Текст книги "Отель / Hotel"

6

Shortly after Curtis O’Keefe and Dodo, Julius “Keycase” Milne obtained a single room.

It had started well.

He had arrived at Moisant Airport shortly before 7:30 a.m., driving from the cheap motel on Chef Menteur Highway where he had stayed the night before. He read on a plaque that the airport was named after John Moisant, an Orleanian who had been a world aviation pioneer, and he noted that the initials were the same as his own, which could be a favorable omen.

Strolling inconspicuously through the airport terminal, a trim, well-dressed figure, carrying a folded newspaper beneath his arm, Keycase stayed carefully alert. He gave the appearance of a well-to-do businessman, relaxed and confident. Only his eyes moved ceaselessly, following the movements of the early rising travelers, pouring into the terminal from limousines and taxis, which had delivered them from downtown hotels. Twice he saw the beginning of the kind of thing he was looking for. Two men, reaching into pockets for tickets or change, encountered a hotel room key, which they had carried away in error. 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, presumably for return to the hotel.

Both incidents were disappointing, but Keycase was a patient man. Ten minutes later his patience was rewarded.

A balding man stopped to choose a magazine on his way to the departure ramp. At the newsstand cash desk he discovered a hotel key and gave an exclamation of annoyance, “There isn’t time.” Keycase followed him closely. Good! As the man passed a trash can, he threw the key 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, observed the discarded key and palmed it unobtrusively. 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 terminated 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.

It was not without reason that a New York prosecuting attorney years before had observed in court, “Everything this man becomes involved in, your honor, is a key case. Frankly, I’ve come to think of him as ‘Keycase’ Milne.” The observation followed by a sentence of fifteen years had found its way into police records and the name stuck, so that even Keycase himself now used it with a certain pride. Given time, patience, and luck, the chances of securing a key to almost anything were extremely good.

Countless people left a hotel with their room keys forgotten in pocket or purse. The conscientious ones eventually dropped the keys in a mailbox, and a big hotel like the St. Gregory regularly paid out fifty dollars or more a week in postage due on keys returned. But there were other people who either kept the keys or discarded them indifferently.

This last group kept professional hotel thieves like Keycase steadily in business.

He entered the St. Gregory with a confident air, surrendering his bags to a doorman, and registered as B. W. Meader of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The room clerk 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, into which the bellboy ushered him a few moments later, turned out to be ideal. It was spacious and comfortable and the service stairway, Keycase observed as they came in, was only a few yards away.

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

7

After making sure the hotel proprietor had been informed of O’Keefe’s arrival, Peter went on to see Marsha Preyscott in 555.

As she opened the door, “I’m glad you came,” she said.

There was something almost breathtaking in the half-woman, half-child appearance.

“I’m sorry it took so long.”

“It’s the room for emergencies, isn’t it? If you don’t mind, I thought I’d stay on for tonight, at least,” she said.

“Oh! May I ask why?”

“I’m not sure,” she lied, as she knew that the real reason was to put off her return to the empty house. “Maybe it’s because I want to recover from what happened yesterday, and the best place to do it is here.”

He nodded doubtfully. “How do you feel?”

“Better. It isn’t the kind of experience you get over in a few hours,” Marsha admitted, “but I’m afraid I was pretty stupid to come here at all – just as you reminded me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you thought it.”

“We all get into tough situations sometimes. I was hoping you’d tell me how it all started.”

Last night her overwhelming feelings had been shock, hurt pride, and physical exhaustion. But now the shock was gone and her pride, she suspected, might suffer less from silence than by protest. It was likely, too, that in the sober light of morning Lyle Dumaire and his cronies would not be eager to boast of what they had attempted.

“I can’t persuade you if you decide to keep quiet,” Peter said. “Though I’d remind you that what people get away with once they’ll try again – not with you, perhaps, but someone else. I don’t know if the men who were in that room last night were friends of yours or not. But even if they were, I can’t think of a single reason for shielding them.”

“One was a friend. At least, I thought so.”

