Kitabı oku: «Hotel / Отель», sayfa 3

He rose awkwardly from the deep chair and moved to the window, looking across the rooftops of the French Quarter. Was the hotel worth fighting for? Why not give up, sell out and let time and change take them both? Curtis O'Keefe would make a fair deal⁷⁴. There would be enough money left on which he could live, at whatever standard he chose, for the remainder of his life.

Surrender: perhaps that was the answer. Surrender to changing times. After all, what was a hotel except so much brick and mortar?⁷⁵ He had tried to make it more, but in the end he had failed. Let it go!

And yet… if he did, what else was left?

Nothing. For himself there would be nothing left. He waited, wondering, his eyes looking at the city spread before him. It too had seen change, had been French, Spanish, and American, yet had somehow survived as itself.

No! He would not sell out. Not yet. While there was still hope, he would hold on. There were still four days in which to raise the mortgage money⁷⁶ somehow, and beyond that the present losses were a temporary thing. Soon the tide would turn⁷⁷, leaving the St. Gregory solvent and independent.

He walked stiffly across the room to an opposite window. His eyes caught the gleam of an airplane high to the north. It was a jet, losing height and preparing to land at the Airport. He wondered if Curtis O'Keefe was aboard.

2

When Christine Francis found him, Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, was standing at the Reception, making his daily check. Most hotels cared nothing about the morals of those who stayed within their walls. Their concern was a single basic question: Could a guest pay?

With a swift movement Sam Jakubiec put the ledger cards back in place and closed the file drawer containing them. “Now,” he said, “what can I do?”

“We've hired a private duty nurse for 1410.” Briefly Christine reported the previous night's crisis concerning Albert Wells. “I'm a little worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it, and I'm not sure he realizes how much it will cost.” She might have added, but didn't, that she was more concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.

Jakubiec nodded. “That private nursing can run into big money.” Walking together, they moved away from Reception to the credit manager's office.

“Madge,” Sam Jakubiec said, “see what we have on Wells, Albert.”

Without answering, the secretary opened a drawer. Jakubiec took the card the secretary offered him. Scanning it, he observed, “He looks all right. Stayed with us six times. Paid cash. One small problem which seems to have been settled.”

“I know about that,” Christine said. “It was our fault.”

The credit man nodded. “I'd say there's nothing to worry about. I'll look into it, though; find out what the charge is going to be, then have a talk with Mr. Wells. If he has a cash problem we could maybe help out, give him a little time to pay.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Christine felt relieved, knowing that Jakubiec could be helpful and sympathetic. She recrossed the main lobby, acknowledging “good mornings” from bellboys, the florist, and one of the assistant managers. Then, bypassing the elevators, she ran lightly up the central stairway to the main mezzanine.

Since last night Christine had found herself thinking about Peter a good deal. She wondered if the time they had spent together had produced the same effect in him. At several moments she caught herself wishing that this was true. Over the years in which she had learned to live alone there had been men in Christine's life, but none she had taken seriously. At times, it seemed as if instinct were protecting her from renewing the kind of close relationship which five years ago had been broken so savagely. All the same, at this moment she wondered where Peter was and what he was doing. Well, she decided practically, sooner or later in the course of the day their ways would cross.

Back in her own office in the executive suite, Christine looked briefly into Warren Trent's, but the proprietor had not yet come down from his fifteenth-floor apartment. The morning mail was stacked on her own desk, and several telephone messages required attention soon. She decided first to complete the matter which had taken her downstairs. Lifting the telephone, she asked for room 1410. A woman's voice answered – presumably the private duty nurse. Christine identified herself and inquired politely after the patient's health.

“Mr. Wells passed a comfortable night,” the voice informed her, “and his condition is improved.”

Wondering why some nurses felt they had to sound like official bulletins, Christine replied, “In that case, perhaps I can drop in.”

“Not for some time, I'm afraid. Dr. Aarons will be seeing the patient this morning, and I wish to be ready for him.”

It sounded, Christine thought, like a state visit. The idea of the pompous Dr. Aarons being attended by an equally pompous nurse amused her. Aloud she said, “In that case, please tell Mr. Wells I called and that I'll see him this afternoon.”

