Hotel

15

Outside it was growing dusk and, excusing himself, Peter McDermott got up from his desk to switch on the office lights. He returned to face, once more, the quietly spoken man in gray flannel, seated opposite. Captain Yolles of the Detective Bureau, New Orleans Police, looked less like a policeman than anyone Peter had ever seen. He continued to listen politely, as a bank manager might consider an application for a loan, to Peter's recital of fact and surmise. Only once during the lengthy discourse had the detective interrupted, to inquire if he could make a telephone call.

Informed that he could, he used an extension on the far side of the office and spoke in a voice so low that Peter heard nothing of what was said.

The absence of any measurable response had the effect of reviving Peter's doubts. At the end, he observed, "I'm not sure all this, or even any of it, makes sense. In fact I'm already beginning to feel a little foolish."

"If more people took a chance on that, Mr. McDermott, it would make police work a lot easier." For the first time Captain Yolles produced pencil and notebook. "If anything should come of this, naturally we'll need a full statement. Meanwhile, there are a couple of details I'd like to have. One is the license number of the car."

The information was in a memo from Flora, confirming her earlier report.

Peter read it aloud and the detective copied the number down.

"Thank you. The other thing is a physical description of your man Ogilvie.

I know him, but I'd like to have it from you."

For the first time Peter smiled. "That's easy."

As he concluded the description, the telephone rang. Peter answered, then pushed the phone across. "For you."

This time he could hear the detective's end of the conversation which consisted largely of repeating "yes, sir" and "I understand."

At one point the detective looked up, his eyes appraisingly on Peter. He said into the telephone, "I'd say he's very dependable." A slight smile creased his face. "Worried too."

He repeated the information concerning the car number and Ogilvie's description, then hung up.

Peter said, "You're right about being worried. Do you intend to contact the Duke and Duchess of Croydon?"

"Not yet. We'd like a little more to go on." The detective regarded Peter thoughtfully. "Have you seen tonight's paper?"

"No."

"There's been a rumor - the "States-Item" published it that the Duke of Croydon is to be British ambassador to Washington."

Peter whistled softly.

"It's just been on the radio, according to my chief, that the appointment is officially confirmed."

"Doesn't that mean there would be some kind of diplomatic immunity?"

The detective shook his head. "Not for something that's already happened.

If it happened."

"But a false accusation . . ."

"Would be serious in any case, especially so in this one. It's why we're moving warily, Mr. McDermott."

Peter reflected that it would go hard both for the hotel and himself if word of the investigation leaked out, with the Croydons innocent.

"If it'll ease your mind a bit," Captain Yolles said, "I'll let you in on a couple of things. Our people have done some figuring since I phoned them first. They reckon your man Ogilvie maybe trying to get the car out of the state, maybe to some place north. How he ties in with the Croydons, of course, we don't know."

Peter said, "I couldn't guess that either."

"Chances are, he drove last night - after you saw him and holed up somewhere for the day. With the car the way it is, he'd know better than to try and make a run in daylight. Tonight, if he shows, we're ready. A twelve-state alarm is going out right now."

"Then you do take this seriously?"

"I said there were two things." The detective pointed to the telephone.

"One reason for that last call was to tell me we've had a State lab report on broken glass and a trim ring our people found at the accident scene last Monday. There was some difficulty about a manufacturer's specification change, which was why it took time. But we know now that the glass and trim ring are from a Jaguar."

"You can really be that certain?"

"We can do even better, Mr. McDermott. If we get to the car that killed the woman and child, we'll prove it beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Captain Yolles rose to go, and Peter walked with him to the outer office.

Peter was surprised to find Herbie Chandler waiting, then remembered his own instructions for the bell captain to report here this evening or tomorrow. After the developments of the afternoon, he was tempted to postpone what would most likely be an unpleasant session, then concluded there was nothing to be gained by putting it off.

He saw the detective and Chandler exchange glances.

"Good night, Captain," Peter said, and took a malicious satisfaction in observing a flicker of anxiety cross Chandler's weasel face. When the policeman had gone, Peter beckoned the bell captain into the inner office.

He unlocked a drawer of his desk and took out a folder containing the statements made yesterday by Dixon, Dumaire, and the other two youths. He handed them to Chandler.