“We know two of them already. Who was the leader?”

“I think… Dixon.”

“Now then, tell me what happened beforehand.”

Marsha had a sense of being dominated, and, surprisingly, she found herself liking it. Obediently she described the sequence of events ending with the welcome arrival of Aloysius Royce. Only twice was she interrupted. Had she seen the women in the adjoining room whom Dixon and the others had referred to? Had she observed anyone from the hotel staff? To both questions she shook her head negatively.

At the end she had an urge to tell him more.

“Yesterday was my birthday. I was nineteen.”

“And you were alone?”

Marsha described the telephone call from Rome and her disappointment at her father’s failure to return.

“I’m sorry,” he said when she had finished. “And what I want to do now is make use of what you’ve told me. I’ll call the four people – Dixon, Dumaire and the other two – into the hotel for a talk.”

“That way, wouldn’t a lot of people find out?”

“I promise that when we’re finished there’ll be even less likelihood of anyone talking.”

“All right,” Marsha agreed. “And thank you for all you’ve done.”

It had been easier than he expected, Peter thought.

“There’s something I should explain, Miss Preyscott.”

“Marsha.”

“All right, I’m Peter.” He supposed the informality was all right.

“A lot of things go on in hotels, Marsha, that we close our eyes to. But when something like this happens we can be extremely tough. That includes anyone on our staff, if we find out they were implicated.”

It was one area, Peter knew – involving the hotel’s reputation – where Warren Trent would agree with him. The conversation went on.

“You’re new to New Orleans, aren’t you?” Marsha said.

“Fairly new. In time I hope to know it better.”

She said with sudden enthusiasm, “I know lots about local history. Would you let me teach you I’d like to do something to show how grateful… “

“There isn’t any need for that.”

“Well then, I’d like to anyway. Please!” She put a hand on his arm.

Wondering if he was being wise, he said, “It’s an interesting offer.”[7]7
  Wondering if he was being wise, he said, “It’s an interesting offer.”– Задаваясь вопросом, правильно ли он поступает, он сказал: «Это интересное предложение».


[Закрыть]

“That’s settled. I’m having a dinner party at home tomorrow night. It’ll be an old-fashioned New Orleans evening. Afterward we can talk about history.”

The past, the importance of avoiding involvement with a young girl who was also a hotel guest, made Peter hesitate. Then he decided: it would be silly to refuse. And there was nothing bad about accepting an invitation to dinner. There would be others present, after all. “If I come,” he said, “I want you to do one thing for me now.”

“What?”

“Go home, Marsha. Leave the hotel and go home.”

Their eyes met directly.

“All right,” she said. “If you want me to, I will.”

It troubled Peter McDermott that someone as young as Marsha Preyscott should be so apparently neglected. If I were her father, he thought… or brother…

In his office his thoughts were interrupted by Flora Yates, his freckle-faced secretary.

Flora’s fingers, which could dance over a typewriter keyboard faster than any others he had ever seen, were clutching a pack of telephone messages.

“Anything urgent?”

“They’ll keep until this afternoon.”

“We’ll let them, then. I asked the cashier’s office to send me a bill for room 1126-7. It’s in the name of Stanley Dixon.”

“It’s here.” Flora plucked a folder from several others on his desk. “There’s also an estimate from the carpenters’ shop for damages in the suite. I put the two together.”

The bill was for seventy-five dollars, the carpenters’ estimate for a hundred and ten. Peter said, “Get me the phone number for this address. I expect it’ll be in his father’s name.”

There was a folded newspaper on his desk which he had not looked at until now. The hit-and-run fatality of the night before was on the front page. It had become a double tragedy, the mother had died in the hospital during the early hours of the morning. “Police attach credence to the report of an unnamed bystander that a “low black car moving very fast” was observed leaving the scene seconds after the accident.” City and state police were looking for a presumably damaged automobile fitting this description.

Peter wondered if Christine had seen the newspaper report.

The return of Flora with the telephone number he had asked for brought his mind back to more immediate things.

