Kitabı oku: «Hotel / Отель», sayfa 2

“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 granted³². 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.”

6

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 note³⁴ 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 while³⁵, 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-chef³⁷. 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 omelets³⁸.”

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.”

7

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 graduate³⁹ of Cornell University's School of Hotel Administration – would have started looking for more satisfying work elsewhere. But circumstances were not ordinary.

At the Waldorf, where he had gone to work after graduation from Cornell, Peter McDermott had been the bright young man who appeared to hold the future in his hand. As a junior assistant manager, he had been selected for promotion when bad luck, plus indiscretion, intervened. At a time when he was supposedly on duty and required elsewhere in the hotel, he was discovered in a bedroom with a woman guest.

Two factors were against Peter. The woman's husband was aided by private detectives, and a divorce case resulted, with publicity, which all hotels feared.

As if this was not enough, there was a personal problem. Three years before the Waldorf event, Peter McDermott had married impulsively and the marriage, soon after, ended in separation. To an extent, his loneliness and disillusion had been a cause of the incident in the hotel. However, Peter's wife sued successfully for divorce. The end result was his dismissal and blacklisting by the major chain hotels.⁴⁰

Only at the St. Gregory, an independent house, had he been able to obtain work, at a salary which Warren Trent thought appropriate.

Peter watched as she maneuvered the little car expertly through the narrow streets of the French Quarter. Then she said, “There's something I think you should know. Curtis O'Keefe is arriving in the morning.” It was the kind of news that he had feared, yet half-expected. Curtis O'Keefe was Head of the worldwide O'Keefe chain, he bought hotels as other men chose ties and handkerchiefs. Obviously, the appearance of Curtis O'Keefe in the St. Gregory meant his interest in acquiring the hotel for the constantly expanding O'Keefe chain. Peter asked, “Is it a buying trip?”

“It could be.” Christine kept her eyes on the dimly lighted street ahead. “W.T. doesn't want it that way. But it may turn out there isn't any choice.” She was about to add that the last piece of information was confidential, but checked herself. And as for the presence of Curtis O'Keefe, that news would telegraph itself around the St. Gregory tomorrow morning within minutes of the great man's arrival.

“I suppose it had to come. All the same, I think it's a pity.”

Christine reminded him, “It hasn't happened yet. I said W.T. doesn't want to sell.”

Peter nodded without speaking.

Christine said, “There are problems about refinancing. W.T. has been trying to locate new capital. He still hopes he may.”

“And if he doesn't?”

“Then I expect we shall be seeing a lot more of Mr. Curtis O'Keefe.”

And a whole lot less of Peter McDermott, Peter thought. It seemed likely that he might soon have to look for other employment. He decided to worry when it happened.

“The O'Keefe – St. Gregory,” Peter said. “When shall we know for sure?”

“One way or the other by the end of this week.”⁴¹

“That soon!”

There were some reasons, Christine knew, why it had to be that soon. For the moment she kept them to herself. Peter said emphatically, “The old man won't find new financing.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because people with money want a sound investment⁴². That means good management, and the St. Gregory hasn't got it. It could have, but it hasn't.”

They were headed north when abruptly a flashing white light loomed directly ahead. Christine braked and, as the car stopped, a uniformed traffic officer walked forward. Directing his flashlight onto the Volkswagen, he circled the car, inspecting it. While he did, they could see that the section of road immediately ahead was blocked off by a rope barrier. Beyond the barrier other uniformed men, and some in plain clothes⁴³, were examining the road surface with the aid of powerful lights.

Christine lowered her window as the officer came to her side of the car. Apparently satisfied by his inspection, he told them, “You'll have to detour, folks. Drive slowly through the other lane, and the officer at the far end will wave you back into this one.”

“What is it?” Peter said. “What's happened?”

“Hit and run⁴⁴. Happened earlier tonight.”

Christine asked, “Was anyone killed?”

The policeman nodded. “Little girl of seven.” Seeing their shocked expressions, he told them, “Walking with her mother. The mother's in the hospital. Kid was killed outright. Whoever was in the car must have known. They drove right on.” He added, “Bastards!”