3

The conference in the owner's suite left Peter McDermott in a mood of frustration. Striding away down the fifteenth-floor corridor he reflected that his meetings with Warren Trent always went the same way. As he had on other occasions, he wished that he could have six months and a free hand to manage the hotel himself.

Near the elevators he stopped to use a house phone, asking Reception what accommodation had been reserved for Mr. Curtis O'Keefe's party. There were two adjoining suites on the twelfth floor, and Peter used the service stairway to descend the two flights. Like all big hotels, the St. Gregory pretended not to have a thirteenth floor, naming it the fourteenth instead.

All four doors to the two reserved suites were open and, from within, the noise of a vacuum cleaner was heard. Inside, two maids were working under the critical eye of Mrs. Blanche du Quesnay, the St. Gregory's sharp-tongued but highly competent housekeeper. She turned as Peter came in, her bright eyes flashing.

“I might have known that one of you men would be checking up to see if I'm capable of doing my own job.”

Peter grinned. “Relax, Mrs. Q. Mr. Trent asked me to drop in.” He liked the middle-aged red-haired woman, one of the most reliable department heads. The two maids were smiling. He winked at them, adding for Mrs. du Quesnay, “If Mr. Trent had known you were giving this your personal attention he'd have wiped the whole thing from his mind⁷⁸.”

“And if we run out of soft soap in the laundry we'll send for you,” the housekeeper said.

He laughed, then inquired, “Have flowers and a basket of fruit been ordered?” The magnate, Peter thought, probably grew tired of the inevitable fruit basket – standard salutation of hotels to visiting VIPs. But its absence might be noticed.

“They're on the way up.” Mrs. du Quesnay looked up and said pointedly, “From what I hear, though, Mr. O'Keefe brings his own flowers, and not in vases either.”

It was a reference – which Peter understood – to the fact that Curtis O'Keefe was seldom without a feminine escort on his travels. He ignored it.

Both suites, Peter saw as he walked through them, had been gone over thoroughly. There was nothing else to be done, Peter thought.

Then a thought struck him. Curtis O'Keefe, he remembered, prayed frequently, sometimes in public. One report claimed that when a new hotel interested him he prayed for it as a child did for a Christmas toy; another, that before negotiations a private church service was held which O'Keefe executives attended dutifully.

The thought prompted Peter to check the Bibles – one in each room. He was glad he did.

As usually happened when they had been in use for any length of time, the Bibles' front pages were dotted with call girls' phone numbers, since a Bible – as experienced travelers knew – was the first place to seek that kind of information. Peter showed the books silently to Mrs. du Quesnay. “Mr. O'Keefe won't be needing these, now will he? I'll have new ones sent up.”

Taking the Bibles under her arm, she regarded Peter questioningly. “I suppose what Mr. O'Keefe likes or doesn't is going to be important to people keeping their jobs around here.”

He shook his head. “I honestly don't know, Mrs. Q. Your guess is as good as mine.”⁷⁹

Mrs. du Quesnay, he knew, supported an invalid husband and any threat to her job would be cause for anxiety. He felt a genuine sympathy for her as he rode an elevator to the main mezzanine.

In the event of a management change, Peter supposed, most of the younger and brighter staff members would have an opportunity to stay on. He imagined that most would take it since the O'Keefe chain had a reputation for treating its employees well. Older employees, though, had a good deal more to worry about.

As Peter McDermott approached the executive suite, the chief engineer, Doc Vickery, was leaving it. Stopping, Peter said, “Number four elevator was giving some trouble last night, chief. I wondered if you knew.”

The chief nodded his bald head. “It's a poor business when machinery that needs money spending on it doesna' get it.”

“Is it really that bad?” The engineering budget, Peter knew, had been cut down recently, but this was the first he had heard of serious trouble with the elevators.

The chief shook his head. “If you mean shall we have a big accident, the answer's no. But we've had small breakdowns and sometime there'll be a bigger one.”

Peter nodded. He inquired, “What is it you need?”

“A hundred thousand dollars to start. With that I'd rip out most of the elevator guts and replace them, then some other things as well.”

Peter whistled softly.

“I'll tell you one thing,” the chief observed. “Good machinery's a lovely thing, and most times it'll do more work than you think it could. But somewhere along there's a death point you'll never get by, no matter how much you – and the machinery – want to.”

Peter was still thinking about the chief's words when he entered his own office. What was the death point, he wondered, for an entire hotel?

