Hotel, Page 3

  As if in response to Christine’s words, the little man’s struggles subsided. He was wearing an old-fashioned flannel nightshirt and Christine put an arm around him, aware of his scrawny shoulders through the thin material. Reaching for pillows, she propped them behind, so that he could lean back, sitting upright at the same time. His eyes were fixed on hers; they were doe-like, she thought, and trying to convey gratitude. She said reassuringly, “I’ve sent for a doctor. He’ll be here at any moment.” As she spoke, the bellboy grunted with an extra effort and the window, suddenly freed, slid open wide. At once a draft of cool fresh air suffused the room. So the storm had moved south, Christine thought gratefully, sending a freshening breeze before it, and the temperature outside must be lower than for days. In the bed Albert Wells gasped greedily at the new air. As he did the telephone rang. Signaling the bellboy to take her place beside the sick man, she answered it.

  “Dr. Aarons is on his way, Miss Francis,” the operator announced. “He was in Paradis and said to tell you he’ll be at the hotel in twenty minutes.”

  Christine hesitated. Paradis was across the Mississippi, beyond Algiers. Even allowing for fast driving, twenty minutes was optimistic. Also, she sometimes had doubts about the competence of the portly, Sazerac-drinking Dr. Aarons who, as house physician, lived free in the hotel in return for his availability. She told the operator, “I’m not sure we can wait that long. Would you check our own guest list to see if we have any doctors registered?”

  “I already did that.” There was a touch of smugness in the answer, as if the speaker had studied stories of heroic telephone operators and was determined to live up to them. “There’s a Dr. Koenig in 221, and Dr. Uxbridge in 1203.”

  Christine noted the numbers on a pad beside the telephone. “All right, ring 221, please.” Doctors who registered in hotels expected privacy and were entitled to it. Once in a while, though, emergency justified a break with protocol.

  There were several clicks as the ringing continued. Then a sleepy voice with a Teutonic accent answered, “Yes, who is it?”

  Christine identified herself. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Dr. Koenig, but one of our guests is extremely ill.” Her eyes went to the bed. For the moment, she noticed, the blueness around the face had gone, but there was still an ashen-gray pallor, with breathing as difficult as ever. She added, “I wonder if you could come.”

  There was a pause, then the same voice, soft and agreeable: “My dearest young lady, it would be a matter of utmost happiness if, however humbly, I could assist. Alas, I fear that I could not.” A gentle chuckle. “You see, I am a doctor of music, here in your beautiful city to ‘guest conduct’—it is the word, I think—it’s fine symphony orchestra.”

  Despite the urgency, Christine had an impulse to laugh. She apologized, “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  “Please do not concern yourself. Of course, if my unfortunate fellow guest becomes—how shall I put it?—beyond the help of the other kind of doctors, I could bring my violin to play for him.” There was a deep sigh down the telephone. “What finer way to die than to an adagio by Vivaldi or Tartini—superbly executed.”

  “Thank you. I hope that won’t be necessary.” She was impatient now to make the next call.

  Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once in a no-nonsense tone of voice. In reply to Christine’s first question he responded, “Yes, I’m a doctor of medicine—an internist.” He listened without comment while she described the problem, then said tersely, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  The bellboy was still at the bedside. Christine instructed him, “Mr. McDermott is in the Presidential Suite. Go there, and as soon as he’s free ask him to come here quickly.” She picked up the telephone again. “The chief engineer, please.”

  Fortunately there was seldom any doubt about the chief’s availability. Doc Vickery was a bachelor who lived in the hotel and had one ruling passion: the St. Gregory’s mechanical equipment extending from foundations to the roof. For a quarter century, since leaving the sea and his native Clyde-side, he had overseen the installation of most of it and, in lean times when money for replacement equipment was scarce, had a way of coaxing extra performance out of tired machinery. The chief was a friend of Christine’s, and she knew that she was one of his favorites. In a moment his Scottish burr was on the line. “Aye?”

  In a few words she told him about Albert Wells. “The doctor isn’t here yet, but he’ll probably want oxygen. We’ve a portable set in the hotel, haven’t we?”

