotel.”

  It was impossible not to be charmed by Marsha’s enthusiasms. And he had, after all, deserted her this afternoon.

  “It will have to be early.”

  “As early as you like.”

  They agreed on 7:30 A.M.

  A few minutes later he was in a taxi on his way to Christine’s apartment in Gentilly.

  He rang from downstairs. Christine was waiting with the apartment door open.

  “Not a word,” she said, “Until after the second drink. I just can’t take it all in.”

  “You’d better,” he told her. “You haven’t heard the half of it.”

  She had mixed daiquiris, which were chilling in the refrigerator. There was a heaped plate of chicken and ham sandwiches. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the apartment.

  Peter remembered suddenly that despite his sojourn in the hotel kitchens, and the talk of breakfast tomorrow, he had eaten nothing since lunch.

  “That’s what I imagined,” Christine said when he told her. “Fall to!”

  Obeying, he watched as she moved efficiently around the tiny kitchen. He had a feeling, sitting here, of being at ease and shielded from whatever might be happening outside. He thought: Christine had cared about him enough to do what she had done. More important, there was an empathy between them in which even their silences, as now, seemed shared and understood.

  He pushed away the daiquiri glass and reached for a coffee cup which Christine had filled. “All right,” he said, “where do we start?”

  They talked continuously for almost two hours, all the time their closeness growing. At the end, all they could decide on definitely was that tomorrow would be an interesting day.

  “I won’t sleep,” Christine said. “I couldn’t possibly. I know I won’t.”

  “I couldn’t either,” Peter said. “But not for the reason you mean.”

  He had no doubts; only a conviction that he wanted this moment to go on and on. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

  Later, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that they should make love.

  FRIDAY

  1

  It was understandable, Peter McDermott thought, that the Duke and Duchess of Croydon should be rolling the chief house officer, Ogilvie—trussed securely into a ball—toward the edge of the St. Gregory roof while, far below, a sea of faces stared fixedly upward. But it was strange, and somehow shocking, that a few yards farther on, Curtis O’Keefe and Warren Trent were exchanging savage cuts with bloodstained dueling swords. Why, Peter wondered, had Captain Yolles, standing by a stairway door, failed to intervene? Then Peter realized that the policeman was watching a giant bird’s nest in which a single egg was cracking open. A moment later, from the egg’s interior, emerged an outsize sparrow with the cheery face of Albert Wells. But now Peter’s attention was diverted to the roof-edge where a desperately struggling Christine had become entangled with Ogilvie, and Marsha Preyscott was helping the Croydons push the double burden nearer and nearer to the awful gulf below. The crowds continued to gape as Captain Yolles leaned against a doorpost, yawning.

  If he hoped to save Christine, Peter realized, he must act himself. But when he attempted to move, his feet dragged heavily as if encased in glue, and while his body urged forward, his legs refused to follow. He tried to cry out, but his throat was blocked. His eyes met Christine’s in dumb despair.

  Suddenly, the Croydons, Marsha, O’Keefe, Warren Trent stopped and were listening. The sparrow that was Albert Wells cocked an ear. Now Ogilvie, Yolles, and Christine were doing the same. Listening to what?

  Then Peter heard: a cacophony as if all the telephones on earth were ringing together. The sound came closer, swelled, until it seemed that it would engulf them all. Peter put his hands over his ears. The dissonance grew. He closed his eyes, then opened them.

  He was in his apartment. His bedside alarm showed 6:30 A.M.

  He lay for a few minutes, shaking his head free from the wild, hodge-podge dream. Then he padded to the bathroom for a shower, steeling himself to remain under the spray with the cold tap “on” for a final minute. He emerged from the shower fully awake. Slipping on a towel robe, he started coffee brewing in the kitchenette, then went to the telephone and dialed the hotel number.

  He was connected with the night manager who assured Peter that there had been no message during the night concerning anything found in the incinerator. No, the night manager said with a trace of tiredness, he had not checked personally. Yes, if Mr. McDermott wished, he would go down immediately and telephone the result, though Peter sensed a mild resentment at the unlikely errand so near the end of a long, tiring shift. The incinerator was somewhere in the lower basement, wasn’t it?

  Peter was shaving when the return call came. The night manager reported that he had spoken with the incinerator employee, Graham, who was sorry, but the paper Mr. McDermott wanted had not turned up. Now, it didn’t look as if it would. The manager added the information that Graham’s night shift—as well as his own—was almost ended.

  Later, Peter decided, he would pass the news, or rather the lack of it, to Captain Yolles. He remembered his opinion last night, which still held good, that the hotel had done all it could in the matter of public duty. Anything else must be the business of the police.

  Between sips of coffee, and while dressing, Peter considered the two subjects uppermost in his mind. One was Christine; the other, his own future, if any, at the St. Gregory Hotel.

  After last night, he realized that whatever might be ahead, more than anything else he wished Christine to be a part of it. The conviction had been growing on him; now it was clear and definite. He supposed it might be said that he was in love, but he was guarded in attempting to define his deeper feelings, even to himself. Once before, what he had believed was love had turned to ashes. Perhaps it was better to begin with hope, and grope uncertainly toward an unknown end.

