From the platform, Dr. Ingram growled, “What are you afraid of—involvement?”
Ignoring the question, the dapper man continued, “I yield to no one in my personal distaste for discrimination. Some of my best …”—he hesitated—”… my best-liked associates are those of other creeds and races. Furthermore, I deplore with Dr. Ingram the incident of yesterday. It is merely on the question of procedure at this moment that we disagree. Dr. Ingram—if I may emulate his choice of metaphor—favors extraction. My own view is to treat more mildly for an unpleasant but localized infection.” There was a ripple of laughter at which the speaker smiled.
“I cannot believe that our unfortunately absent colleague, Dr. Nicholas, would gain in the least from cancellation of our convention. Certainly, as a profession, we would lose. Furthermore—and since we are in private session I say this frankly—I do not believe that as an organization the broad issue of race relations is any of our concern.”
A single voice near the rear protested, “Of course it’s our concern! Isn’t it everybody’s?” But through most of the room there was merely attentive silence.
The speaker shook his head. “Whatever stands we take or fail to, should be as individuals. Naturally we must support our own people where necessary, and in a moment I shall suggest certain steps in the case of Dr. Nicholas. But otherwise I agree with Dr. Ingram that we are professional medical men with time for little else.”
Dr. Ingram sprang to his feet. “I did not say that! I pointed out that it’s a view which has been held in the past. I happen to disagree strongly.”
The dapper man shrugged. “Nevertheless the statement was made.”
“But not with that kind of implication. I will not have my words twisted!” The little doctor’s eyes flashed angrily. “Mr. Chairman, we’re talking here glibly, using words like ‘unfortunate,’ ‘regrettable.’ Can’t all of you see that this is more than just that; that we are considering a question of human rights and decency? If you had been here yesterday and witnessed, as I witnessed, the indignity to a colleague, a friend, a good man …”
There were cries of “Order! order!” As the chairman pounded with his gavel, reluctantly, his face flushed, Dr. Ingram subsided.
The dapper man inquired politely, “May I continue?” The chairman nodded.
“Thank you. Gentlemen, I will make my suggestions briefly. First, I propose that our future conventions shall be held in locales where Dr. Nicholas and others of his race will be accepted without question or embarrassment. There are plenty of places which the remainder of us, I am sure, will find acceptable. Secondly, I propose that we pass a resolution disapproving the action of this hotel in rejecting Dr. Nicholas, after which we should continue with our convention as planned.”
On the platform, Dr. Ingram shook his head in disbelief.
The speaker consulted a single sheet of paper in his hand. “In conjunction with several other members of your executive board, I have drafted a resolution …”
In his eyrie Quaratone had ceased to listen. The resolution itself was unimportant. Its substance was predictable; if necessary he could obtain a text later. He was watching, instead, the faces of the listeners below. They were average faces, he decided, of reasonably educated men. They mirrored relief. Relief, Quaratone thought, from the need for the kind of action—uncomfortable, unaccustomed—which Dr. Ingram had proposed. The salve of words, paraded primly in democratic style, offered a way out. Conscience would be relieved, convenience intact. There had been some mild protest—a single speaker supporting Dr. Ingram—but it was short-lived. Already the meeting had settled down to what looked like becoming a prolix discussion of the resolution’s wording.
The Time man shivered—a reminder that as well as other discomforts, he had been close to an hour in a cold air duct. But the effort had been worthwhile. He had a live story which the stylists in New York could rewrite searingly. He also had a notion that this week his work would not be squeezed out.
6
Peter McDermott heard of the Dentistry Congress decision to continue with its convention almost as soon as the in-camera meeting ended. Because of the obvious importance of the meeting to the hotel, he had stationed a convention department clerk outside the Dauphine Salon with instructions to report promptly whatever could be learned. A moment or two ago the clerk telephoned to say that from the conversation of emerging delegates it was obvious that the proposal to cancel the convention had been overruled.
Peter supposed that for the hotel’s sake he should be pleased. Instead, he had a feeling of depression. He wondered about the effect on Dr. Ingram whose strong motivation and forthrightness had clearly been repudiated.
Peter reflected wryly that Warren Trent’s cynical assessment of the situation yesterday had proven accurate after all. He supposed he should let the hotel proprietor know.
As Peter entered the managing director’s section of the executive suite, Christine looked up from her desk. She smiled warmly, reminding him how much he had wanted to talk with her last evening.
She inquired, “Was it a nice party?” When he hesitated, Christine seemed amused. “You haven’t forgotten already?”
He shook his head. “Everything was fine. I missed you, though—and still feel badly about getting the arrangements mixed.”
“We’re twenty-four hours older. You can stop now.”
“If you’re free, perhaps I could make up for it tonight.”
“It’s snowing invitations!” Christine said. “Tonight I’m having dinner with Mr. Wells.”
Peter’s eyebrows went up. “He has recovered.”
“Not enough to leave the hotel, which is why we’re dining here. If you work late, why not join us afterward?”
“If I can, I will.” He indicated the closed double doors of the hotel proprietor’s office. “Is W. T. available?”