There was a pile of mail, memos and telephone messages on his desk. Another thing: he must drop in soon to see Christine. There were several small matters requiring decisions from Warren Trent. Then, grinning, he told himself: Stop rationalizing! You want to see her, and why not?

As he debated which to do first, the telephone bell shrilled. It was Reception, one of the room clerks. “I thought you'd want to know,” he said. “Mr. Curtis O'Keefe has just checked in.”

4

Curtis O'Keefe marched swiftly into the busy lobby. Glancing around, his experienced man's eye noticed the signs. Small signs, but significant: a newspaper left in a chair and uncollected; a half-dozen cigarette butts in a sand urn by the elevators; a button missing from a bellboy's uniform; two burned-out light bulbs in the chandelier above.

In a hotel of the O'Keefe chain, there would have been whip-cracking action⁸⁰, and perhaps dismissals. But the St. Gregory isn't my hotel, Curtis O'Keefe reminded himself. Not yet.

He headed for Reception, a slender, six-foot figure in a pressed gray suit, moving with dance-like steps. His lithe athlete's body had been his pride through most of his fifty-six years.

At the marble-topped counter, barely looking up, a room clerk pushed a registration pad forward. The hotelier ignored it. He announced evenly, “My name is O'Keefe and I have reserved two suites, one for myself, the other in the name of Miss Dorothy Lash.” Now he could see Dodo entering the lobby: all legs and breasts, radiating sex like a pyrotechnic. Heads were turning, as always happened. He had left her at the car to supervise the baggage. She enjoyed doing things like that occasionally. Anything requiring more cerebral strain⁸¹ passed her by.

His words had the effect of a thrown grenade. The room clerk stiffened, straightening his shoulders. As he faced the cool gray eyes which seemed to bore into him, the clerk's attitude changed from indifference to respect. With nervous instinct, a hand went to his tie.

“Excuse me, sir. Mr. Curtis O'Keefe?”

The hotelier nodded.

“Yes, sir. I'm sure your suites are ready, sir. If you'll wait one moment, please.”⁸²

O'Keefe stepped back a pace from the counter, allowing other arrivals to move in. Outside, in bright, warm sunshine, airport limousines and taxis were discharging passengers who had come on the breakfast jet flight from New York. He noticed a convention was assembling. A banner suspended from the vaulted lobby roof proclaimed:

WELCOME DELEGATES

CONGRESS OF AMERICAN DENTISTRY

Dodo joined him, “Curtie, they say there's a lotta dentists staying here.”

He said drily, “I'm glad you told me. Otherwise I might never have known.”⁸³

“Geez, well maybe I should get that filling done⁸⁴. I always mean to, then somehow never…”

“They're here to open their own mouths, not other people's.” Dodo looked puzzled. Some of O'Keefe's acquaintances, he knew, wondered about his choice of Dodo as a traveling companion when, with his wealth and influence, he could have anyone he chose. He thought of her mild stupidities as merely amusing – perhaps because he grew tired at times of being surrounded by clever minds.

He supposed, though, he would part with Dodo soon. She had been with him for almost a year – longer than most of the others. There were always plenty more starlets to choose from the Hollywood galaxy. He would, of course, take care of her, using his influence to arrange a supporting role⁸⁵ or two.

The room clerk returned to the front counter. “Everything is ready, sir.”

Curtis O'Keefe nodded. Then, led by the bell captain, their small procession moved to a waiting elevator.

5

Shortly after Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had been escorted to their suites, Julius “Keycase”⁸⁶ Milne obtained a single room.

Keycase telephoned from the Airport to confirm a reservation made several days earlier. In reply he was assured that his booking was in order and he could be accommodated without delay.

Keycase was pleased at the news, as he had planned to make reservations at all of New Orleans' major hotels, employing a different name for each. At the St. Gregory he had reserved as “Byron Meader,” a name of a major sweepstake winner. This seemed like a good omen, and omens impressed Keycase very much indeed.

They had seemed to work out well. His night entry into various Detroit hotel rooms had gone smoothly and rewardingly, largely – he decided afterward – because all room numbers except the last contained the numeral two, his lucky number. It was this final room, without the digit, whose occupant awakened and screamed just as he was packing her mink coat into a suitcase, having already put her cash and jewelry in one of his topcoat pockets.