"I believe these will interest you. In case you should get any ideas, these are copies and I have the originals."

Chandler looked pained, then began reading. As he turned the pages, his lips tightened. Peter heard him suck in breath through his teeth. A moment later he muttered, "Bastards!"

Peter snapped, "You mean because they've identified you as a pimp?"

The bell captain flushed, then put down the papers. "What you gonna do?"

"What I'd like to do is fire you on the spot. Because you've been here so long, I intend to place the whole thing before Mr. Trent."

There was a whine to Chandler's voice as he asked, "Mr. Mac, could we talk around this for a bit?"

When there was no answer, he began, "Mr. Mac, there's a lot of things go on in a place like this . . ."

"If you're telling me the facts of life - about call girls and all the other rackets - I doubt if there's much I don't know already. But there's something else I know, and so do you: at certain things managements draw the line. Supplying women to minors is one."

"Mr. Mac, couldn't you, maybe this time, not go to Mr. Trent? Couldn't you just keep this between you and me?"

"No."

The bell captain's gaze moved shiftily around the room, then returned to Peter. His eyes were calculating. "Mr. Mac, if some people was to live and let live. He stopped.

"Yes?"

"Well, sometimes it can be worth while."

Curiosity kept Peter silent.

Chandler hesitated, then deliberately unfastened the button of a tunic pocket. Reaching inside he removed a folded envelope which he placed on the desk.

Peter said, "Let me see that."

Chandler pushed the envelope nearer. It was unsealed and contained five one-hundred-dollar bills. Peter inspected them curiously.

"Are they real?"

Chandler smirked. "They're real all right."

"I was curious to know how high you thought my price came." Peter tossed the money back. "Take it and get out."

"Mr. Mac, if it's a question of a little more . . ."

"Get out!" Peter's voice was low. He half-rose in his chair. "Get out before I break your dirty little neck."

As he retrieved the money and left, Herbie Chandler's face was a mask of hatred.

When he was alone, Peter McDermott sat slumped, silently, behind his desk. The interviews with the policeman and Chandler had exhausted and depressed him. Of the two, he thought, the second had lowered his spirits most, probably because handling the proffered bribe had left him with a feeling of being unclean.

Or had it? He thought: be honest with yourself. There had been an instant, with the money in his hands, when he was tempted to take it. Five hundred dollars was a useful sum. Peter had no illusion about his own earnings compared with those of the bell captain, who undoubtedly raked in a good deal more. If it had been anyone other than Chandler, he might possibly have succumbed. Or would he? He wished he could be sure. Either way, he would not be the first hotel manager to accept a pay-off from his staff.

The irony, of course, was that despite Peter's insistence that the evidence against Herbie Chandler would be placed before Warren Trent, there was no guarantee that it would happen. If the hotel changed ownership abruptly, as seemed likely, Warren Trent would no longer be concerned. Nor might Peter himself be around. With the advent of new management, the records of senior staff would undoubtedly be examined and, in his own case, the old, unsavory Waldorf scandal disinterred. Had he yet, Peter wondered, lived that down? Well, there was every likelihood he would find out soon.

He returned his attention to the present.

On his desk was a printed form, which Flora had left, with a late-afternoon house count. For the first time since coming in, he studied the figures. They showed that the hotel was filling and tonight, it seemed, there was a certainty of another full house. If the St. Gregory was going down to defeat, at least it was doing so to the sound of trumpets.

As well as the house count and telephone messages, there was a fresh pile of mail and memos. Peter skimmed through them all, deciding that there was nothing which could not be left until tomorrow. Beneath the memos was a Manila folder which he opened. It was the proposed master catering plan which the sous-chef, Andre Lemieux, had given him yesterday. Peter had begun studying the plan this morning.

Glancing at his watch, he decided to continue his reading before making an evening tour of the hotel. He settled down, the precisely handwritten pages and carefully drawn charts spread out before him.

As he read on, his admiration for the young sous-chef grew. The presentation appeared masterly, revealing a broad grasp both of the hotel's problems and the potentialities of its restaurant business. It angered Peter that the chef de cuisine, M. Herbrand, had - according to Lemieux - dismissed the proposals entirely.