“Will you find out who it is?”

“We'll find out.” The officer nodded grimly, indicating the activity behind the barrier. “The boys usually do. There's glass on the road, and the car that did it must be marked.” More headlights were approaching from behind and he motioned them on.

They were silent as Christine drove slowly through the detour and, at the end of it, was waved back into the regular lane.

Somewhere in Peter's mind was a half-thought he could not define. He supposed the incident itself was bothering him, as sudden tragedy always did, but it was something different. Then, with surprise, he heard Christine say, “We're almost home.”

A moment later the little car turned right, then left, and stopped in the parking area of a modern, two-story apartment building.

“If all else fails,” Peter called out cheerfully, “I can go back to bartending.” He was mixing drinks in Christine's living-room.

“Were you ever one?”⁴⁵

“For a while.” He measured three ounces of rye whiskey, dividing it two ways, then reached for some bitters. “Sometime I'll tell you about it.”

Straightening up, he cast a glance around the living-room, with its comfortable mixture of furnishings and color. The walls held some prints and a modern impressionist oil. The effect was of warmth and cheerfulness, much like Christine herself, he thought. On the sideboard there was an unmistakably Victorian mantel clock, ticking softly. Peter looked at it curiously.

When he took the drinks to the kitchen, Christine was emptying beaten eggs from a mixing dish into a softly sizzling pan.

“Three minutes more,” she said, “that's all.”

He gave her the drink and they clinked glasses.

“Keep your mind on my omelet,” Christine said. “It's ready now.”

It proved to be everything she had promised – light, fluffy, and seasoned with herbs. “The way omelets should be,” he assured her, “but seldom are.”

“I can boil eggs too.”

He waved a hand airily. “Some other breakfast.”

Afterward they returned to the living-room and Peter mixed a second drink. It was almost two a.m.

Sitting beside her on the sofa he pointed to the odd-appearing clock. “I get the feeling that thing is looking at me – announcing the time in a disapproving tone.”

“Perhaps it is,” Christine answered. “It was my father's. It used to be in his office where patients could see it. It's the only thing I saved.”

There was a silence between them. Once before Christine had told him about the airplane accident in Wisconsin. Now he said gently, “After it happened, you must have felt desperately alone.”

She said simply, “I wanted to die. Though you get over that, of course – after a while.”

“How long?”

She gave a short, swift smile. “The human spirit mends quickly.⁴⁶ That part – wanting to die, I mean – took just a week or two.”

“And after?”

“When I came to New Orleans,” Christine said, “I tried to concentrate on not thinking. It got harder, and I had less success as the days went by. I knew I had to do something but I wasn't sure what – or where.”

She stopped and Peter said, “Go on.”

“For a while I considered going back to university, then decided not. Getting an arts degree just for the sake of it⁴⁷ didn't seem important and besides, suddenly it seemed as if I'd grown away from it all.”

“I can understand that.”

Christine sipped her drink. “Anyway,” Christine went on, “one day I was walking and saw a sign which said 'Secretarial School'. I thought – that's it! I'll learn what I need to, then get a job involving endless hours of work. In the end that's exactly what happened.”

“How did the St. Gregory fit in?”

“I was staying there. I had since I came from Wisconsin.⁴⁸ Then one morning the Times-Picayune⁴⁹ arrived with breakfast, and I saw in the classifieds⁵⁰ that the managing director of the hotel wanted a personal secretary. It was early, so I thought I'd be first, and wait. In those days W.T. arrived at work before everyone else. When he came, I was waiting in the executive suite.”

“He hired you on the spot⁵¹?”

“Not really. Actually, I don't believe I ever was hired. It was just that when W.T. found out why I was there he called me in and began dictating letters, then sending instructions to other people in the hotel. By the time more applicants arrived I'd been working for hours, and I took it on myself to tell them the job was filled.”