It was bad luck that a house dick had been within hearing of the screams. But now, having served his time⁸⁷ and having enjoyed a successful ten-day foray in Kansas City, he was anticipating a profitable fortnight or so in New Orleans.

It had started well.

He arrived at the Airport, driving from the cheap motel where he had stayed the night before. It was a fine, modern terminal building, Keycase thought, with lots of glass and chrome as well as many trash cans, the latter important to his present purpose.

Strolling through the airport terminal, a trim, well-dressed figure, carrying a folded newspaper beneath his arm, Keycase stayed carefully alert. He gave the appearance⁸⁸ of a well-to– do businessman, relaxed and confident. Only his eyes moved ceaselessly, following the movements of the travelers, pouring into the terminal from limousines and taxis which had delivered them from downtown hotels. Twice he saw the beginning of the thing he was looking for. Two men, reaching into pockets for tickets or change, found a room key which they had carried away by mistake. The first took the trouble to locate a postal box and mail the key, as suggested on its plastic tag. The other handed his to an airline clerk who put it in a cash drawer, probably for return to the hotel.

Both incidents were disappointing, but Keycase was a patient man. Soon, he knew, what he was waiting for would happen.

Ten minutes later he was rewarded.

A balding man, carrying a topcoat, stopped to choose a magazine on his way to the departure hall. At the newsstand cash desk he discovered a key which passing a trash can he threw in.

For Keycase the rest was routine. Strolling past the trash can, he tossed in his own folded newspaper, then, as if abruptly changing his mind, turned back and recovered it. At the same time he looked down, found the key and took it quietly. A few minutes later in the privacy of the men's toilet he read that it was for room 641 of the St. Gregory Hotel.

Half an hour later, a similar incident ended with the same kind of success. The second key was also for the St. Gregory – a convenience which prompted Keycase to telephone at once, confirming his own reservation there.

From the terminal building Keycase returned to the parking lot and the five-year-old Ford sedan. It was an ideal car for Keycase, neither old nor new enough to be noticed or remembered. The only feature which bothered him a little were the Michigan license plates – an attractive green on white. He had considered using fake Louisiana plates, but this seemed to be a greater risk.

He drove the fourteen miles to town, carefully observing speed limits, and headed for the St. Gregory which he had located the day before. He parked a few blocks from the hotel, and removed two suitcases. The rest of his baggage had been left in the motel room. It was expensive to maintain an extra room. But it was prudent. The motel would serve as a hiding place for whatever he might acquire and, if disaster struck, could be left at once. He had been careful to leave nothing there which was personally identifiable.

He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, giving his bags to a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room clerk, conscious of well-cut clothes and firm features of his face, treated the newcomer with respect and allocated room 830. Now, Keycase thought agreeably, there would be three St. Gregory keys in his possession – one the hotel knew about and two it didn't.

Room 830 turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway was only a few yards away.

When he was alone he unpacked carefully. Later, he decided, he would have a sleep in preparation for the serious night's work ahead.

6

The morning newspapers lay around the Duchess of Croydon's bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly and now she lay back, propped against pillows, her mind working busily.

On a bedside table a room-service tray had been used and pushed aside. Even in moments of crisis the Duchess was accustomed to breakfasting well.

The Duke, who had eaten alone in the living-room, had returned to the bedroom a few moments earlier. He too had read the newspaper as soon as it arrived. Now, he was pacing restlessly. Occasionally he passed a hand through his disordered hair.

“For goodness sake, keep still!” The tenseness was in his wife's voice. “I can't possibly think when you're parading like a stallion at Ascot⁸⁹.”

He turned, his face lined and despairing in the bright morning light. “What bloody good will thinking do? Nothing's going to change.”

“Thinking always helps. That's why some people make a success of things and others don't.”

His hand went through his hair once more. “Nothing looks any better than it did last night.”

“At least it isn't any worse,” the Duchess said practically, “and that's something to be thankful for. We're still here – intact.”

He shook his head wearily. He had had little sleep during the night. “How does it help?”

“As I see it, it's a question of time. Time is on our side. The longer we wait and nothing happens…” She stopped, then went on slowly, thinking aloud, “What we need is to have some attention focused on you.”

The Duke resumed his pacing. “Only thing likely to do that is an announcement confirming my appointment to Washington.”

