Артур Хейли – Hotel / Отель (страница 4)

His bloodshot eyes were on her face. “Didn't want others. Wanted you. Still do.”

She snapped, “That's enough! This has gone far enough.”[30]

He shook his head. “Something you should hear. Your pride, old girl. Always appealed to me. You on your back. Passionate. Trembling.”

“Stop it! Stop it! You… you lecher!” Her face was white. “I don't care if the police catch you! I hope they do! I hope you get ten years!”

After his dispute with Reception, Peter McDermott went down the fourteenth floor corridor to 1439.

“If you approve,” he informed Dr. Uxbridge, “we'll transfer your patient to another room on this floor.”

The doctor glanced around the tiny room with its mess of heating and water pipes. “Any change can only be an improvement.”

As the doctor returned to the little man in the bed, Christine reminded Peter, “What we need now is a nurse.”

“We'll let Dr. Aarons arrange that. Do you think your friend Wells is good for it?” They had returned to the corridor, their voices low.

“I'm worried about that. I don't think he has much money.” When she was concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine's nose had a charming way of crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint perfume.

When the key arrived, Christine went ahead to open the new room, 1410. “It's ready,” she announced, returning.

“The best thing is to switch beds,” Peter told the others. “Let's wheel this one into 1410 and bring back a bed from there.” But the doorway, they discovered, was an inch too narrow.

“Never mind,” Peter said. “There's a quicker way – if you agree, Mr. Wells.”

The other smiled, and nodded.

Peter bent down, put a blanket around the elderly man's shoulders and picked him up.

“You've strong arms, son,” the little man said.

Peter smiled. Then, as easily as if his burden were a child, he strode down the corridor and into the new room.

Fifteen minutes later all was functioning well. The resident physician[31], Dr. Aarons, had arrived. He accepted the offer of Dr. Uxbridge to drop in as a consultant the following day. A private duty nurse, telephoned by Dr. Aarons, was on the way.

As the chief engineer and Dr. Uxbridge left, Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

It was a quarter to twelve.

Walking toward the elevators, Christine said, “I'm glad we let him stay.”

Peter seemed surprised. “Mr. Wells? Why wouldn't we?”

“Some places wouldn't. You know how they are: the least thing out of the ordinary, and no one can be bothered. All they want is people to check in, check out, and pay the bill; that's all.”

“Those are sausage factories. A real hotel is for hospitality; and assistance if a guest needs it. The best ones started that way. Unfortunately too many people in this business have forgotten.”

She regarded him curiously. “You think we've forgotten here?” “You're damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way there'd be a good many changes…” He stopped, embarrassed at his own forcefulness. “Never mind. Most of the time I keep such thoughts to myself.”

“You shouldn't, and if you do you should be ashamed.” Behind Christine's words was the knowledge that the St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways. Currently, too, the hotel was facing a financial crisis. “There's heads and brick walls,” Peter objected. “Beating one against the other doesn't help. W.T. isn't keen on new ideas.”

“That's no reason for giving up.”

He laughed. “You sound like a woman.”

“I am a woman.”

“I know,” Peter said. “I've just begun to notice.”

It was true, he thought. For most of the time he had known Christine – since his own arrival at the St. Gregory – he had taken her for granted[32]. Recently, though, he had found himself increasingly aware of just how attractive she was. He wondered what she was doing for the rest of the evening.

He said tentatively, “I didn't have dinner tonight; too much going on. If you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?”

Christine said, “I love late suppers.”

At the elevator he told her, “There's one more thing I want to check.” He took her arm, squeezing it lightly. “Will you wait on the main mezzanine?”

His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone of his size. Christine glanced at his strong, energetic profile with its jutting jaw. It was an interesting face, she thought. She was aware of her senses quickening.[33]

“All right,” she agreed. “I'll wait.”

Peter waited alone for the elevator on the fifth floor. It had been a full evening, Peter thought – with some unpleasantness – though not exceptional for a big hotel.

