Work of Art

29

Myron fled up the stairs to Room 97, followed by Dutch Linderbeck, a growing push of frightened guests--and fifteen newspaper reporters, charmed that they had been invited to stay the night.

Mardie Paxton, a celebrated habituée of roadhouses, lay on the bed in 97, blood on the breast of her scant silk nightgown. The son of Senator Colquhoun was lurched down in a flowery new armchair by the clean, white, new fireplace, and his right temple was torn away, and blood had slavered on chair and hearth.

'What proof you got they're who you say?' the oldest New York reporter demanded of Dutch Linderbeck.

'Here's letters to both of 'em, from their baggage, and the young fellow's address-book. Look here!'

'God, it's a lulu of a story! Senator Colquhoun is the old gink that was always protecting the domestic hearth against naughty films and books!' exulted the reporter.

Said Myron, impersonally, not very loud, 'Yes, it's a good story for the reporters. A front-page story. And it's the end of my Inn! On the opening night!'

'Say, Weagle, can I use that statement?' shrieked the youngest of the reporters, who a fortnight ago had been covering nothing more journalistic than piles of gents' suitings at closing-hour.

'Oh God!' said the other reporters.

Myron ordered, 'Will all of you except the staff and the newspaper-men kindly return to your rooms? There is nothing you can do.'

The blanket-shawled guests glared at him, but he pushed them back, closed the door.

'You stand here at the door and keep everybody out,' he ordered Dutch Linderbeck.

'Yes, but . . .'

'Yes but hell! Do what I tell you! I always did hate yes-butters!' stormed Myron. 'Everybody out of this corridor, right now! And you reporters, I'll have the two 'phone girls out of bed immediately, and you can all put in your calls to your papers from your own rooms.'

'I want to see the letters these two bozos had in their stuff,' said the oldest reporter.

'When the sheriff gets here, he'll decide whether you can or not. I certainly won't let you.'

'You look here, Weagle! If you want us to give you a break . . .'

'The only break you boys could give me would be to revoke this Act of God, and I don't believe even the press could do that! Beat it, everybody! Out of this hall! Beat it!'

He stood at the end of the corridor, looking toward the stairs down to the office. He ought, he felt, to be doing something. All his life, whenever he had been in distress, he had been able to bounce to his stove or silver-closet or desk and importantly do things. And now he could see nothing to do, save look from the stairs to Dutch Linderbeck, on guard, and back again.

Dick Pye was marching up stairs, leisurely, completely dressed--except that he had forgotten his trousers. He yawned, 'Well, Weagle, I hear we've had bad luck. Glad you were around, to stop any panic.'

'I don't know. I don't think I was so good!'

'What the devil! Don't sound so guilty! You didn't kill 'em--or did you?--not that I care much!'

'No, but I wish I had, before they got here and registered. Why is it that almost every swine who wants to commit suicide gets so much pleasure out of ruining the business of some innocent hotel-man? Swine!' Then Myron laughed. 'I thought I'd open this place right. I'm a good deal of a fool, Pye. Ever notice it?'

'Oh yes. I notice it about most people. That's an hotel-man's first job. I think the Lord God must in His omnipotent way be a little like the head of a big hotel-chain. Well, if our guests are good and safely dead, I think I'll go back to sleep. Good night, son--you're all right--don't worry one second--you've got Dolph Charian and me behind you.'

'Yes? And doing what?' muttered Myron, as Pye swaggered away.

In five minutes Sheriff Everett Beasy was running upstairs, followed by a deputy, in private life a garageman, and by a Black Thread doctor. Myron turned them over to Dutch Linderbeck and staggered down to the office.

Gritzmeier, the chef, stopped him there. 'Heard about it, Chief. Doesn't matter. Everybody'll forget it in two weeks. Look. I knew you'd be worried, and I've made you a cup of coffee, myself. Come out to the kitchen and drink it. Do you good.'

'Thanks. Terribly good of you, but I couldn't touch a thing.'

'Oh yes, you can, Chief!' Gritzmeier chuckled. 'Here!' From under the shelter of the office desk he whisked a highball. Myron drained it and, 'Yes! That does feel better. Good night, and thanks!'

He wavered, in a trance, across the gardens to his own cottage. He could do no more. Suddenly all strength and patience and desire had gone clean out of him, and he was more dead than that smashed boy sunk in the armchair.

It was a quarter of three, but there were lights in his cottage.

'Effie, poor kid! I wonder what blazing fool woke her up to tell her? She'll be all busted up.'

He heard music. When he swayed into the cottage living-room, Effie May was at the mechanical player-piano, producing the popular ballad, 'Don't you worry, little pet. Hey you kid, I'll get you yet. Life is all a bed of roses, when wise guys like us rub noses.' Leaning against the player-piano, waving a gin fizz, was Ora, grinning laxly while he sang the pretty thing.

'For God's sake stop that abomination!' snapped Myron.

Ora protested, 'What the hell's the matter with you? Have you always got to be glum, even on the opening night of your ole Inn?'

'Opening--and closing. Son of a U.S. Senator killed himself and his mistress.'

'Shot himself?'

'Yes.'

'Good Lord! Good Lord! Why didn't you send over and let me know? Oh, I could murder you for being so thoughtless! Why didn't you let me know, early? I've never seen a man that's just been killed. I could've made a swell short story out of it!'

It was Effie May who was turning on Ora: 'Shut up, will you! Oh, Myron, my poor lamb, with the Inn that you loved so!'

She held him, and his head rested on her bosom. He felt safe again. But in his daze he did not know that it was on Effie May's breast that he had found refuge. He thought that it was the breast of his mother.

He was just nerving himself to go up to bed when a ring sent him weaving to the door.

Benny Rumble, the little press-agent, was on the step, panting, 'They just told me about the tragedy! It's awful! Why, it'll just ruin my reputation to be mixed up with a place where things like that happen! Couldn't you tell everybody that I quit yesterday, before it happened? Oh! What Mrs. Van Gittels will say I can't conceive!'

Myron slept till ten in the morning.

That was late enough for him to learn, when he went across to the Inn, that the Brass Institute had already voted to cut its convention short, that the president of the Institute had fled, and that most of the other guests were going that afternoon.