Arthur Hailey - Hotel

He had selected another letter when there was a light tap on the door from the outer office. He looked up, expecting to see Christine.

"It's just me," Marsha Preyscott said. "There wasn't anyone outside, so I . . ." She caught sight of Peter. "Oh, my goodness! - won't you fall over backwards?"

"I haven't yet," he said - and promptly did.

The resounding crash was followed by a second's startled silence.

From the floor behind his desk, looking upward, he assessed the damage.

His left ankle stung painfully where it had struck a leg of the overturning chair on the way down. The back of his head ached as he fingered it, though fortunately the rug had cushioned most of the impact.

And there was his vanished dignity - attested to by Marsha's rippling laughter and Flora's more discreet smile.

They came around the desk to help him up. Despite his discomfiture, he was aware once more of Marsha's fresh, breathtaking radiance. Today she had on a simple blue linen dress which somehow emphasized the half-woman, half-child quality he had been conscious of yesterday. Her long black hair, as it had the day before, hung lustrously about her shoulders.

"You should use a safety net," Marsha said. "Like they do in a circus."

Peter grinned ruefully. "Maybe I could get a clown outfit too."

Flora restored the heavy swivel chair to its upright position. As he clambered up, Marsha and Flora taking an elbow each, Christine came in.

She stopped at the doorway, a sheaf of papers in her hand. Her eyebrows went up. "Am I intruding?"

"No," Peter said. "I ... well, I fell out of my chair."

Christine's eyes moved to the solidly standing chair.

He said, "It went over backwards."

"They do that, don't they? All the time." Christine glanced toward Marsha. Flora had quietly left.

Peter introduced them.

"How do you do, Miss Preyscott," Christine said. "I've heard of you."

Marsha had glanced appraisingly from Peter to Christine. She answered coolly, "I expect, working in a hotel, you hear all kinds of gossip, Miss Francis. You do work here, don't you?"

"Gossip wasn't what I meant," Christine acknowledged. "But you're right, I work here. So I can come back any old time, when things aren't so hectic or private."

Peter sensed an instant antagonism between Marsha and Christine. He wondered what had caused it.

As if interpreting his thoughts, Marsha smiled sweetly. "Please don't go on my account, Miss Francis. I just came in for a minute to remind Peter about dinner tonight." She turned toward him. "You hadn't forgotten, had you?"

Peter had a hollow feeling in his stomach. "No," he lied, "I hadn't forgotten."

Christine broke the ensuing silence. "Tonight?"

"Oh dear," Marsha said. "Does he have to work or something?"

Christine shook her head decisively. "He won't have a thing to do. I'll see to it myself."

"That's terribly sweet of you." Marsha flashed the smile again. "Well, I'd better be off. Oh, yes - seven o'clock," she told Peter, "and it's on Prytania Street - the house with four big pillars. Goodbye, Miss Francis."

With a wave of her hand she went out, closing the door.

Her expression guileless, Christine inquired, "Would you like me to write that down? - the house with four big pillars. So you won't forget."

He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I know - you and I had a date. When I made it, I'd forgotten about the other arrangement because last night . . . with you ... drove everything else out of my mind. When we talked this morning, I guess I was confused."

Christine said brightly, "Well, I can understand that. Who wouldn't be confused with so many women under foot?"

She was determined - even though with an effort - to be lighthearted and, if necessary, understanding. She reminded herself: despite last night, she had no lien on Peter's time, and what he said about confusion was probably true. She added, "I hope you have a delightful evening."

He shifted uncomfortably. "Marsha's just a child."

There were limits, Christine decided, even to patient understanding. Her eyes searched his face. "I suppose you really believe that. But speaking as a woman, let me advise you that little Miss Preyscott bears as much resemblance to a child as a kitten to a tiger. But it would be fun I should think - for a man - to be eaten up."

He shook his head impatiently. "You couldn't be more wrong. It's simply that she went through a trying experience two nights ago and .."

"And needed a friend."

"That's right."

"And there you were!"

"We got talking. And I said I'd go to a dinner party at her house tonight. There'll be other people."

"Are you sure?"

Before he could reply, the telephone shrilled. With a gesture of annoyance, he answered it.

"Mr. McDermott," a voice said urgently, "there's trouble in the lobby and the assistant manager says will you please come quickly."

When he replaced the telephone, Christine had gone.

5

There were moments of decision, Peter McDermott thought grimly, which you hoped you would never have to face. When and if you did, it was like a dreaded nightmare come to reality. Even worse, your conscience, conviction, integrity, and loyalties were torn asunder.

It had taken him less than a minute to size up the situation in the lobby, even though explanations were still continuing. The dignified, middle-aged Negro, now seated quietly by the alcove desk, the indignant Dr. Ingram respected president of the dentists' congress, and the assistant manager's bland indifference now that responsibility had been shifted from his shoulders - these alone told Peter all he needed to know.

It was distressingly plain that a crisis had abruptly appeared which, if badly handled, might set off a major explosion.

He was aware of two spectators - Curtis O'Keefe, the familiar, much-photographed face watching intently from a discreet distance. The second spectator was a youthful, broad-shouldered man with heavy rimmed glasses, wearing gray flannel trousers with a tweed jacket. He was standing, a well-traveled suitcase beside him, seemingly surveying the lobby casually, yet missing nothing of the dramatic scene beside the assistant manager's desk.

The dentists' president drew himself to his full five feet six height, his round rubicund face flushed and tight lipped beneath the unruly white hair. "McDermott, if you and your hotel persist in this incredible insult, I'm giving you fair warning you've bought yourself a pile of trouble." The diminutive doctor's eyes flashed angrily, his voice rising.

"Dr. Nicholas is a highly distinguished member of our profession. When you refuse to accommodate him, let me inform you it's a personal affront to me and to every member of our congress."

If I were on the sidelines, Peter thought, and not involved, I'd probably be cheering for that. Reality cautioned him: I am involved. My job is to get this scene out of the lobby, somehow. He suggested, "Perhaps you and Dr. Nicholas" - his eyes took in the Negro courteously - "would come to my office where we can discuss this quietly."

"No, sir! - we'll damn well discuss it right here. There'll be no hiding this in some dark corner." The fiery little doctor had his feet set firmly. "Now then! - will you register my friend and colleague Dr. Nicholas, or not?"

Heads were turning now. Several people had paused in their progress through the lobby. The man in the tweed jacket, still feigning disinterest, had moved closer.

What quirk of fate was it, Peter McDermott wondered dismally, that placed him in opposition to a man like Dr. Ingram, whom instinctively he admired? It was ironic, too, that only yesterday Peter had argued against the policies of Warren Trent which had created this very incident. The impatiently waiting doctor had demanded: Will you register my friend? For a moment Peter was tempted to say yes, and hang the consequences. But it was useless, he knew.