True, some conclusions were arguable, and Peter disagreed himself with a few of Lemieux's ideas. At first glance, too, a number of estimated costs seemed optimistic. But these were minor. The important thing was that a fresh and clearly competent brain had brooded over present deficiencies in food management and come up with suggested remedies.

Equally obvious was that unless the St. Gregory made better use of Andre Lemieux's considerable talents, he would soon take them elsewhere.

Peter returned the plan and charts to their folder with a sense of pleasure that someone in the hotel should possess the kind of enthusiasm for his work which Lemieux had shown. He decided that he would like to tell Andre Lemieux his impressions even though - with the hotel in its present uncertain state - there seemed nothing more that Peter could do.

A telephone call elicited the information that, this evening, the chef de cuisine was absent through continued sickness, and that the sous-chef, M. Lemieux, was in charge. Preserving protocol, Peter left a message that he was coming down to the kitchen now.

Andre Lemieux was waiting at the doorway from the main dining room.

"Come in, monsieur! You are welcome." Leading the way into the noisy, steaming kitchen, the young sous-chef shouted close to Peter's ear, "You find us, as the musicians say, near the crescendo."

In contrast to the comparative quietness of yesterday afternoon, the atmosphere now, in early evening, was pandemonic. With a full shift on duty, chefs in starched whites, their assistant cooks, and juniors, seemed to have sprouted like daisies in a field. Around them, through gusts of steam and waves of heat, sweating kitchen helpers noisily hefted trays, pans, and cauldrons, while others thrust trolleys recklessly, all dodging each other as well as hurrying waiters and waitresses, the latter's serving trays held high. On steam tables the day's dinner menu dishes were being portioned and served for delivery to dining rooms. Special orders - from la carte menus and for room service - were being prepared by fast-moving cooks whose arms and hands seemed everywhere at once. Waiters hovered, questioning progress of their orders as cooks barked back. Other waiters, with loaded trays, moved quickly past the two austere women checkers at elevated billing registers. From the soup section, vapor rose swirling as giant cauldrons bubbled. Not far away two specialist cooks arranged, with dextrous fingers, canapes and hot hors-d'oeuvres. Beyond them, an anxious pastry chef supervised desserts. Occasionally, as oven doors clanged open, a reflection of flames flashed over concentrating faces, with the ovens' interiors like a glimpse of hell. Over all, assailing ears and nostrils, was the clatter of plates, the inviting odor of food and the sweet, fresh fragrance of brewing coffee.

"When we are busiest, monsieur, we are the proudest. Or should be, if one did not look beneath the cabbage leaf."

"I've read your report." Peter returned the folder to the sous-chef, then followed him into the glass-paneled office where the noise was muted. "I like your ideas. I'd argue a few points, but not many."

"It would be good to argue if, at the end, the action was to follow."

"It won't yet. At least, not the kind you have in mind." Ahead of any reorganization, Peter pointed out, the larger issue of the hotel's ownership would have to be settled.

"Per'aps my plan and I must go elsewhere. No matter." Andre Lemieux gave a Gallic shrug, then added, "Monsieur, I am about to visit the convention floor. Would you care to accompany me?"

Peter had intended to include the convention dinners, scheduled for tonight, in his evening rounds of the hotel. It would be just as effective to begin his inspection from the convention floor kitchen.

"Thank you. I'll come."

They rode a service elevator two floors up, stepping out into what, in most respects, was a duplicate of the main kitchen below. From here some two thousand meals could be served at a single sitting to the St. Gregory's three convention halls and dozen private dining rooms. The tempo at the moment seemed as frenetic as downstairs.

"As you know, monsieur, it is two big banquets that we have tonight. In the Grand Ballroom and the Bienville hall."

Peter nodded. "Yes, the Dentists' Congress and Gold Crown Cola." From the flow of meals toward opposite ends of the long kitchen, he observed that the dentists' main course was roast turkey, the cola salesmen's, flounder saute. Teams of cooks and helpers were serving both, apportioning vegetables with machine-like rhythm, then, in a single motion, slapping metal covers on the filled plates and loading the whole onto waiters' trays.