“You can go in. I hope it isn’t problems, though. He seems depressed this morning.”
“I’ve some news may cheer him. The dentists just voted against canceling out.” He said more soberly, “I suppose you saw the New York papers.”
“Yes, I did. I’d say we got what we deserved.”
He nodded agreement.
“I also saw the local papers,” Christine said. “There’s nothing new on that awful hit-and-run. I keep thinking about it.”
Peter said sympathetically, “I have too.” Once more the scene of three nights earlier—the roped-off, floodlighted road, with police searching grimly for clues—came sharply back into focus. He wondered if the police investigation would uncover the offending car and driver. Perhaps by now both were safely clear and past detection, though he hoped not. The thought of one crime was a reminder of another. He must remember to ask Ogilvie if there had been any developments overnight in the hotel robbery investigation. He was surprised, come to think of it, that he had not heard from the chief house officer before now.
With a final smile for Christine, he knocked at the door of Warren Trent’s office and went in.
The news which Peter brought seemed to make little impression. The hotel proprietor nodded absently, as if reluctant to switch his thoughts from whatever private reverie he had been immersed in. He seemed about to speak—on another subject, Peter sensed—then, as abruptly, changed his mind. After only the briefest of conversation, Peter left.
Albert Wells had been right, Christine thought, in predicting Peter McDermott’s invitation for tonight. She had a momentary regret at having arranged—deliberately—to be unavailable.
The exchange reminded her of the stratagem she had thought of yesterday to make the evening inexpensive for Albert Wells. She telephoned Max, head waiter of the main dining room.
“Max,” Christine said, “your evening dinner prices are outrageous.”
“I don’t set them, Miss Francis. Sometimes I wish I did.”
“You haven’t been crowded lately?”
“Some nights,” the head waiter replied, “I feel like I’m Livi
ngstone waiting for Stanley. I’ll tell you, Miss Francis, people are getting smarter. They know that hotels like this have one central kitchen, and whichever of our restaurants they eat in, they’ll get the same kind of food, cooked the same way by the same chefs. So why not sit where prices are lower, even if the service isn’t as fancy?”
“I’ve a friend,” Christine said, “who likes dining-room service—an elderly gentleman named Mr. Wells. We’ll be in for dinner tonight. I want you to make sure that his bill is light, though not so small that he’ll notice. The difference you can put on my account.”
The head waiter chuckled. “Say! You’re the kind of girl I’d like to know myself.”
She retorted, “With you I wouldn’t do it, Max. Everybody knows you’re one of the two wealthiest people in the hotel.”
“Who’s supposed to be the other?”
“Isn’t it Herbie Chandler?”
“You do me no favor in linking my name with that one.”
“But you’ll take care of Mr. Wells?”
“Miss Francis, when we present his bill he’ll think he ate in the automat.”
She hung up, laughing, aware that Max would handle the situation with tact and good sense.
With incredulous, seething anger, Peter McDermott read Ogilvie’s memo, slowly, for the second time.
The memo had been waiting on his desk when he returned from the brief meeting with Warren Trent.
Dated and time-stamped last night, it had presumably been left in Ogilvie’s office for collection with this morning’s interoffice mail. Equally clear was that both the timing and method of delivery were planned so that when he received the memo it would be impossible to take any action—at least for the time being—concerning its contents.
It read:
Mr. P. McDermott
Subject: Vacation
The undersigned begs to report I am taking four days leave commencing immediately. From the seven that is due, for personal urgent reasons.
W. Finegan, dep. chief house officer, is advised re robbery, steps taken, etc. etc. Also can act with all other matters.
Undersigned will return to duty Monday next.
Yours truly,
T. I. Ogilvie.
Chief House Officer
Peter remembered indignantly that it was less than twenty-four hours since Ogilvie conceded that a professional hotel thief was most likely operating within the St. Gregory. At the time, Peter had urged the house officer to move into the hotel for a few days, a suggestion the fat man had rejected. Even then, Ogilvie must have known of his intention to leave within a few hours, but had kept silent. Why? Obviously, because he realized Peter would object strongly, and he had no stomach for argument and perhaps delay.
The memo said, “personal urgent reasons.” Well, Peter theorized, that much was probably true. Even Ogilvie, despite his vaunted intimacy with Warren Trent, would realize that his absence at this time, without warning, would precipitate a major showdown on return.
But what kind of personal reason was involved? Clearly nothing straightforward, to be brought out in the open and discussed. Or it would not have been handled this way. Hotel business notwithstanding, a genuine personal crisis of an employee would be dealt with sympathetically. It always was.
So it had to be something else which Ogilvie could not disclose.
Even that, Peter thought, was no concern of his except to the extent that it obstructed efficient running of the hotel. Since it did, however, he was entitled to be curious. He decided he would make an effort to learn where the chief house officer had gone and why.
He buzzed for Flora, holding up the memo as she came in.
She made a doleful face. “I read it. I thought you’d be annoyed.”