A deep male voice answered, “The Dixon residence.”

Peter introduced himself. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Stanley Dixon.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Dixon, junior, is not available.”

“Tell him if he doesn’t choose to come to the telephone I intend to call his father directly.”

There was a click on the line and a voice announced, “This’s Stan Dixon. What’s all the fuss?”

Peter answered sharply, “The fuss concerns what happened last night. Does it surprise you?”

“Who are you?”

He repeated his name. “I’ve talked with Miss Preyscott. Now I’d like to talk to you.”

“You’re talking now,” Dixon said.

“Not this way. In my office at the hotel. Four o’clock tomorrow, with the other three. You’ll bring them along.”

“Whoever you are, you’d better watch out because my old man knows Warren Trent.”

“For your information I’ve already discussed the matter with Mr. Trent. He left it for me to handle. But I’ll tell him you prefer to have your father brought in.”

“Hold it!” There was the sound of heavy breathing, “I’ve got a class tomorrow at four.”

“Cut it,” Peter told him, “and have the others do the same. My office is on the main mezzanine.”

Replacing the telephone, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow’s meeting[8]8
  Replacing the telephone, he found himself looking forward to tomorrow’s meeting. – Положив трубку, он понял, что с нетерпением ждёт завтрашнюю встречу.


[Закрыть].

8

The pages of the morning newspaper lay around the Duchess of Croydon’s bed. There was little in the news that the Duchess had not read thoroughly. There had never been a time, she realized, when her wits and resourcefulness were needed more.

She suddenly announced thinking aloud, “What we desperately need is to have some attention focused on you.”

As if by consent, neither referred to the events of the night before.

“Only thing likely to do that is an announcement confirming my appointment to Washington.”

“Exactly.”

“You can’t hurry it…” The Duke’s tone was close to hysteria.

“I’m going to call London. I shall speak to Geoffrey. I intend to ask him to do everything he can to speed up your appointment.” In contrast to her husband, the Duchess’s tone was businesslike. “Geoffrey’s good at pressure when he wants to be. Besides, if we sit here and wait it maybe worse still.”

The Duchess picked up the telephone beside the bed and instructed the operator, “I wish to call London and speak to Lord Selwyn.” When the Duchess of Croydon had explained its purpose, her brother, Lord Selwyn, was notably unenthusiastic.

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

“The way I hear, though, it could be weeks.”

“We simply cannot wait weeks,” the Duchess insisted. “What I’m asking is for the family’s sake as well as our own.”

“I don’t like it, sis, but you usually know what you are doing. I’ll do what I can.”

The bedside telephone rang again in a few moments.

A nasal voice inquired, “Duchess of Croydon?”

“This is she.”

“Ogilvie. Chief house officer. I want a private talk. With your husband and you.”

The Duchess’s hands were shaking, “It is not convenient to see you right now.”

“I’ll be there in an hour.” It was a declaration, not a question. There was a click as the caller hung up.

“Who was it?” The Duke approached, his face paler than before.

The Duchess closed her eyes. She had a desperate yearning to be relieved of leadership and responsibility for them both. In her family, though strength was a norm, others followed her lead. Even Geoffrey always listened to her in the end, as he had just now. She could not give up and she would not.

9

“When W.T. comes he won’t like this,” sighed Christine putting off the letter and looking at Peter. “You remember a month ago,” Christine said, “– the man who was walking on Carondelet Street when a bottle dropped from above. His head was cut quite badly.”

Peter nodded. “The bottle came from one of our rooms, no question of that. But we couldn’t find the guest who did it.”

“He’s suing the hotel for ten thousand dollars. He charges shock, bodily harm, loss of earnings and says we were negligent.”

Peter said flatly, “He hasn’t a chance.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there’s a whole range of cases where the same kind of thing has happened. It gives defending lawyers all kinds of precedents they can quote in court. For example, there was a classic case in Pittsburgh – at the William Penn. A man was hit by a bottle which was thrown from a guest room and went through the roof of his car. He sued the hotel.”

“And he didn’t win?”