Nine plates to a tray - the number of conventioneers at a single table. Two tables per waiter. Four courses to the meal, plus extra rolls, butter, coffee, and petits fours. Peter calculated: there would be twelve heavily loaded trips, at least, for every waiter; most likely more if diners were demanding or, as sometimes happened under pressure, extra tables were assigned. No wonder some waiters looked weary at an evening's end.

Less weary, perhaps, would be the maitre d'hotel, poised and immaculate in white tie and tails. At the moment, like a police chief on point duty, he was stationed centrally in the kitchen directing the flow of waiters in both directions. Seeing Andre Lemieux and Peter, he moved toward them.

"Good evening, Chef, Mr. McDermott." Though in hotel precedence Peter outranked the other two, in the kitchen the meitre d'hotel deferred, correctly, to the senior chef on duty.

Andre Lemieux asked, "What are our numbers for dinner, Mr. Dominic?"

The maitre d' consulted a slip of paper. "The Gold Crown people estimated two hundred and forty and we've seated that many. It looks as if they're mostly in."

"They're salesmen on salary," Peter said. "They have to be there. The dentists please themselves. They'll probably straggle and a lot won't show."

The maitre d' nodded agreement. "I heard there was a good deal of drinking in rooms. Ice consumption is heavy, and room service had a run on mixes. We thought it might cut the meal figure down."

The conundrum was how many convention meals to prepare at any time. It represented a familiar headache to all three men. Convention organizers gave the hotel a minimum guarantee, but in practice the figure was liable to vary a hundred or two either way. A reason was uncertainty about how many delegates would break up into smaller parties and pass up official banquets or, alternatively, might arrive en masse in a last-minute surge.

The final minutes before a big convention banquet were inevitably tense in any hotel kitchen. It was a moment of truth, since all involved were aware that reaction to a crisis would show just how good or bad their organization was.

Peter asked the maitre d'hotel, "What was the original estimate?"

"For the dentists, five hundred. We're close to that and we've begun serving. But they still seem to be coming in."

"Are we getting a fast count of new arrivals?"

"I've a man out now. Here he is." Dodging fellow waiters, a red-coated captain was hastening through the service doors from the Grand Ballroom.

Peter asked Andre Lemieux, "If we have to, can we produce extra food?"

"When I have the word of requirements, monsieur, then we will do our best."

The maitre d' conferred with the captain, then returned to the other two.

"It looks like an additional hundred and seventy people. They're flooding in! We're already setting up more tables."

As always, when crisis struck, it was with little warning. In this case it had arrived with major impact. One hundred and seventy extra meals, required at once, would tax the resources of any kitchen. Peter turned to Andre Lemieux, only to discover that the young Frenchman was no longer there.

The sous-chef had sprung to action as if catapulted. He was already among his staff, issuing orders with the crackle of rapid fire. A junior cook to the main kitchen, there to seize seven turkeys roasting for tomorrow's cold collation.

A shouted order to the preparation room: Use the reserves! Speed up! Carve everything in sight! ... More vegetables! Steal some from the second banquet which looked like using less than allowed!

... A second junior sent running to the main kitchen to round up all vegetables he could find elsewhere ... And deliver a message: rush up more help! Two carvers, two more cooks ... Alert the pastry chef! One hundred and seventy more desserts required in minutes . . . Rob Peter for Paul! Jingle! Feed the dentists! Young Andre Lemieux, quick thinking, confident, good natured, running the show.

Already, waiters were being reassigned: some smoothly withdrawn from the smaller banquet of Gold Crown Cola, where those remaining must do extra work. Diners would never notice; only, perhaps, that their next course would be served by someone with a vaguely different face. Other waiters, already assigned to the Grand Ballroom and the dentists, would handle three tables - twenty-seven place settings - instead of two. A few seasoned hands, known to be fast with feet and fingers, might manage four. There would be some grumbling, though not much. Convention waiters were mostly free-lancers, called in by any hotel as requirements rose. Extra work earned extra money. Four dollars' pay for three hours' work was based on two tables each extra table brought half as much again. Tips, added to a convention's bill by prior arrangement, would double the entire amount.

The fast-feet men would go home with sixteen dollars; if lucky, they might have earned the same at lunch or breakfast.

