Arthur Hailey - Hotel

"Be glad to, Miss Francis." The credit manager nodded, then, with short vigorous steps, continued down the corridor.

A moment later Christine knocked at the door of room 1410.

It was opened by a uniformed, middle-aged nurse, serious-faced and wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses. Christine identified herself and the nurse instructed, "Wait here, please. I'll inquire if Mr. Wells will see you."

There were footsteps inside and Christine smiled as she heard a voice say insistently, "Of course I'll see her. Don't keep her waiting."

When the nurse returned, Christine suggested, "If you'd like to have a few minutes off, I can stay until you come back."

"Well . . ." The older woman hesitated, thawing a little.

The voice from inside said, "You do that. Miss Francis knows what she's up to. If she didn't I'd have been a goner last night."

"All right," the nurse said. "I'll just be ten minutes and if you need me, please call the coffee shop."

Albert Wells beamed as Christine came in. The little man was reclining, diminutively, against a mound of pillows. His appearance - the scrawny figure draped by a fresh old-fashioned nightshirt - still conveyed the impression of a sparrow, but today a perky one, in contrast to his desperate frailness of the night before. He was still pale, but the ashen pallor of the previous day had gone. His breathing, though occasionally wheezy, was regular and apparently without great effort.

He said, "This is good of you to come 'n see me, miss."

"It isn't a question of being good," Christine assured him. "I wanted to know how you were."

"Thanks to you, much better." He gestured to the door as it closed behind the nurse. "But she's a dragon, that one."

"She's probably good for you." Christine surveyed the room approvingly.

Everything in it, including the old man's personal belongings, had been neatly rearranged. A tray of medication was set out efficiently on a bedside table. The oxygen cylinder they had used the previous night was still in place, but the improvised mask had been replaced by a more professional one.

"Oh, she knows what she's up to all right," Albert Wells admitted, "though another time I'd like a prettier one."

Christine smiled. "You are feeling better." She wondered if she should say anything about her talk with Sam Jakubiec, then decided not. Instead she asked, "You said last night, didn't you, that you started getting these attacks when you were a miner?"

"The bronchitis, I did; that's right."

"Were you a miner for very long, Mr. Wells?"

"More years'n I like to think about, miss. Though there's always things to remind you of it - the bronchitis for one, then these." He spread his hands, palms uppermost, on the counterpane and she saw they were gnarled and toughened from the manual work of many years.

Impulsively she reached out to touch them. "It's something to be proud of, I should think. I'd like to hear about what you did."

He shook his head. "Sometime maybe when you've a lot of hours and patience. Mostly, though, it's old men's tales, 'n old men get boring if you give 'em half a chance."

Christine sat on a chair beside the bed. "I do have patience, and I don't believe about it being boring."

He chuckled. "There are some in Montreal who'd argue that."

"I've often wondered about Montreal. I've never been there."

"It's a mixed-up place - in some ways a lot, like New Orleans."

She asked curiously, "Is that why you come here every year? Because it seems the same?"

The little man considered, his bony shoulders deep in the pile of pillows. "I never thought about that, miss one way or the other. I guess I come here because I like things old-fashioned and there aren't too many places left where they are. It's the same with this hotel. It's a bit rubbed off in places - you know that. But mostly it's homely, 'n I mean it the best way. I hate chain hotels. They're all the same - slick and polished, and when you're in 'em it's like living in a factory."

Christine hesitated, then, realizing the day's events had dispelled the earlier secrecy, told him, "I've some news you won't like. I'm afraid the St. Gregory maybe part of a chain before long."

"If it happens I'll be sorry," Albert Wells said. "Though I figured you people were in money trouble here."

"How did you know that?"

The old man ruminated. "Last time or two I've been here I could tell things were getting tough. What's the trouble now - bank tightening up, mortgage foreclosing, something like that?"

There were surprising sides to this retired miner, Christine thought, including an instinct for the truth. She answered, smiling, "I've probably talked too much already. What you'll certainly hear, though, is that Mr. Curtis O'Keefe arrived this morning."

"Oh no! Not him." Albert Wells' face mirrored genuine concern. "If that one gets his hands on this place he'll make it a copy of all his others.

It'll be a factory, like I said. This hotel needs changes, but not his kind."

Christine asked curiously, "What kind of changes, Mr. Wells?

"A good hotel man could tell you better than me, though I've a few ideas. I do know one thing, miss - just like always, the public's going through a fad. Right now they want the slickness 'n the chrome and sameness. But in time they'll get tired and want to come back to older things - like real hospitality and a bit of character and atmosphere; something that's not exactly like they found in fifty other cities 'n can find in fifty more. Only trouble is, by the time they get around to knowing it, most of the good places - including this one maybe - will have gone." He stopped, then asked, "When are they deciding?"

"I really don't know," Christine said. The little man's depth of feeling had startled her. "Except I don't suppose Mr. O'Keefe will be here long."

Albert Wells nodded. "He doesn't stay long anywhere from all I've heard.

Works fast when he sets his mind on something. Well, I still say it'll be a pity, and if it happens here's one who won't be back."

"We'd miss you, Mr. Wells. At least I would - assuming I survived the changes."

"You'll survive, and you'll be where you want to be, miss. Though if some young fellow's got some sense it won't be working in any hotel."

She laughed without replying and they talked of other things until, preceded by a short staccato knock, the guardian nurse returned. She said primly, "Thank you, Miss Francis." Then, looking pointedly at her watch:

"It's time for my patient to have his medication and rest."

"I have to go anyway," Christine said. "I'll come to see you again tomorrow if I may, Mr. Wells."

"I'd like it if you would."

As she left, he winked at her.

A note on her office desk requested Christine to call Sam Jakubiec. She did, and the credit manager answered.

"I thought you'd like to know," he said. "I phoned that bank at Montreal.

It looks like your friend's okay."

"That's good news, Sam. What did they say?"

"Well, in a way it was a funny thing. They wouldn't tell me anything about a credit rating - the way banks usually do. Just said to present the check for payment. I told them the amount, though, and they didn't seem worried, so I guess he's got it."

"I'm glad," Christine said.

"I'm glad too, though I'll watch the room account to see it doesn't get too big."

"You're a great watchdog, Sam." She laughed. "And thanks for calling."

10

Curtis O'Keefe and Dodo had settled comfortably into their communicating suites, with Dodo unpacking for both of them as she always enjoyed doing.

Now, in the larger of the two living rooms, the hotelier was studying a financial statement, one of several in a blue folder labeled

Confidential - St. Gregory, preliminary survey.