When the elevator arrived he told the operator, “Lobby, please,” reminding himself that Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.

He noted with impatience that although the elevator doors were closed, they had not yet started down. The operator was moving the control handle back and forth. Peter asked, “Are you sure the gates are fully closed?”

“Yes, sir, they are. It isn't that; it's the connections I think, either here or up top.” The man turned his head in the direction of the roof where the elevator machinery was housed, then added, “Had quite a bit of trouble lately. The chief was probing around the other day.” He worked the handle vigorously. With a jerk the elevator started down.

“Which elevator is this?”

“Number four.”

Peter made a mental note[34] to ask the chief engineer exactly what was wrong.

It was almost half-past twelve by the lobby clock as he stepped from the elevator. As was usual by this time, some of the activity in the lobby had quieted down, but there was still a number of people, and the sounds of music from the nearby Indigo Room showed that supper dancing was in progress. Peter turned right toward Reception but had gone only a few paces when he saw an obese, waddling figure approaching him. It was Ogilvie, the chief house officer, who had been missing earlier. As always, he was accompanied by an odor of stale cigar smoke.

“I hear you were looking for me,” Ogilvie said.

Peter felt some of his earlier anger return. “I certainly was. Where the devil were you?”

“Doing my job, Mr. McDermott.” Ogilvie had a surprisingly falsetto voice. “If you want to know, I was over at police headquarters reporting some trouble we had here. There was a suitcase stolen from the baggage room today.”

“Well, you just missed an emergency,” Peter said. “But it is taken care of now.” Deciding to put Ogilvie out of his mind, with a nod he moved on to Reception.

The night clerk whom he had telephoned earlier was at the desk. Peter tried a friendly approach. He said pleasantly, “Thank you for helping me out with that problem on the fourteenth.

We have Mr. Wells settled comfortably in 1410. Dr. Aarons is arranging nursing care, and the chief has fixed up oxygen.”

The room clerk's face had frozen as Peter approached him. Now it relaxed. “I hadn't realized there was anything that serious.”

“It was touch and go for a while[35], I think. That's why I was so concerned about why he was moved into that other room.”

The room clerk nodded. “In that case I'll certainly make inquiries. Yes, you can be sure of that.”

Peter recrossed the lobby and entered an elevator. This time he rode up one floor only, to the main mezzanine.

Christine was waiting in his office. She had kicked off her shoes and curled her feet under her in the leather chair she had occupied an hour and a half before. Her eyes were closed, her thoughts far away in time and distance. She looked up as Peter came in.

“Don't marry a man,” he told her. “There's never an end to it.”[36]

“It's a timely warning,” Christine said. “I hadn't told you, but I've a crush on that new sous-chef[37]. The one who looks like Rock Hudson.” She uncurled her legs, reaching for her shoes. “Do we have more troubles?”

He grinned, finding the sight and sound of Christine immensely cheering. “Other people's, mostly. I'll tell you as we go.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere away from the hotel. We've both had enough for one day.”

Christine considered. “We could go to the Quarter. There are plenty of places open. Or if you want to come to my place, I'm a whiz at omelets[38].”

Peter helped her up and followed her to the door where he switched off the office lights. “An omelet,” he declared, “is what I really wanted and didn't know it.”

They walked together to a parking lot not far from the hotel. A sleepy parking attendant brought down Christine's Volkswagen and they climbed in. “This is the life! You don't mind if I spread out?” He draped his arm along the back of the driver's seat, not quite touching Christine's shoulders.

Christine was driving in silence, heading the little car northeast, as Peter talked about the inefficiencies within the hotel which he lacked authority to change. In the St. Gregory, a good deal of organization was unwritten, with final judgments depending upon Warren Trent.

In ordinary circumstances, Peter – an honors graduate[39] of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration – would have started looking for more satisfying work elsewhere. But circumstances were not ordinary.