A trolley with three fresh-cooked turkeys, Peter said, was already highballing from a service elevator. The preparation-room cooks fell upon it. The assistant cook who had brought the three returned for more.

Fifteen portions from a turkey. Rapid dissection with surgeon's skill.

To each diner the same portion: white meat, dark meat, dressing. Twenty portions to a serving tray. Rush the tray to a service counter. Fresh trolleys of vegetables, steaming in like ships converging.

The sous-chef's dispatch of messengers had depleted the serving team.

Andre Lemieux stepped in, replacing the absent two. The team picked up speed, moved faster than it had before.

Plate . . . meat first vegetable . . . second . gravy . . . slide the plate

. . . cover on! A man for each move; arms, hands, ladies moving together.

A meal each second . . - faster still! In front of the serving counter, a line of waiters, becoming long.

Across the kitchen, the pastry chef opening refrigerators; inspecting, selecting, slamming the doors closed. Main kitchen pastry cooks running to help. Draw on reserve desserts. More on the way from basement freezers.

Amid the urgency, a moment of incongruity.

A waiter reported to a captain, the captain to the head waiter, the head waiter to Andre Lemieux.

"Chef, there's a gentleman says he doesn't like turkey. May he have rare roast beef?"

A shout of laughter went up from the sweating cooks.

But the request had observed protocol correctly, as Peter knew. Only the senior chef could authorize any deviation from a standard menu.

A grinning Andre Lemieux said, "He may have it, but serve him last at his table."

That, too, was an old kitchen custom. As a matter of public relations, most hotels would change standard fare if asked, even if the substitute meal was costlier. But invariably - as now - the individualist must wait until those seated near him had begun eating, a precaution against others being inspired with the same idea.

Now the line of waiters at the serving counter was shortening. To most guests in the Grand Ballroom - latecomers included - the main course had been served. Already bus boys were appearing with discarded dishes. There was a sense of crisis passed. Andre Lemieux surrendered his place among the servers, then glanced questioningly at the pastry chef.

The latter, a matchstick of a man who looked as if he seldom sampled his own confections, made a circle with thumb and forefinger. "All set to go, Chef."

Andre Lemieux, smiling, rejoined Peter. "Monsieur, it seems we 'ave, as you say it, fielded the ball."

"I'd say you've done a good deal better. I'm impressed."

The young Frenchman shrugged. "What you have seen was good. But it is one part only of the work. Elsewhere we do not look so well. Excuse me, monsieur." He moved away.

The dessert was bombe aux marrons, cherries flammes. It would be served with ceremony, the ballroom lights dimmed, the flaming trays held high.

Now, waiters were lining up before the service doors. The pastry chef and helpers were checking arrangement of the trays. When touched off, a central dish on each would spring to flame. Two cooks stood by with lighted tapers.

Andre Lemieux inspected the line.

At the entry to the Grand Ballroom, the head waiter, an arm raised, watched the sous-chef's face.

As Andre Lemieux nodded, the head waiter's arm swept down.

The cooks with tapers ran down the line of trays, igniting them. The double service doors were flung back and fastened. Outside, on cue, an electrician dimmed the lights. The music of an orchestra diminished, then abruptly stopped. Among guests in the great hall, a hum of conversation died.

Suddenly, beyond the diners, a spotlight sprang on, framing the doorway from the kitchen. There was a second's silence, then a fanfare of trumpets. As it ended, orchestra and organ swung together, fortissimo, into the opening bars of The Saints. In time to the music, the procession of waiters, with flaming trays, marched out.

Peter McDermott moved into the Grand Ballroom for a better view. He could see the overflow, unexpected crowd of diners, the great room tightly packed.

Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in . . . From the kitchen, waiter after waiter, in trim blue uniform, marched out in step. For this moment, every last man had been impressed.

Some, in moments only, would return to complete their work in the other banquet hall. Now, in semidarkness, their flames reared up like beacons

. . . Oh when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints; Oh, when the Saints go marching in ... From the diners, a spontaneous burst of applause, changing to handclapping in time with the music as waiters encircled the room. For the hotel, a commitment had been met as planned. No one outside the kitchen could know that minutes earlier a crisis had been encountered and overcome ... Lord, I want to be in that number, When the Saints go marching in . . . As waiters reached their tables, the lights went up to renewed applause and cheers.