Peter chuckled. “It sounds like the old man.”⁵²

“Three days later I left a note on his desk. I think it read 'My name is Christine Francis,' and I suggested a salary. I got the note back without comment – just initialed, and that's all there's ever been.”

“It makes a good bedtime story.” Peter rose from the sofa, stretching his big body. “That clock of yours is staring again. I guess I'd better go.”

“It isn't fair,” Christine objected. “All we've talked about is me.” She was aware of Peter's masculinity. And yet, she thought, there was a gentleness about him too. She had seen something of it tonight in the way that he had picked up Albert Wells and carried him to the other room. She found herself wondering what it would be like to be carried in his arms.

“I enjoyed it – a lovely antidote to a lousy day. Anyway, there'll be other times.” He stopped, regarding her directly. “Won't there?”⁵³

As she nodded in answer, he leaned forward, kissing her lightly.

In the taxi for which he had telephoned from Christine's apartment, Peter McDermott relaxed, reviewing the events of the past day. The daytime hours had produced their usual quota of problems, culminating in the evening with several more. Finally there was Christine, who had been there all the time, but whom he had not noticed before in quite the way he had tonight.

But he warned himself: women had been his undoing twice already. Whatever, if anything, developed between Christine and himself should happen slowly, with caution on his own part.

Tuesday

1

In his private six-room suite on the hotel's fifteenth floor, Warren Trent stepped down from the barber' chair in which Aloysius Royce had shaved him. W.T. walked stiffly into the bathroom now, pausing before a mirror to inspect the shave. He could find no fault with it⁵⁴ as he studied the reflection facing him.

It showed a deep-seamed face, a loose mouth which could be humorous on occasion, beaked nose and deep-set eyes. His hair, jet-black in youth, was now a distinguished white, thick and curly still. He made a typical picture of an eminent southern gentleman.

So, he reminded himself, now it was Tuesday of the final week. Including today, there were only four more days remaining: four days in which to prevent his lifetime's work from dissolving into nothingness.

Scowling at his own thoughts, the proprietor limped into the dining-room where Aloysius Royce had laid a breakfast table. The oak table had a trolley beside it which had come from the kitchen a few moments earlier. Warren Trent sat into the chair which Royce held out, then gestured to the opposite side of the table. At once the young Negro laid a second place, slipping into the vacant seat himself. There was a second breakfast on the trolley, available for such occasions when the old man changed his usual custom of breakfasting alone.

Serving the two portions Royce remained silent, knowing his employer would speak when ready. At length, pushing away his plate, Warren Trent observed, “You'd better make the most of this. Neither of us may be enjoying it much longer.”⁵⁵

Royce said, “The trust people⁵⁶ haven't changed their mind about renewing?”

“They haven't and they won't. Not now.” Without warning the old man slammed his fist upon the table top. “By God! – there was a time when I'd have called the tune, not danced a jig to theirs⁵⁷. Once they were lined up – banks, trust companies, all the rest – trying to lend their money.”

“Times change for all of us.” Aloysius Royce poured coffee. “Some things get better, others worse.”

Warren Trent said sourly, “It's easy for you. You're young. You haven't lived to see everything you've worked for fall apart.”

And it had come to that, he reflected sadly. In four days from now – on Friday – a twenty-year-old mortgage on the property was due for redemption and the investment syndicate had declined to renew. At first, on learning of the decision, his reaction had been surprise, though not concern. Plenty of other lenders, he assumed, would willingly take over – at a higher interest rate⁵⁸, no doubt – but, on whatever terms, producing the two million dollars needed. It was only when he had been decisively turned down by everyone approached⁵⁹ – banks, trusts, insurance companies, and private lenders – that his original confidence waned. One banker whom he knew well told him frankly, “Hotels like yours are out of favor, Warren. A lot of people think the day of the big independents is over, and nowadays the chain hotels are the only ones which can show reasonable profit. Besides, look at your balance sheet. You've been losing money steadily.”

His protestations that present losses were temporary and would reverse themselves when business improved, achieved nothing. He was simply not believed.

