Артур Хейли – Hotel / Отель (страница 1)
Артур Хейли
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
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?”