Andre Lemieux had come to stand beside Peter. "That is the all for tonight, monsieur. Unless, perhaps you 'ave a wish for the cognac, in the kitchen I have the small supply."

"No, thank you." Peter smiled. "It was a good show. Congratulations!"

As he turned away, the sous-chef called after him, "Good night, monsieur.

And do not forget."

Puzzled, Peter stopped. "Forget what?"

"What I have already said. The 'ot-shot 'otel, monsieur, that you and I could make."

Half amused, half thoughtful, Peter threaded his way through the banquet tables toward the ballroom outer doorway.

He had gone most of the distance when he was aware of something out of place. He stopped, glancing around, uncertain what it was. Then abruptly he realized. Dr. Ingram, the fiery little president of the Dentistry Congress, should have been presiding at this, one of the main events of the convention. But the doctor was neither at the president's position nor anywhere else at the long head table.

Several delegates were table hopping, greeting friends in other sections of the room. A man with a hearing aid stopped beside Peter. "Swell turnout, eh?"

"It certainly is. I hope you enjoyed your dinner."

"Not bad."

"By the way," Peter said. "I was looking for Dr. Ingram. I don't see him anywhere."

"You won't." The tone was curt. Eyes regarded him suspiciously. "You from a newspaper?"

"No, the hotel. I met Dr. Ingram a couple of times.

"He resigned. This afternoon. If you want my opinion, he behaved like a damn fool."

Peter controlled his surprise. "Do you happen to know if the doctor is still in the hotel?"

"No idea." The man with the hearing aid moved on.

There was a house phone on the convention mezzanine.

Dr. Ingram, the switchboard reported, was still shown as registered, but there was no answer from his room. Peter called the chief cashier. "Has Dr. Ingram of Philadelphia checked out?"

"Yes, Mr. McDermott, just a minute ago. I can see him in the lobby now."

"Send someone to ask if he'll please wait. I'm on my way down."

Dr. Ingram was standing, suitcases beside him, a raincoat over his arm, when Peter arrived.

"What's your trouble now, McDermott? If you want a testimonial to this hotel, you're out of luck. Besides which, I've a plane to catch."

"I heard about your resignation. I came to say I'm sorry.

"I guess they'll make out." From the Grand Ballroom two floors above, the sound of applause and cheering drifted down to where they stood. "It sounds as if they have already."

"Do you mind very much?"

"No." The little doctor shifted his feet, looking down, then growled,

"I'm a liar. I mind like hell. I shouldn't, but I do."

Peter said, "I imagine anyone would."

Dr. Ingram's head snapped up. "Understand this, McDermott: I'm no beaten rug. I don't need to feel like one. I've been a teacher all my life, with plenty to show for it: Good people I've brought on - Jim Nicholas for one, and others, procedures carrying my name, books I've written that are standard texts. AR that's solid stuff. The other - he nodded in the direction of the Grand Ballroorn - that's frosting."

"I didn't realize . .

"All the same, a little frosting does no harm. A fellow even gets to like it. I wanted to be president. I was glad when they elected me. It's an accolade from people whose opinion you value. If I'm honest, McDermott - and God knows why I'm telling you this - it's eating my heart out, not being up there tonight." He paused, looking up, as the sounds from the ballroom were audible once more.

"Once in a while, though, you have to weigh what you want against what you believe in." The little doctor grunted. "Some of my friends think I've behaved like an idiot."

"It isn't idiotic to stand up for a principle."

Dr. Ingram eyed Peter squarely. "You didn't do it, McDermott, when you had the chance. You were too worried about this hotel, your job."

"I'm afraid that's true."

"Well, you've the grace to admit it, so I'll tell you something, son.

You're not alone. There've been times I haven't measured up to everything I believe. It goes for all of us. Sometimes, though, you get a second chance. If it happens to you - take it."

Peter beckoned a bellboy. "I'll come with you to the door."

Dr. Ingram shook his head. "No need for that. Let's not crap around, McDermott. I don't love this hotel or you either."

The bellboy looked at him inquiringly. Dr. Ingram said, "Let's go."