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in her eyes. “Aren't you somewhat young for that?”
“Not really. Nowadays a good many young men are in management.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-two.”
The Duchess smiled. She was five or six years older than himself, he calculated, though younger than the Duke who was in his late forties. Now she asked, “Do you take a course or something?”
“I have a degree from Cornell University – the School of hotel Administration. Before coming here I was an assistant manager at the Waldorf[16].” It required an effort to mention the Waldorf, and he was tempted to add: from where I was fired and blacklisted by the chain hotels. But he would not say it.
The Duchess retorted, “ The Waldorf would never have tolerated an incident like tonight's.”
“I assure you, ma'am, that if we are at fault the St. Gregory will not tolerate it either.” The conversation, he thought, was like a game of tennis.
“Are you aware that your waiter poured shrimp Creole over my husband?”
It was so obviously an exaggeration, he wondered why. It was also uncharacteristic since, until now, relations between the hotel and the Croydons had been excellent.
“I was aware there had been an accident which was probably due to carelessness. In that event I'm here to apologize for the hotel.”
“Our entire evening has been ruined,” the Duchess insisted. “My husband and I decided to enjoy a quiet evening in our suite here, by ourselves. We were out for a few moments only, to take a walk around the block, and we returned to supper – and this!”
Peter nodded, outwardly sympathetic but confused by the Duchess's attitude. It seemed almost as if she wanted to impress the incident on his mind so he would not forget it.
He suggested, “Perhaps if I could express our apologies to the Duke…”
The Duchess said firmly, “That will not be necessary.”
He was about to leave when the door to the living-room opened fully. It framed the Duke of Croydon.
In contrast to his Duchess, the Duke was untidily dressed, in a creased white shirt and the trousers of a tuxedo. Instinctively Peter McDermott's eyes sought the stain. He found it, though it was barely visible. The Duke's face seemed flushed, and more lined than some of his recent photographs showed. He held a glass in his hand and when he spoke his voice was blurry. “Oh, beg pardon.” Then, to the Duchess: “I say, old girl. Must have left my cigarettes in the car.”[17]
She said sharply, “I'll bring some.” With a nod the Duke turned back into the living-room. It was an uncomfortable scene and for some reason it had increased the Duchess's anger.
Turning to Peter, she snapped, “I insist on a full report being made to Mr. Trent, and you may inform him that I expect a personal apology.”
Still confused, Peter went out as the suite door closed firmly behind him.
But he had no more time for reflection. In the corridor outside, the bellboy who had accompanied Christine to the fourteenth floor was waiting. “Mr. McDermott,” he said urgently, “Miss Francis wants you in 1439, and please hurry!”
Some fifteen minutes earlier, when Peter McDermott had left the elevator on his way to the Presidential Suite, the bellboy grinned at Christine. “Doing a bit of detectiving[18], Miss Francis?”
“If the chief house officer were around,” Christine told him, “I wouldn't have to.”
A moment later the elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor.
Her own footsteps and the bellboy's were muffled in the carpeted corridor. On the way, the bellboy was saying, “Room 1439 – that's the old gent, Mr. Wells. We moved him from a corner room a couple of days ago.”
Ahead, down the corridor, a door opened and a man, well dressed and fortyish, came out. Closing the door behind him, and ready to pocket the key, he hesitated, eyeing Christine with frank interest. He seemed about to speak but the bellboy shook his head. Christine, who missed nothing of the exchange, supposed she should be flattered to be mistaken for a call girl.
When they had passed by she asked, “Why was Mr. Wells's room changed?”
“The way I heard it, miss, somebody else had 1439 and raised a fuss. So what they did was switch around.”
Christine remembered 1439 now; there had been complaints before. It was next to the service elevator and appeared to be the meeting place of all the hotel's pipes. The effect was to make the place noisy and unbearably hot. Every hotel had at least one such room which usually was never rented until everything else was full.
“If Mr. Wells had a better room why was he asked to move?” The bellboy shrugged. “You'd better ask the room clerks that.” She persisted, “But you've an idea.”
“Well, I guess it's because he never complains. The old gent's been coming here for years.” Christine's lips tightened angrily as the bellboy went on, “I did hear in the dining-room they give him that table beside the kitchen door, the one no one else will have. He doesn't seem to mind, they say.”
Christine thought: Someone would mind tomorrow morning; she would guarantee it. She felt furious that a regular guest, who also happened to be a quiet and gentle man, had been so badly treated.
They turned a corner and stopped at the door of 1439. The bellboy knocked. They waited, listening. Finally, there was a moaning. “Use your pass key,” Christine instructed. “Open the door – quickly!”
The bellboy went in ahead. The room was in darkness and he turned on the ceiling light and went around a corner. Almost at once he called back, “Miss Francis, you'd better come.”
The room, as Christine entered, was very hot, though the air-conditioning was set to “cool.” But that was all she had time to see before observing the struggling figure in the bed. It was the little man she knew as Albert Wells. His face gray, eyes bulging and with trembling lips, he was attempting desperately to breathe.
She went quickly to the bedside. Once, years before, in her father's office she had seen a patient fighting for breath. One thing her father had done she remembered. She told the bellboy decisively, “Get the window open. We need air in here.”
The bellboy's eyes were focused on the face of the man in bed. He said nervously, “The window's sealed. They did it for the air conditioning.”
“Then force it. If you have to, break the glass.”
She had already picked up the telephone beside the bed. When the operator answered, Christine said, “This is Miss Francis. Is Dr. Aarons in the hotel?”
“No, Miss Francis; but he left a number. If it's an emergency I can reach him.”
“It's an emergency. Tell Dr. Aarons room 1439, and to hurry, please.”
Replacing the phone, Christine turned to the still struggling figure in the bed. The frail, elderly man was breathing no better than before and she noticed that his face was turning blue. The moaning which they had heard outside had begun again.
“Mr. Wells,” she said, trying to convey a confidence she was not feeling, “I think you might breathe more easily if you kept perfectly still.” The bellboy, she noticed, was having success with the window.
As if in response to Christine's words, the little man's struggles stopped. Reaching for pillows, she propped them behind, so that he could lean back, sitting upright at the same time. His eyes were fixed on hers, trying to express gratitude. She said reassuringly, “I've sent for a doctor. He'll be here at any moment.” As she spoke, the bellboy made an extra effort and the window slid open wide. At once a draft of cool fresh air filled the room. In the bed Albert Wells gasped greedily at the new air. As he did the telephone rang. Signaling the bellboy to take her place beside the sick
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