It was at this time that Curtis O'Keefe had telephoned suggesting their meeting in New Orleans this week. “Absolutely all I have in mind is a friendly chat, Warren,” the magnate had declared. “After all, we're a couple of aging innkeepers, you and me. We should see each other sometimes.” But Warren Trent was not deceived by the words. The vultures are hovering, he thought. Curtis O'Keefe would arrive today and there was not the slightest doubt that he was fully briefed on the St. Gregory's financial problems.

Many years earlier, Aloysius Royce's father served Warren Trent first as body servant and later as companion and privileged friend. Aloysius was little more than a boy when his father had died over a decade ago, but he had never forgotten Warren Trent's face at the old Negro's funeral. They had walked away from the cemetery together, Aloysius with his hand in Warren Trent's, who told him, “You'll stay on with me at the hotel. Later we'll work something out.” The boy agreed trustingly – his father's death had left him entirely alone, his mother having died at his birth – and the “something” had turned out to be college followed by law school, from which he would graduate in a few weeks' time. In the meanwhile, as the boy became a man, he had taken over the running of the owner's suite and, though most of the physical work was done by other employees, Aloysius performed personal services which Warren Trent accepted. And yet, despite their intimacy and the knowledge that he could take liberties⁶⁰ which Warren Trent would never tolerate in others, Aloysius Royce was conscious of a border never to be crossed. Now he told W.T. about the last night's events. Warren Trent listened, and at the end said, “McDermott handled everything properly. Why don't you like him?”

He answered, “Maybe there's some chemistry between us doesn't mix. Or perhaps I don't like big white football players proving how kind they are by being nice to colored boys.”

Warren Trent eyed Royce quizzically. “You're a complicated one. Have you thought you might be doing McDermott an injustice?”

“Just as I said, maybe it's chemical.”

“Your father had an instinct for people. But he was a lot more tolerant than you.”

“A dog likes people who pat him on the head. That's because his thinking isn't complicated by knowledge and education.”

“Even if it were⁶¹, I doubt he'd choose those particular words.” Trent's eyes, appraising, met the younger man's and Royce was silent. The remembrance of his father always disturbed him. He answered now, “Maybe I used wrong words, but it doesn't change the sense.”

Warren Trent nodded without comment and took out his old– fashioned watch. “You'd better tell young McDermott to come and see me. Ask him to come here. I'm a little tired this morning.”

The two were in the lavishly furnished living-room of Warren Trent's suite, the older man relaxed in a deep, soft chair, his feet raised upon a footstool. Peter sat facing him.

“Something I'd like to deal with concerns the room clerks.” Peter described the Albert Wells incident and saw Warren Trent's face harden at the mention of the room change.

The older man growled, “We should have closed off that room years ago. Maybe we'd better do it now.”

“I don't think it need be closed, if we use it as a last resort and tell the guest what he's getting into.”

Warren Trent nodded. “Attend to it.”

Peter hesitated. “What I'd like to do is give some specific instructions on room changes generally. There have been other incidents and I think it needs pointing out that our guests aren't to be moved around like checkers on a board.”

“Deal with the one thing. If I want general instructions I'll issue them.”

The curt response, Peter thought, showed what was wrong with the hotel's management. Mistakes were dealt with after they happened, with little or no attempt to correct their root cause. Now he said, “I thought you should know about the Duke and Duchess of Croydon. The Duchess asked for you personally.” He described the incident of the spilled shrimp Creole and the differing version of the waiter Sol Natchez.

Warren Trent grumbled, “I know that damn woman. She won't be satisfied unless the waiter's fired.”

“I don't believe he should be fired.”

“Then tell him to go fishing for a few days – with pay – but to keep the hell out of the hotel. And warn him from me that next time he spills something, to be sure it's boiling and over the Duchess's head. I suppose she still has those damn dogs.”

“Yes.” Peter smiled.

A Louisiana law forbade animals in rooms. In the Croydons' case, Warren Trent had agreed that the presence of the terriers would not be noticed officially, if they got in and out by a rear door. The Duchess, however, paraded the dogs each day through the main lobby.