  “Aye, we’ve oxygen cylinders, Chris, but we use them just for gas welding.”

  “Oxygen is oxygen,” Christine argued. Some of the things her father had told her were coming back. “It doesn’t matter how you wrap it. Could you order one of your night people to have whatever’s necessary sent up?”

  The chief gave a grunt of agreement. “I will; and soon as I get my breeks on, lassie, I’ll be along mysel’. If I don’t, some clown will likely open an acetylene tank under yon man’s nose, and that’ll finish him for sure.”

  “Please hurry!” She replaced the phone, turning back to the bed.

  The little man’s eyes were closed. No longer struggling, he appeared not to be breathing at all.

  There was a light tap at the opened door and a tall, spare man stepped in from the corridor. He had an angular face, and hair graying at the temples. A dark blue suit, conservatively cut, failed to conceal beige pajamas beneath. “Uxbridge,” he announced in a quiet, firm voice.

  “Doctor,” Christine said, “just this moment …”

  The newcomer nodded and from a leather bag, which he put down on the bed, swiftly produced a stethoscope. Without wasting time he reached inside the patient’s flannel nightshirt and listened briefly to the chest and back. Then, returning to the bag, in a series of efficient movements he took out a syringe, assembled it, and snapped off the neck of a small glass vial. When he had drawn the fluid from the vial into the syringe, he leaned over the bed and pushed a sleeve of the nightshirt upward, twisting it into a rough tourniquet. He instructed Christine, “Keep that in place; hold it tightly.”

  With an alcohol swab Dr. Uxbridge cleansed the forearm above a vein and inserted the syringe. He nodded to the tourniquet. “You can release it now.” Then, glancing at his watch, he began to inject the liquid slowly.

  Christine turned, her eyes seeking the doctor’s face. Without looking up, he informed her, “Aminophylline; it should stimulate the heart.” He checked his watch again, maintaining a gradual dosage. A minute passed. Two. The syringe was half empty. So far there was no response.

  Christine whispered, “What is it that’s wrong?”

  “Severe bronchitis, with asthma as a complication. I suspect he’s had these attacks before.”

  Suddenly the little man’s chest heaved. Then he was breathing, more slowly than before, but with fuller, deeper breaths. His eyes opened.

  The tension in the room had lessened. The doctor withdrew the syringe and began to disassemble it.

  “Mr. Wells,” Christine said. “Mr. Wells, can you understand me?”

  She was answered by a series of nods. As they had been earlier, the doe-like eyes were fixed on her own.

  “You were very ill when we found you, Mr. Wells. This is Dr. Uxbridge who was staying in the hotel and came to help.”

  The eyes shifted to the doctor. Then, with an effort: “Thank you.” The words were close to a gasp, but they were the first the sick man had spoken. A small amount of color was returning to his face.

  “If there’s anyone to thank it should be this young lady.” The doctor gave a cool, tight smile, then told Christine, “The gentleman is still very sick and will need further medical attention. My advice is for immediate transfer to a hospital.”

  “No, no! I don’t want that.” The words came—a swift and urgent response—from the elderly man in the bed. He was leaning forward from the pillows, his eyes alert, hands lifted from beneath the covers where Chr
istine had placed them earlier. The change in his condition within the space of a few minutes was remarkable, she thought. He was still breathing wheezily, and occasionally with effort, but the acute distress had gone.

  For the first time Christine had time to study his appearance. Originally she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she revised the guess to add a half dozen years. His build was slight, and shortness, plus thin peaked features and the suggestion of a stoop, created the sparrowlike effect she remembered from previous encounters. His hair, what little was left of it, was usually combed in sparse gray strands, though now it was disarranged, and damp from perspiration. His face habitually held an expression which was mild and inoffensive, almost apologetic, and yet underneath, she suspected, was a ridge of quiet determination.