  It might be unromantic, Peter reflected, to say that he was comfortable with Christine. But it was true and, in a sense, reassuring. He had a conviction that the bonds between them would grow stronger, not weaker, as time went by. He believed that Christine’s feelings were similar to his own.

  Instinct told him that what lay immediately ahead was to be savored, not devoured.

  As to the hotel, it was hard to grasp, even now, that Albert Wells, whom they had assumed to be a pleasant, inconsequential little man, stood revealed as a financial mogul who had assumed control of the St. Gregory, or would today.

  Superficially, it seemed possible that Peter’s own position might be strengthened by the unexpected development. He had become friendly with the little man and had the impression that he himself was liked in return. But liking, and a business decision, were separate things. The nicest people could be hard-headed, and ruthless when they chose. Also, it was unlikely that Albert Wells would run the hotel personally, and whoever fronted for him might have definite views on the background records of personnel.

  As he had before, Peter decided not to worry about events until they happened.

  Across New Orle
ans, clocks were chiming seven-thirty as Peter McDermott arrived, by taxi, at the Preyscott mansion on Prytania Street.

  Behind graceful soaring columns, the great white house stood nobly in early morning sunlight. The air around was fresh and cool, with traces still of a predawn mist. The scent of magnolia hung fragrantly, and there was dew upon the grass.

  The street and house were quiet, but from St. Charles Avenue and beyond could be heard distant sounds of the awakening city.

  Peter crossed the lawn by the curving pathway of old red brick. He ascended the terrace steps and knocked at the double carved doorway.

  Ben, the manservant who had functioned at dinner on Wednesday night, opened the door and greeted Peter cordially. “Good morning, sir. Please come in.” Inside, he announced, “Miss Marsha asked me to show you to the gallery. She’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  With Ben leading the way, they went up the broad curving staircase and along the wide corridor with frescoed walls where, on Wednesday night in semidarkness, Peter had accompanied Marsha. He asked himself: was it really so short a time ago?

  In daylight the gallery appeared as well ordered and inviting as it had before. There were deep cushioned chairs, and planters bright with flowers. Near the front, looking down on the garden below, a table had been set for breakfast. There were two places.

  Peter asked, “Is the house stirring early on my account?”

  “No, sir,” Ben assured him. “We’re early people here. Mr. Preyscott, when he’s home, doesn’t like late starting. He always says there isn’t enough of each day that you should waste the front end of it.”

  “You see! I told you my father was a lot like you.”

  At Marsha’s voice, Peter turned. She had come in quietly behind them. He had an impression of dew and roses, and that she had risen freshly with the sun.

  “Good morning!” Marsha smiled. “Ben, please give Mr. McDermott an absinthe Suissesse.” She took Peter’s arm.

  “Pour lightly, Ben,” Peter said. “I know absinthe Suissesse goes with a New Orleans breakfast, but I’ve a new boss. I’d like to meet him sober.”

  The manservant grinned. “Yessir!”

  As they sat at the table, Marsha said, “Was that why you …”

  “Why I disappeared like a conjurer’s rabbit? No. That was something else.”

  Her eyes widened as he related as much as he could of the hit-and-run investigation without mentioning the Croydons’ name. He declined to be drawn by Marsha’s questioning, but told her, “Whatever happens, there will be some news today.”

  To himself, he reasoned: By now, Ogilvie was probably back in New Orleans and being interrogated. If retained in custody, he would have to be charged, with an appearance in court which would alert the press. Inevitably there would be a reference to the Jaguar which, in turn, would point a finger at the Croydons.

  Peter sampled the fluffy absinthe Suissesse which had appeared before him. From his own bartending days he remembered the ingredients—herbsaint, white of an egg, cream, orgeat syrup, and a dash of anisette. He had seldom tasted them better mixed. Across the table Marsha was sipping orange juice.

  Peter wondered: Could the Duke and Duchess of Croydon, in face of Ogilvie’s accusation, continue to maintain their innocence? It was one more question which today might determine.

  But certainly the Duchess’s note—if it ever existed—was gone. There had been no further word from the hotel—at least, on that point—and Booker T. Graham would have long since gone off duty.

  In front of both Peter and Marsha, Ben placed a Creole cream cheese Evangeline, garlanded with fruit.

  Peter began to eat with enjoyment.

  “Earlier on,” Marsha said, “you started to say something. It was about the hotel.”

  “Oh, yes.” Between mouthfuls of cheese and fruit, he explained about Albert Wells. “The new ownership is being announced today. I had a telephone call just as I was leaving to come here.”

  The call had been from Warren Trent. It informed Peter that Mr. Dempster of Montreal, financial representative of the St. Gregory’s new owner, was en route to New Orleans. Mr. Dempster was already in New York where he would board an Eastern Airlines flight, arriving at mid-morning. A suite was to be reserved, and a meeting between the old and new management groups was scheduled tentatively for eleven-thirty. Peter was instructed to remain available in case he was required.

