Christine hesitated. 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's a Dr. Koenig^[19] in 221, and Dr. Uxbridge in 1203.”

Christine noted the numbers on a pad beside the telephone.

“All right, ring 221, please.”

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

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

There was a pause, then the same voice: “My dearest young lady, it would be a matter of happiness if 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' a fine symphony orchestra.”

She apologized, “I'm sorry for disturbing you.”

Dr. Uxbridge in 1203 answered the telephone at once in a no-nonsense tone of voice^[20]. In reply to Christine's first question he responded, “Yes, I'm a doctor of medicine.” He listened without comment while she described the problem, then said, “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 no 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. The chief was a friend of Christine's, and she knew that she was one of his favorites. In a moment his Scottish accent was on the line. “Aye?”^[21]

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.

“Could you order one of your night people to send it up?”

The chief nodded in agreement. “I will; and soon as I get my breeks^[22] on, lassie^[23], I'll be along mysel'.”

“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 man stepped in from the corridor. He had a thin face, and hair graying at the temples. Beige pajamas showed beneath his dark blue suit. “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 to the chest and back. Then, returning to the bag, he took out a syringe, filled it with a medicine, and pushed a sleeve of the nightshirt upward.

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 started breathing. His eyes opened.

The tension in the room had lessened. “Mr. Wells,” Christine said. “Mr. Wells, can you understand me?”

She was answered by a series of nods. “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 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 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 from the elderly man in the bed. He was leaning forward from the pillows. The change in his condition was remarkable, she thought.

For the first time Christine had time to study his appearance. Originally she had judged him to be in his early sixties; now she added a half dozen years.

The first occasion she met Albert Wells was two years earlier. He had come to the hotel's executive suite, concerned about a difference in his bill which he had been unable to settle with the front office. The amount, she recalled, was seventy-five cents and though the chief cashier had offered to cancel the charge, Albert Wells wanted to prove that he had not made the expense. After patient inquiry, Christine made sure that the little man was right and she sympathized and respected him for his stand. She also decided – from his bill, which showed modest spending, and his clothes which were obviously ready-to-wear – that he was a man of small means^[24], 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 explained, “you'll need medical attention, and a nurse for twenty-four hours at least.”

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

“I suppose we could.” She wondered, though, if he had any idea of the high cost of private nursing.

There was a noise from the corridor. A coveralled mechanic came in^[25], wheeling an oxygen cylinder on a trolley. He was followed by the chief engineer, carrying a rubber tube, some wire and a plastic bag.

“This isn't hospital style, Chris,” the chief said. “I hope it'll work, though.”

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. A moment later, the tube was connected.

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, “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 rubber tube to the cylinder. Together with Dr. Uxbridge they arranged the improvised mask around the sick man's face. A steady hiss meant that the oxygen was on.^[26]

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 steps down the corridor and Peter McDermott strode in, his big frame filling the 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 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 pause. The night room clerk was an old-timer, appointed many years ago by Warren Trent.

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

“I have 1410,” the clerk said, “but I'm about to give it to a gentleman who has this moment checked in.” He added, “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, “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. 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.”

He winked at Christine as he replaced the phone.

4

“You must have been insane,” the Duchess of Croydon said. “Absolutely insane.” She had returned to the living-room of the Presidential Suite after Peter McDermott's departure, carefully closing the door behind her.

The Duke shifted uncomfortably as he always did under one of his wife's periodic tongue lashings^[27]. “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, then added, “Besides, with everything else I'm bloody upset.”

“Sorry! Upset! You make it sound as if it's all some sort of game.” 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 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 kept her self-control. “Have you any notion of the awful mess we're in?”

The Duke drained his drink. “If you hadn't persuaded me… Bloody ashamed too.”

“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.”

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

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

“We'd have to be suspected first. That's why I made that trouble with the waiter. 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^[28],” the Duke said. “Didn't think you were enough of a woman.”

The Duke went to a side table where he splashed Scotch generously into his glass, followed by soda. With his back turned, he added, “Why'd you marry me?”

“I suppose it was mostly that you stood out in our circle as someone who was doing something worth while.”

He held up his glass, studying it like a crystal ball. “Not proving it now. Eh?”^[29]

“If you appear to be, it's because I prop you up.” “Washington?” The word was a question.

“We could manage it,” the Duchess said. “If I could keep you sober and in your own bed.”

“Aha!” Her husband laughed. “A damn cold bed at that.” “I already said that isn't necessary.”

“Ever wondered why I married you?”

“I've formed opinions.”

“Tell you most important.” He drank again, as if for courage, then said, “Wanted you in that bed. Fast. Legally. Knew was only way.”

“I'm surprised you bothered. With so many others to choose from – before and since.”

His bloodshot eyes were on her face. “Didn't want others. Wanted you. Still do.”

She snapped, “That's enough! This has gone far enough.”^[30]

He shook his head. “Something you should hear. Your pride, old girl. Always appealed to me. You on your back. Passionate. Trembling.”

“Stop it! Stop it! You… you lecher!” Her face was white. “I don't care if the police catch you! I hope they do! I hope you get ten years!”

5

After his dispute with Reception, Peter McDermott went down 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 doctor glanced around the tiny 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, Christine reminded Peter, “What we need now is a nurse.”

“We'll let Dr. Aarons arrange that. 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 don't 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 perfume.

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.

“Never mind,” Peter said. “There's a quicker way – if you agree, Mr. Wells.”

The other smiled, and nodded.

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

“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 well. The resident physician^[31], Dr. Aarons, had arrived. He accepted the offer of Dr. Uxbridge to drop in as a consultant the following day. A private duty nurse, telephoned by Dr. Aarons, was on the way.

As the chief engineer and Dr. Uxbridge left, Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

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 assistance 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 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. Currently, too, the hotel was facing a financial crisis. “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 begun 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^[32]. Recently, though, he had found himself increasingly aware of just how attractive 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.” He took her arm, squeezing it lightly. “Will you wait on the main mezzanine?”

His hands were surprisingly gentle for someone of his size. Christine glanced at his strong, energetic profile with its jutting jaw. It was an interesting face, she thought. She was aware of her senses quickening.^[33]

“All right,” she agreed. “I'll wait.”

6

Peter waited alone for the elevator on the fifth floor. It had been a full evening, Peter thought – with some unpleasantness – though not exceptional for a big hotel.

When the elevator arrived he told the operator, “Lobby, please,” reminding himself that Christine was waiting on the main mezzanine, but his business on the main floor would take only a few minutes.