  The first occasion she had met Albert Wells had been two years earlier. He had come diffidently to the hotel’s executive suite, concerned about a discrepancy in his bill which he had been unable to settle with the front office. The amount involved, she recalled, was seventy-five cents and while—as usually happened when guests disputed small sums—the chief cashier had offered to cancel the charge, Albert Wells wanted to prove that he had not incurred it at all. After patient inquiry, Christine proved that the little man was right and, since she herself sometimes had bouts of parsimony—though alternating with wild feminine extravagance—she sympathized and respected him for his stand. She also deduced—from his hotel bill, which showed modest spending, and his clothes which were obviously ready-to-wear—that he was a man of small means, perhaps a pensioner, whose yearly visits to New Orleans were high points of his life.

  Now Albert Wells declared, “I don’t like hospitals. I never have liked them.”

  “If you stay here,” the doctor demurred, “you’ll need medical attention, and a nurse for twenty-four hours at least. You really should have intermittent oxygen too.”

  The little man insisted, “The hotel can arrange about a nurse.” He urged Christine, “You can, can’t you, miss?”

  “I suppose we could.” Obviously Albert Wells’s dislike of hospitals must be strong. For the moment it had overcome his customary attitude of not wishing to cause trouble. She wondered, though, if he had any idea of the high cost of private nursing.

  There was an interruption from the corridor. A coveralled mechanic came in, wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley. He was followed by the burly figure of the chief engineer, carrying a length of rubber tubing, some wire and a plastic bag.

  ‘This isn’t hospital style, Chris,” the chief said. “I fancy it’ll work, though.” He had dressed hurriedly—an old tweed jacket and slacks over an unbuttoned shirt, revealing an expanse of hairy chest. His feet were thrust into loose sandals and beneath his bald, domed head a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles were, as usual, perched at the tip of his nose. Now, using the wire, he was fashioning a connection between the tube and plastic bag. He instructed the mechanic who had stopped uncertainly, “Set up the cylinder beside the bed, laddie. If you move any slower, I’ll think it’s you should be getting the oxygen.”

  Dr. Uxbridge seemed surprised. Christine explained her original idea that oxygen might be needed, and introduced the chief engineer. With his hands still busy, the chief nodded, looking briefly over the top of his glasses. A moment later, with the tube connected, he announced, “These plastic bags have suffocated enough people. No reason why one shouldna’ do the reverse. Do you think it’ll answer, Doctor?”

  Some of Dr. Uxbridge’s earlier aloofness had disappeared. “I think it will answer very well.” He glanced at Christine. “This hotel appears to have some highly competent help.”

  She laughed. “Wait until we mix up your reservations. You’ll change your mind.”

  The doctor returned to the bed. “The oxygen will make you more comfortable, Mr. Wells. I imagine you’ve had this bronchial trouble before.”

  Albert Wells nodded. He said throatily, “The bronchitis I picked up as a miner. Then the asthma came later.” His eyes moved on to Christine. “I’m sorry about all this, miss.”

  “I’m sorry too, but mostly because your room was changed.”

  The chief engineer had connected the free end of the rubber tube to the green painted cylinder. Dr. Uxbridge told him, “We’ll begin with five minutes on oxygen and five minutes off.” Together they arranged the improvised mask around the sick man’s face. A steady hiss denoted that the oxygen was on.

  The doctor checked his watch, then inquired, “Have you sent for a local doctor?”

  Christine explained about Dr. Aarons.

  Dr. Uxbridge nodded approval. “He’ll take over when he arrives. I’m from Illinois and not licensed to practice in Louisiana.” He bent over Albert Wells. “Easier?” Beneath the plastic mask the little man moved his head confirmingly.

  There were firm footfalls down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in, his big frame filling the outer doorway. “I got your message,” he told Christine. His eyes went to the bed. “Will he be all right?”

  “I think so, though I believe we owe Mr. Wells something.” Beckoning Peter into the corridor, she described the change in rooms which the bellboy had told her about. As she saw Peter frown, she added, “If he does stay, we ought to give him another room, and I imagine we could get a nurse without too much trouble.”

  Peter nodded agreement. There was a house telephone in a maid’s closet across the hallway. He went to it and asked for Reception.