“Exactly.”

“You can't hurry it. If Hal feels he's being pushed, he'll blow the roof off Downing Street.”⁹⁰

There was a trace of hysteria in the Duke of Croydon's voice. He lit a cigarette, his hand shaking.

“We shall not give up!” In contrast to her husband, the Duchess's tone was businesslike. “Even prime ministers respond to pressure if it's from the right quarter. Hal's no exception. I'm going to call London.”

“Why?”

“I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to speed up your appointment.”

The Duke shook his head doubtfully.

“Geoffrey's good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides, if we sit here and wait it may be worse still.” Matching action to her words, the Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed the operator, “I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn.”

The call came through in twenty minutes. When the Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was unenthusiastic. From across the bedroom the Duke could hear his brother-in-law's deep voice, “Simon's appointment to Washington is a long shot right now.⁹¹ Some of those in Cabinet feel he's the wrong man for the time.”

“If things are left as they are, how long will a decision take?”

“Hard to say for sure, old thing. The way I hear, though, it could be weeks.”

“We simply cannot wait weeks,” the Duchess insisted. “You'll have to take my word, Geoffrey, it would be an awful mistake not to make an effort now.”

“Can't see it myself.” The voice from London was annoyed.

“What I'm asking is for the family's sake as well as our own.” There was a pause, then the cautious question, “Is Simon with you?”

“Yes.”

“What's behind all this? What's he been up to?”⁹²

“Even if there were an answer,” the Duchess of Croydon responded, “I'd scarcely be so foolish as to give it on the public telephone.”

There was a silence once more, then the reluctant admission, “Well, you usually know what you're doing.”

The Duchess caught her husband's eye. She gave a nod before inquiring of her brother, “Am I to understand, then, that you'll act as I ask?”

“I don't like it, sis⁹³. I still don't like it.” But he added, “Very well, I'll do what I can.”

In a few more words they said goodbye.

The bedside telephone had been replaced only a moment when it rang again. Both Croydons started, the Duke moistening his lips nervously. He listened as his wife answered.

“Yes?”

A nasal voice inquired, “Duchess of Croydon?”

“This is she.”

“Ogilvie. Chief house officer.” There was the sound of heavy breathing down the line, and a pause as if the caller were allowing time for the information to sink in.

The Duchess waited. When nothing further was said she asked pointedly, “What is it you want?”

“A private talk. With your husband and you.” It was a blunt unemotional statement.

“If this is business I suggest you have made an error. We are accustomed to dealing with Mr. Trent.”

“Do that this time, and you'll wish you hadn't.”⁹⁴ The cold, insolent voice held an unmistakable confidence. It caused the Duchess to hesitate. As she did, she was aware her hands were shaking.

She managed to answer, “It is not convenient to see you now.” “When?” Again a pause and heavy breathing.

Whatever this man wanted, she realized, he knew how to take a psychological advantage⁹⁵.

She answered, “Possibly later.”

“I'll be there in an hour.” It was a declaration, not a question.

“It may not be…”

Cutting off her protest, there was a click as the caller hung up.

“Who was it? What did they want?” The Duke approached tensely. His gaunt face seemed paler than before.

Momentarily, the Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate desire to have someone else carry the burden of decision making for them both. She knew it was a vain hope, just as it had always been for as long as she could remember. Even Geoffrey always listened to her in the end, as he had just now. Her eyes opened.

“It was a detective. He insists on coming here in an hour.”

“Then he knows! My God – he knows!”

“Obviously he's aware of something. He didn't say what.”

Unexpectedly the Duke of Croydon straightened, his head moving upright and shoulders squaring. His hands became steadier, his mouth a firmer line. He said quietly, “It might go better, even now, if I went… if I admitted.”⁹⁶

“No! Absolutely and positively no!” His wife's eyes flashed. “Understand one thing. Nothing you can possibly do could improve the situation.” There was a silence between them, then the Duchess said, “We shall do nothing. We will wait for this man to come, then discover what he knows and intends.”

Momentarily it seemed as if the Duke would argue. Then, changing his mind, he nodded dully and went out to the adjoining room. A few minutes later he returned carrying two glasses of Scotch. As he offered one to his wife she protested, “You know it's much too early…”

“Never mind that. You need it.” He pressed the glass into her hand.