“No. The court said that a hotel – any hotel – is not responsible for the acts of its guests.”

“Are you saying that a hotel isn’t responsible legally for anything its guests may do – even to other guests?”

“A lot of our law, in fact, goes back to the English beginning with the fourteenth century. The English inns had one great hall, warmed and lighted by a fire, and everyone slept there. While they slept it was the landlord’s business to protect his guests from thieves and murderers. And the same thing was expected of the landlord when smaller chambers began to be used.”[9]9
  And the same thing was expected of the landlord when smaller chambers began to be used. – То же ожидалось и от хозяина, когда начали использовать комнаты поменьше.


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“It wasn’t much of an age for privacy.”

“That came later when there were individual rooms, and guests had keys. After that the innkeeper was obliged to protect his guests from being broken in upon. But beyond that he had no responsibility, either for what happened to them in their rooms or what they did.”

“So the key made the difference.”

“It still does.”

“I didn’t know you were so encyclopedic.”

“I didn’t mean to sound that way,” Peter said.

“You like all this, don’t you? Running a hotel; the other things that go with it.”

He answered frankly, “Yes, I do. Though I’d like it more if we could rearrange a few things here. But right now 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.”

“I’ll collect you at seven. Your apartment.”

At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells and met Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager, on her way. Seeing Christine, he stopped. “I’ve been to see your invalid friend, Mr. Wells. I got this out of him, but lord knows how good it is.”

Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. On the sheet Albert Wells had written and signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.

“Is this legal?”

“It’s legal if there’s money in the bank to meet it. I’m going to invest in a phone call to Montreal to find out if this is a good check. If it isn’t, he’ll have to leave.”

“I’d appreciate it if you told me before you do anything.”

“I’d be glad to, Miss Francis.” The credit manager nodded, then continued down the corridor.

The door of room 1410 was opened by a uniformed, middle-aged and serious-faced nurse. Christine identified herself and asked if she could see Mr. Wells. “If you want to have a few minutes off, I can stay until you come back,” she added.

The voice from inside said, “Miss Francis knows what she’s up to[10]10
  Miss Francis knows what she’s up to. – Мисс Фрэнсис знает, что делает.


[Закрыть]. If she didn’t I’d have been a goner last night.”

“All right,” the nurse said.

Albert Wells beamed as Christine came in.

“I wanted to know how you were.”

“Thanks to you, miss, much better.”

“The doctor said yesterday you had bronchitis. How did you get it?” she asked.

“I was a miner once. For more years than I like to think about, miss. The stories about my past are long and boring.”

“I’d like to hear about what you did. I don’t believe it is boring.”

He chuckled. “There are some in Montreal who’d argue that.”

“I’ve often wondered about Montreal.”

“It’s in some ways a lot like New Orleans.”

“Is that why you come here every year? Because it seems the same?”

“I never thought about that. I guess I come here because I like things old-fashioned and there aren’t too many places left where they are. It’s the same with this hotel. I hate chain hotels. They’re all the same, when you’re in them, it’s like living in a factory.”

“I’m afraid the St. Gregory may be part of a chain soon.”

“If it happens I’ll be sorry,” Albert Wells said. “Though I figured you people were in money trouble here. What’s the trouble now – bank tightening up, mortgage foreclosing, something like that?”

There were surprising sides to this retired miner, Christine thought, including an instinct for the truth. She answered, smiling, “I’ve probably talked too much already. What you’ll certainly hear, though, is that Mr. Curtis O’Keefe arrived this morning.”

“Oh no! Not him. This hotel needs changes, but not his kind.”

“What kind of changes, Mr. Wells?”

“I do know one thing, in time the public will get tired and want to come back to older things – like real hospitality and a bit of character and atmosphere. Only trouble is, by the time they get around to knowing it, most of the good places – including this one maybe – will have gone.”

As she left, he winked at her.

A note on her office desk requested Christine to call Sam Jakubiec.