  “I’m on the fourteenth,” he informed the room clerk who answered. “Is there a vacant room on this floor?”

  There was a perceptible pause. The night room clerk was an old-timer, appointed many years ago by Warren Trent. He had an autocratic way of doing his job which few people ever contested. He had also made known to Peter McDermott on a couple of occasions that he resented newcomers, particularly if they were younger, senior to himself, and from the north.

  “Well,” Peter said, “is there a room or isn’t there?”

  “I have 1410,” the clerk said with his best southern planter’s accent, “but I’m about to allocate it to a gentleman who has this moment checked in.” He added, “In case you’re unaware, we are very close to a full house.”

  Number 1410 was a room Peter remembered. It was large and airy and faced St. Charles Avenue. He asked reasonably, “If I take 1410, can you find something else for your man?”

  “No, Mr. McDermott. All I have is a small suite on five, and the gentleman does not wish to pay a higher rate.”

  Peter said crisply, “Let your man have the suite at the room rate for tonight. He can be relocated in the morning. Meanwhile I’ll use 1410 for a transfer from 1439, and please send a boy up with the key right away.”

  “Just one minute, Mr. McDermott.” Previously the clerk’s tone had been aloof; now it was openly truculent. “It has always been Mr. Trent’s policy …”

  “Right now we’re talking about my policy,” Peter snapped. “And another thing: before you go off duty leave word for the day clerks that tomorrow I want an explanation of why Mr. Wells was shifted from his original room to 1439, and you might add that the reason had better be good.”

  He grimaced at Christine as he replaced the phone.

  5

  “You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon protested. “Absolutely, abysmally insane.” She had returned to the living room of the Presidential Suite after Peter Mc-Dermott’s departure, carefully closing the inner door behind her.

  The Duke shifted uncomfortably as he always did under one of his wife’s periodic tongue lashings. “Damn sorry, old girl. Telly was on. Couldn’t hear the fellow. Thought he’d cleared out.” He took a deep draught from the whiskey and soda he was holding unsteadily, then added plaintively, “Besides, with everything else I’m bloody upset.”

  “Sorry! Upset!” Unusually there was an undernote of hysteria in his wife’s voice. “You make it sound as if it’s all some sort of game. As if what happened tonight couldn�
��t be the ruination …”

  “Don’t think anything of sort. Know it’s all serious. Bloody serious.” Hunched disconsolately in a deep leather armchair he seemed a little man, akin to the bowler-hatted mousy genus which English cartoonists were so fond of drawing.

  The Duchess went on accusingly. “I was doing the best I could. The very best, after your incredible folly, to establish that both of us spent a quiet evening in the hotel. I even invented a walk that we went for in case anyone saw us come in. And then crassly, stupidly, you blunder in to announce you left your cigarettes in the car.”

  “Only one heard me. That manager chap. Wouldn’t notice.”

  “He noticed. I was watching his face.” With an effort the Duchess retained her self-control. “Have you any notion of the ghastly mess we’re in?”

  “Already said so.” The Duke drained his drink, then contemplated the empty tumbler. “Bloody ashamed too. ’F you hadn’t persuaded me …’F I hadn’t been fuddled …”

  “You were drunk! You were drunk when I found you, and you still are.”

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “Sober now.” It was his own turn to be bitter. “You would follow me. Butt in. Wouldn’t leave things be …”

  “Never mind that. It’s the other that matters.”

  He repeated, “You persuaded me …”

  “There was nothing we could do. Nothing! And there was a better chance my way.”

  “Not so sure. ’F the police get their teeth in …”

  “We’d have to be suspected first. That’s why I made that trouble with the waiter and followed through. It isn’t an alibi but it’s the next best thing. It’s set in their minds we were here tonight … or would have been if you hadn’t thrown it all away. I could weep.”

  “Be interesting that,” the Duke said. “Didn’t think you were enough of a woman.” He sat upright in the chair and had somehow thrown off the submissiveness, or most of it. It was a chameleon quality which sometimes bewildered those who knew him, setting them to wondering which was the real person.