  Surprisingly, Warren Trent had sounded not in the least depressed and, in fact, brighter than in recent days. Was W. T. aware, Peter wondered, that the new owner of the St. Gregory was already in the hotel? Remembering that until an official changeover, his own loyalty lay with the old management, Peter related the conversation of last evening between himself, Christine, and Albert Wells. “Yes,” Warren Trent had said, “I know. Emile Dumaire of Industrial Merchants Bank—he did the negotiating for Wells—phoned me late last night. It seems there was some secrecy. There isn’t any more.”

  Peter also knew that Curtis O’Keefe, and his companion Miss Lash, were due to leave the St. Gregory later this morning. Apparently they were going separate ways since the hotel—which handled such matters for VIPs—had arranged a flight to Los Angeles for Miss Lash, while Curtis O’Keefe was headed for Naples, via New York and Rome.

  “You’re thinking about a lot of things,” Marsha said. “I wish you’d tell me some. My father used to want to talk at breakfast, but my mother was never interested. I am.”

  Peter smiled. He told her the kind of day that he expected it to be.

  As they talked, the remains of the cheeses Evangeline were removed, to be replaced by steaming, aromatic eggs Sardou. Twin poached eggs nestled on artichoke bottoms, appetizingly topped with creamed spinach and hollandaise sauce. A rosé wine appeared at Peter’s place.

  Marsha said, “I understand what you meant about today being very busy.”

  “And I understand what you meant by a traditional breakfast.” Peter caught sight of the housekeeper, Anna, hovering in the background. He called out, “Magnificent!” and saw her smile.

  Later, he gasped at the arrival of sirloin steaks with mushrooms, hot french bread and marmalade.

  Peter said doubtfully, “I’m not sure …”

  “There’s crêpes Suzette to come,” Marsha informed him, “and café au lait. When there were great plantations here, people used to scoff at the petit dejeuner of the continentals. They made breakfast an occasion.”

  “You’ve made it an occasion,” Peter said. “This, and a good deal more. Meeting you; my history lessons; being with you here. I won’t forget it—ever.”

  “You make it sound as if you’re saying goodbye.”

  “I am, Marsha.” He met her eyes steadily, then smiled. “Right after the crêpes Suzette.”

  There was a silence before she said, “I thought …”

  He reached out across the table, his hand covering Marsha’s. “Perhaps we were both daydreaming. I think we were. But it’s quite the nicest daydream I ever had.”

  “Why does it have to be just that?”

  He answered gently, “Some things you can’t explain. No matter how much you like someone, there’s a question of deciding what’s best to do; of judgment …”

  “And my judgment doesn’t count?”

  “Marsha, I have to trust mine. For both of us.” But he wondered: Could it be trusted? His own instincts had proven less than reliable before. Perhaps, at this moment, he was making a mistake which years from now he would remember with regret. How to be sure of anything, when you often learned the truth too late?

  He sensed that Marsha was close to tears.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a low voice. She stood up and walked swiftly from the gallery.

  Sitting there, Peter wished he could have spoken less forthrightly, tempering his words with the gentleness that he felt for this lonely girl. He wondered if she would return. After a few minutes, when Marsha failed to, Anna appeared. “Looks like you’ll be finishing breakfa
st alone, sir. I don’t believe Miss Marsha’ll be back.”

  He asked, “How is she?”

  “She’s cryin’ in her room.” Anna shrugged. “Isn’t the first time. Don’t suppose it’ll be the last. It’s a way she has when she doesn’t get all she wants.” She removed the steak plates. “Ben’ll serve you the rest.”

  He shook his head. “No, thank you. I must go.”

  “Then I’ll just bring coffee.” In the background, Ben had busied himself, but it was Anna who took the café au lait and put it beside Peter.

  “Don’t go away worrying overmuch, sir. When she’s past the most of it, I’ll do the best I can. Miss Marsha has maybe too much time to think about herself. If her daddy was here more, maybe things’d be different. But he ain’t. Not hardly at all.”

  “You’re very understanding.”

  Peter remembered what Marsha had told him about Anna: how, as a young girl, Anna had been forced by her family to marry a man she scarcely knew; but the marriage had lasted happily for more than forty years until Anna’s husband died a year ago.

  Peter said, “I heard about your husband. He must have been a fine man.”

  “My husband!” The housekeeper cackled. “I ain’t had no husband. Never been married in my whole life. I’m a maiden lady—more or less.”

  Marsha had said: They lived with us here, Anna and her husband. He was the kindest, sweetest man I’ve ever known. If there was ever a perfect marriage, it belonged to them. Marsha had used the portrayal to bolster her own argument when she asked Peter to marry her.

  Anna was still chuckling. “My goodness! Miss Marsha’s been taking you in with all her stories. She makes up a good many. A lot of the time she’s play acting, which is why you don’t need to worry none now.”

  “I see.” Peter was not sure that he did, though he felt relieved.

  Ben showed him out. It was after nine o’clock and the day was already becoming hot. Peter walked briskly toward St. Charles Avenue where he headed for the hotel. He hoped that the walk would overcome any somnolence he might feel from the trencherman’s meal. He felt a genuine regret that he would not see Marsha again, and a sorrow concerning her for a reason he could not fully comprehend. He wondered if he would ever be wise about women. He rather doubted it.