“I had some trouble with Ogilvie last night.” Peter reported the chief house officer's absence.

Reaction was quick. “I've told you before to leave Ogilvie alone. He's responsible directly to me.”

“It makes things difficult ifthere's something to be done…” “You heard what I said. Forget Ogilvie!” Warren Trent's face was red, but less from anger, Peter suspected, than embarrassment. The hands-off-Ogilvie rule didn't make sense and the proprietor knew it.

Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent announced, “Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives.”

“Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?”

“I don't know. It depends on a lot of things.”

For a moment Peter felt sympathy for the older man. The St. Gregory was to Warren Trent more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's work. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high. It must be hard to accept that the St. Gregory had slipped behind the times. And Peter thought that new financing and a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders⁶², even, perhaps, restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were, both the capital and control would have to come from outside – he supposed through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days here might well be numbered.

The proprietor asked, “What's our convention situation?”

“The Congress of American Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two hundred and eighty rooms.”

Warren Trent nodded approval. At least, he reflected, the news was not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of business, and the dentistry convention was an achievement.

“We had a full house last night,” Warren Trent said. He added, “In this business it's either feast or famine⁶³. Can we handle today's arrivals?”

“I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our overbookings are a little high.”⁶⁴

The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no accommodation was available. He felt awful as a fellow human being and also because he was absolutely sure that those people would never again come back to his hotel.

In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers' convention could move in. Recollection of the chaos, with hundreds of angry engineers and their women in the lobby, some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the new arrivals were sent to motels in outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel – more than the profit on both conventions.

Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from a box beside him. When he had done so, Peter said, “I talked with the Roosevelt⁶⁵. If we're in a jam⁶⁶ tonight they can help us out with maybe thirty rooms.” Even fiercely competitive hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the roles would be reversed⁶⁷.

“All right,” Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, “now what's the outlook for the fall?”

“It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union conventions falling through.”

“Why have they fallen through?”

“It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act⁶⁸, and the unions resent it.” Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.

Without looking up the young Negro said, “Don't yo' worry about sparing my feelings⁶⁹, Mistuh McDermott” – Royce was using the exaggerated accent – “because us colored folks are right used to that.”

Warren Trent said, “Cut out the comic lines⁷⁰.”

“Yessir!” Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two. Now his voice was normal. “But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to stay away until this and others like it admit that times have changed.”

Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. “Answer him,” he told Peter McDermott. “Around here we don't mince words.”⁷¹

“It so happens⁷²,” Peter said quietly, “that I agree with what he said.”

“Why so, Mr. McDermott?” Royce taunted. “You think it'd be better for business? Make your job easier?”

“Those are good reasons,” Peter said.

Warren Trent slammed down his hand hard upon the chair arm. “Never mind the reasons! What matters is, you're being damn fools, both of you.”

It was a recurring question. In Louisiana, most hotel chains had nominally complied with the Civil Rights Act, but then, quietly went back to their long-established segregation policies. As for the St. Gregory, it simply resisted change.

“No!” Viciously, Warren Trent stubbed out his cigar. “Whatever's happening anywhere else, I say we're not ready for it here. So we've lost the union conventions. All right, it's time we got off our backsides⁷³ and tried for something else.”

It was quiet in the big living-room, with only a whisper from the air conditioning, and occasional sounds from the city below. Warren Trent could feel his heart pounding heavily – an effect of the anger. It was a warning, he supposed, which he should heed more often. Yet nowadays so many things upset him, making emotions hard to control and to remain silent. It was because he sensed so much was disappearing beyond his control. Besides, anger had always come easily – except for those few brief years when Hester had taught him to use patience and a sense of humor, and for a while he had. How long ago it seemed! – more than thirty years since he had carried her, as a young bride, across the threshold of this very room. And how short a time they had had: those few brief years, joyous beyond measure, until the paralytic polio struck without warning. It had killed Hester in twenty-four hours, leaving Warren Trent, mourning and alone, and the St. Gregory.