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type="note">[50] 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 spot[51]?”

      “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 it[54] 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 people[56] 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 theirs[57]. 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 rate[58], no doubt – but, on whatever terms, producing the two million dollars needed. It was only when he had been decisively turned down by everyone approached[59] – 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 liberties[60] 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

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