“If you can,” Peter said, “I want you to find out where he is. Try his home telephone, then any other places we happen to know about. Find out if anyone’s seen him today or if he’s expected. Leave messages. If you locate Ogilvie, I’ll talk to him myself.”
Flora wrote on her note pad.
“Another thing—call the garage. I happened to be walking by the hotel last night. Our friend drove out around one o’clock—in a Jaguar. It’s possible he told someone where he was going.”
When Flora left, he sent for the deputy chief house officer, Finegan, a gaunt, slow-speaking New Englander who deliberated before answering Peter’s impatient questions.
No, he had no idea where Mr. Ogilvie had gone. It was only late yesterday that Finegan was informed by his superior that he would be in charge for the next few days. Yes, last night there had been continuous patrols through the hotel, but no suspicious activity was observed. Nor was there any report this morning of illicit entry into rooms. No, there had been no further word from the New Orleans police department. Yes, Finegan would personally follow up with the police as Mr. McDermott suggested. Certainly, if Finegan heard from Mr. Ogilvie, Mr. McDermott would be informed at once.
Peter dismissed Finegan. At the moment there was nothing more to be done, though Peter’s anger with Ogilvie was still intense.
It had not moderated a few minutes later when Flora announced on the office intercom, “Miss Marsha Preyscott on line two.”
“Tell her I’m busy, I’ll call later.” Peter checked himself. “Never mind, I’ll talk.”
He picked up the telephone. Marsha’s voice said brightly, “I heard that.”
Irritably he resolved to remind Flora that the telephone “hold” button should be down when the intercom was open. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a low-grade morning in contrast to a great night before.”
“I’ll bet the first thing hotel managers learn is to make fast recoveries like that.”
“Some may. But this is me.”
He sensed her hesitate. Then she said, “Was it all great—the evening?”
“All of it.”
“Good! Then I’m ready to keep my promise.”
“My impression was you had.”
“No,” Marsha said, “I promised some New Orleans history. We could start this afternoon.”
He was about to say no; that it was impossible to leave the hotel, then realized he wanted to go. Why not? He seldom took the two full days off duty he was entitled to each week and lately had worked plenty of extra hours as well. A brief absence could easily be managed.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s see how many centuries we can cover between two o’clock and four.”
7
Twice during the twenty-minute prayer session before breakfast in his suite, Curtis O’Keefe found his thoughts wandering. It was a familiar sign of restlessness for which he apologized briefly to God, though not belaboring the point since an instinct to be ever moving on was a part of the hotel magnate’s nature, and presumably divinely shaped.
It was a relief, however, to remember that this was his final day in New Orleans. He would leave for New York tonight and Italy tomorrow. The destination there, for himself and Dodo, was the Naples-O’Keefe Hotel. Besides the change of scene, it would be satisfying to be in one of his own houses once more. Curtis O’Keefe had never understood the point, which his critics made, that it was possible to travel around the world, staying at O’Keefe Hotels without ever leaving the U.S.A. Despite his attachment to foreign travel, he liked familiar things about him—American décor, with only minor concessions to local color; American plumbing; American food and—most of the time—American people. O’Keefe establishments provided them all.
Nor was it important that a week from now he would be as impatient to leave Italy as he was, at this moment, to depart from New Orleans. There were plenty of places within his own empire—the Taj Mahal O’Keefe, O’Keefe Lisbon, Adelaide O’Keefe, O’Keefe Copenhagen, and others—where a visit from the panjandrum, although nowadays not essential to the chain’s efficient running, would stimulate business as a cathedral’s might quicken from the sojourn of a pope.
Later, of course, he would return to New Orleans, probably in a mont
h or two when the St. Gregory—by then the O’Keefe-St. Gregory—was overhauled and molded to the conformity of an O’Keefe hotel. His arrival for the inaugural ceremonies would be triumphal, with fanfare, a civic welcome and coverage by press, radio, and television. As usual on such occasions, he would bring a retinue of celebrities, including Hollywood stars, not difficult to recruit for a lavish free-loading junket.
Thinking about it, Curtis O’Keefe was impatient for these things to happen soon. He was also mildly frustrated at not having received, so far, Warren Trent’s official acceptance of the proffered terms of two nights earlier. It was now mid-morning of Thursday. The noon deadline agreed to was less than ninety minutes away. Obviously, for reasons of his own, the St. Gregory’s proprietor intended to wait until the last possible moment before acceptance.
O’Keefe prowled restlessly around the suite. Half an hour earlier Dodo had left on a shopping expedition for which he had given her several hundred dollars in large bills. Her purchases, he suggested, should include some lightweight clothes since Naples was likely to be even hotter than New Orleans, and there would be no time for shopping in New York. Dodo thanked him appreciatively, as she always did, though strangely without the glowing enthusiasm she had shown yesterday during their boat trip around the harbor which cost a mere six dollars. Women, he thought, were perplexing creatures.
He stopped at a window, looking out, when across the living room the telephone rang. He reached it in half a dozen strides.
“Yes?”
He expected to hear the voice of Warren Trent. Instead, an operator announced that the call was long distance. A moment later the nasal Californian drawl of Hank Lemnitzer came on the line.