Hotel

6

After his quickly concluded dispute with Reception, Peter McDermott recrossed the fourteenth floor corridor to 1439.

"If you approve," he informed Dr. Uxbridge, "we'll transfer your patient to another room on this floor."

The tall, sparely built doctor who had responded to Christine's emergency call nodded. He glanced around the tiny ha-ha room with its mess of heating and water pipes. "Any change can only be an improvement."

As the doctor returned to the little man in the bed, beginning a new five-minute period of oxygen, Christine reminded Peter, "What we need now is a nurse."

"We'll let Dr. Aarons arrange that." Peter mused aloud: "The hotel will have to make the engagement, I suppose, which means we'll be liable for payment. Do you think your friend Wells is good for it?"

They had returned to the corridor, their voices low.

"I'm worried about that. I dont think he has much money." When she was concentrating, Peter noticed, Christine's nose had a charming way of crinkling. He was aware of her closeness and a faint, fragrant perfume.

"Oh well," he said, "we won't be too deep in debt by morning. We'll let the credit department look into it then."

When the key arrived, Christine went ahead to open the new room, 1410.

"It's ready," she announced, returning.

"The best thing is to switch beds," Peter told the others. "Let's wheel this one into 1410 and bring back a bed from there." But the doorway, they discovered, was an inch too narrow.

Albert Wells, his breathing easier and with returning color, volunteered,

"I've walked all my life, I can do a little bit now." But Dr. Uxbridge shook his head decisively.

The chief engineer inspected the difference in widths.

I'll take the door off its hinges," he told the sick man. Then ye'll go out like a cork from a bottle."

"Never mind," Peter said. "There's a quicker way - if jou're agreeable, Mr. Wells."

The other smiled, and nodded.

Peter bent down, put a blanket around the elderly man's shoulders and picked him up bodily.

"You've strong arms, son," the little man said.

Peter smiled. Then, as easily as if his burden were a child, he strode down the corridor and into the new room.

Fifteen minutes later all was functioning as if on nyloned bearings. The oxygen equipment had been successfully transferred, though its use was now less urgent since the air conditioning in the more spacious quarters of 1410 had no competition from hot pipes, hence the air was sweeter. The resident physician, Dr. Aarons, had arrived, portly, jovial, and breathing bourbon in an almost-visible cloud. He accepted with alacrity the offer of Dr. Uxbridge to drop in in a consultant capacity the following day, and also grasped eagerly a further suggestion that cortisone might prevent a recurrence of the earlier attack. A private duty nurse, telephoned affectionately by Dr. Aarons ("Such wonderful news, my dear! We're going to be a team again.") was reportedly on the way.

As the chief engineer and Dr. Uxbridge took their leave, Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

Following Christine into the corridor, Peter carefully closed the door on Dr. Aarons who, while waiting for his nurse, was pacing the room in his own accompaniment, pianissimo, of the Toreador Song from Carmen.

The latch clicked, cutting the minstrelsy off.

It was a quarter to twelve.

Walking toward the elevators, Christine said, "I'm glad we let him stay."

Peter seemed surprised. "Mr. Wells? Why wouldn't we?"

"Some places wouldn't. You know how they are: the least thing out of the ordinary, and no one can be bothered. All they want is people to check in, check out, and pay the bill - that's all."

"Those are sausage factories. A real hotel is for hospitality and succor if a guest needs it. The best ones started that way.

Unfortunately too many people in this business have forgotten."

She regarded him curiously. "You think we've forgotten here?"

"You're damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way there'd be a good many changes . . ." He stopped, embarrassed at his own forcefulness. "Never mind. Most of the time I keep such traitorous thoughts to myself."

"You shouldn't, and if you do you should be ashamed." Behind Christine's words was the knowledge that the St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways and in recent years had coasted under the shadow of its former glories.

Currently, too, the hotel was facing a financial crisis which might force drastic transitions whether its proprietor, Warren Trent, was in favor or not.

"There's heads and brick walls," Peter objected. "Beating one against the other doesn't help. W.T. isn't keen on new ideas."

"That's no reason for giving up."

He laughed. "You sound like a woman.

"I am a woman."

"I know," Peter said. "I've just began to notice."

It was true, he thought. For most of the time he had known Christine - since his own arrival at the St. Gregory - he had taken her for granted. Recently, though, he had found himself increasingly aware of just how attractive and personable she was. He wondered what she was doing for the rest of the evening.

He said tentatively, "I didn't have dinner tonight; too much going on. If you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?"

Christine said, "I love late suppers."

At the elevator he told her, "There's one more thing I want to check. I sent Herbie Chandler to look into that trouble on the eleventh but I don't trust him. After that I'll be through." He took her arm, squeezing it lightly. "Will you wait on the main mezzanine?"

His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone who might have been clumsy because of his size. Christine glanced sideways at the strong, energetic profile with its jutting jaw that was almost lantern-like. It was an interesting face, she thought, with a hint of determination which could become obstinacy if provoked. She was aware of her senses quickening.

"All right," she agreed. "I'll wait."