Артур Хейли – Hotel / Отель (страница 3)

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?”

“No, Mr. McDermott. All I have is a small suite on five, and the gentleman does not wish to pay a higher rate.”

Peter said, “Let your man have the suite at the room rate for tonight. He can be relocated in the morning. Meanwhile I'll use 1410 for a transfer from 1439, and please send a boy up with the key right away. And another thing: before you go off duty leave word for the day clerks that tomorrow I want an explanation of why Mr. Wells was shifted from his original room to 1439.”

He winked at Christine as he replaced the phone.

“You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon said. “Absolutely insane.” She had returned to the living-room of the Presidential Suite after Peter McDermott's departure, carefully closing the door behind her.

The Duke shifted uncomfortably as he always did under one of his wife's periodic tongue lashings[27]. “Damn sorry, old girl. Telly was on. Couldn't hear the fellow. Thought he'd cleared out.” He took a deep draught from the whiskey and soda, then added, “Besides, with everything else I'm bloody upset.”

“Sorry! Upset! You make it sound as if it's all some sort of game.” The Duchess went on accusingly, “I was doing the best I could. The very best, after your incredible folly, to establish that both of us spent a quiet evening in the hotel. I even invented a walk that we went for in case anyone saw us come in. And then stupidly you blunder in to announce you left your cigarettes in the car.”

“Only one heard me. That manager chap. Wouldn't notice.”

“He noticed. I was watching his face.” With an effort the Duchess kept her self-control. “Have you any notion of the awful mess we're in?”

The Duke drained his drink. “If you hadn't persuaded me… Bloody ashamed too.”

“You were drunk! You were drunk when I found you, and you still are.”

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Sober now.”

“There was nothing we could do. Nothing! And there was a better chance my way.”

“Not so sure. “If the police get their teeth in…”

“We'd have to be suspected first. That's why I made that trouble with the waiter. It isn't an alibi but it's the next best thing. It's set in their minds we were here tonight… or would have been if you hadn't thrown it all away. I could weep.”

“Be interesting that[28],” the Duke said. “Didn't think you were enough of a woman.”

The Duke went to a side table where he splashed Scotch generously into his glass, followed by soda. With his back turned, he added, “Why'd you marry me?”

“I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who was doing something worth while.”

He held up his glass, studying it like a crystal ball. “Not proving it now. Eh?”[29]

“If you appear to be, it's because I prop you up.” “Washington?” The word was a question.

“We could manage it,” the Duchess said. “If I could keep you sober and in your own bed.”

“Aha!” Her husband laughed. “A damn cold bed at that.” “I already said that isn't necessary.”

“Ever wondered why I married you?”

“I've formed opinions.”

“Tell you most important.” He drank again, as if for courage, then said, “Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally. Knew was only way.”

“I'm surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from – before and since.”