She held the glass and drained it. The liquor burned, but a moment later flooded her with welcome warmth.

7

At her desk in the outer office⁹⁷, Christine Francis had been reading letters. Now she looked up to see Peter McDermott's cheerful face peering around the doorway.

“By the way”, he said, “I suppose you know Curtis O'Keefe's arrived.”

“You're the seventeenth to tell me. I think the phone started ringing the moment he stepped on the sidewalk.”

“It's not surprising. By now many are wondering why he's here. Or rather, when we shall be told officially why he's here.”

Christine said, “I've just arranged a private dinner for tonight in W.T.'s suite – for Mr. O'Keefe and friend. Have you seen her? I hear she's something special.”

He shook his head. “I'm more interested in my own dinner plan involving you, which is why I'm here.”

“If that's an invitation for tonight, I'm free and hungry.”

“Good!” He jumped up, towering over her. “I'll collect you at seven. Your apartment.”

Peter was leaving when, on a table near the doorway, he observed a folded copy of the Times-Picayune. Stopping, he saw it was the same edition – with black headlines proclaiming the hit-and-run fatalities which he had read earlier. He said, “I suppose you saw this.”

“Yes I did. It's horrible, isn't it? When I read it I had an awful sensation of watching the whole thing happen because of going by there last night.”

He looked at her strangely. “It's funny you should say that. I had a feeling too. It bothered me last night and again this morning.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“I'm not sure. The nearest thing is – it seems as if I know something, and yet I don't.” Peter shrugged, dismissing the idea. “I expect it's as you say – because we went by.” He replaced the newspaper where he had found it. As he strode out he turned and waved back to her, smiling.

At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells.

She took an elevator to the fourteenth floor then, turning down the long corridor, saw a stocky figure approaching. It was Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager. As he came nearer, she observed that he was holding a slip of paper and his expression was dour.

Seeing Christine, he stopped. “I've been to see your invalid friend, Mr. Wells.”

“If you looked like that, you couldn't have cheered him up much.”

“Tell you the truth,” Jakubiec said, “he didn't cheer me up either. I got this out of him, but lord knows how good it is.”

Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. It was a soiled sheet of stationery with a grease stain in one corner. On the sheet, Albert Wells had written and signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.

“In his quiet sort of way,” Jakubiec said, “he's an obstinate old cuss⁹⁸. Wasn't going to give me anything at first. Said he'd pay his bill when it was due.”

“People are sensitive about money,” Christine said. “Especially being short of it.”

The credit man noted impatiently. “Hell! – most of us are short of money. I always am.”

Christine regarded the bank draft doubtfully. “Is this legal?”

“It's legal if there's money in the bank to meet it. You can write a check on sheet music⁹⁹ or a banana skin if you feel like it. But most people who have cash in their accounts at least carry printed checks. Your friend Wells said he couldn't find one.”

As Christine handed the paper back, “You know what I think,” Jakubiec said, “I think he's honest and he has the money. Trouble is, he already owes more than half of this two hundred, and that nursing bill is soon going to swallow the rest.”

“What are you going to do?”

The credit manager rubbed a hand across his baldness. “First of all, I'm going to invest in a phone call to Montreal to find out if this is a good check.”

“And if it isn't good, Sam?”

“He'll have to leave – at least as far as I'm concerned. Of course, if you want to tell Mr. Trent and he says differently”, – Jakubiec shrugged – “that's something else again.”

Christine shook her head. “I don't want to bother W.T. But I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me before you do anything.”

“Be glad to, Miss Francis.” The credit manager nodded, then continued down the corridor.

A moment later Christine knocked at the door of room 1410.

It was opened by a uniformed, serious-faced, middle-aged nurse. Christine identified herself and the nurse instructed, “Wait here, please. I'll inquire if Mr. Wells will see you.”

There were footsteps inside and Christine smiled as she heard a voice say, “Of course I'll see her. Don't keep her waiting.”

When the nurse returned, Christine suggested, “If you'd like to have a few minutes off, I can stay until you come back.”

“Well…” The older woman hesitated.

The voice from inside said, “You do that. Miss Francis knows what she's up to. If she didn't I'd have been a goner last night.”¹⁰⁰

“All right,” the nurse said. “I'll just be ten minutes and if you need me, please call the coffee shop.”