“I phoned that bank at Montreal”, he said. “They wouldn’t tell me anything about a credit rating. I told them the amount, though, and they didn’t seem worried, so I guess he’s got it.”

10

After a careful inspection of the magnificent basket of fruit, which Peter McDermott had ordered delivered to the suite, Dodo selected an apple and was slicing it as the telephone at O’Keefe’s elbow rang twice within a few minutes.

The first call was a polite welcome from Warren Trent. Curtis O’Keefe accepted an invitation for himself and Dodo to dine privately with the St. Gregory’s proprietor that evening. “We’ll be truly delighted,” the hotelier affirmed him, “and, by the way, I admire your house.”

“That is what I’ve been afraid of.”

The second call, which followed immediately, was from a pay telephone in the hotel lobby. “Hello, Ogden,” Curtis O’Keefe said when the caller identified himself, “I’m reading your report now. Give me fifteen minutes, then come to see me.”

Hanging up, Curtis O’Keefe said amusedly to Dodo, “I’m glad you enjoy the fruit. If it weren’t for you, I’d put a stop to all these harvest festivals.”

“My mom’d go crazy with a basket like this.”

“Why not send her one?” Lifting the telephone once more, he asked for the hotel florist. “This is Mr. O’Keefe. I believe you delivered some fruit to my suite. I would like an identical fruit basket telegraphed to Akron, Ohio, and charged to my bill.” He handed the telephone to Dodo. “Give them the address and a message for your mother.”

When she had finished, she flung her arms around him. “Curtie, you’re the sweetest!”

It was strange, he reflected, that while Dodo loved expensive gifts as much as any of her predecessors, it was the small things – such as at this moment – which seemed to please her most.

In fifteen minutes precisely, there was a knock on the door which Dodo answered. She showed in two men, both carrying briefcases – Ogden Bailey who had telephoned, and the second man, Sean Hall, who was a younger edition of his superior. Ogden Bailey was an experienced key figure in the O’Keefe organization. As well as having the usual qualifications of an accountant, he possessed an extraordinary ability to enter any hotel and, after a week or two of discreet observation – usually unknown to the hotel’s management – produce a financial analysis, which later would prove close to the hotel’s own figures. Hall, whom Bailey himself had discovered and trained, showed every promise of developing the same kind of talent.

“Now, gentlemen, how much am I going to have to pay for this hotel?”

Ogden Bailey began respectfully, “The two-million-dollar mortgage due on Friday should make bargaining a good deal easier. No one in the financial community will touch the hotel now, mostly because of its operating losses coupled with the poor management situation.”

“It isn’t necessary to give me all the details. I rely on you gentlemen to take care of those eventually. What I want at these sessions is the broad picture.”

Hall flushed and, from across the room, Dodo shot him a sympathetic glance.

In his own brief experience Sean Hall knew that the procedure for acquiring a new link in the O’Keefe hotel chain followed the same general pattern. First a “spy team” – usually headed by Ogden Bailey – moved into the hotel, its members registering as normal guests. By systematic observation and bribery, the team compiled a financial and operating study, revealing weaknesses and estimating potential.

Next, armed with this accumulated knowledge, Curtis O’Keefe directed negotiations, which, more often than not, were successful.

Then the wrecking crew moved in. It was a group of management experts. It converted any hotel to the standard O’Keefe pattern within a remarkably short time. A team member once described their work in two sentences: “The first thing we announce is that there will be no staff changes. Then we get on with the firings.”

Sean Hall supposed the same thing would happen soon in the St. Gregory Hotel.

The process saddened Hall. He had uneasy moments, too, about the ethics, by which some tasks were accomplished. But personal ambition and the fact that Curtis O’Keefe paid generously for services rendered were cause for satisfaction.

“But there are also a few good people,” Sean Hall continued, “There is one man – the assistant general manager, McDermott – who seems extremely competent. He’s thirty-two, a Cornell-Statler graduate. Unfortunately, there’s a flaw in his record. There are others in lesser posts.”

The hotel magnate returned the sheet without comment. A decision about McDermott and others would be the business of the wrecking crew.