Arthur Hailey - Hotel

"We've been over that. It won't do any good again."

He appeared not to have heard. "Funeral today . . . this afternoon ...

at least could go."

"You can't, and you know you won't."

There was a heavy silence in the elegant, spacious room.

It was broken abruptly by the jangle of the telephone. They faced each other, neither attempting to answer. The muscles of the Duke's face jerked spasmodically.

The bell sounded again, then stopped. Through intervening doors they heard the voice of the secretary indistinctly, answering on an extension.

A moment later the secretary knocked and came in diffidently. He glanced toward the Duke. "Your Grace, it's one of the local newspapers. They say that they have had" - he hesitated at an unfamiliar term - "a flash bulletin which appears to concern you."

With an effort the Duchess recovered her poise. "I will take the call.

Hang up the extension." She picked up the telephone near her. Only a close observer would have noticed that her hands were trembling.

She waited for the click as the extension was replaced, then announced,

"The Duchess of Croydon speaking."

A man's crisp voice responded, "Ma'am, this is the States-Item city desk.

We've a flash from Associated Press and there's just been a follow-up .

. ." The voice stopped.

"Pardon me." She heard the speaker say irritably, "Where in hell is that ...

Hey, toss over that flimsy, Andy."

There was a rustle of paper, then the voice resuming. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll read this to you.

"LONDON (AP) - Parliamentary sources here today name the Duke of Croydon, noted British government trouble shooter, as Britain's next ambassador to Washington. Initial reaction is favorable. An official announcement is expected soon.

11

There's more, ma'am. I won't bother you with it. Why we called was to see if your husband has a statement, then with your permission we'd like to send a photographer to the hotel."

Momentarily the Duchess closed her eyes, letting waves of relief, like soothing anodynes, wash over her.

The voice on the telephone cut in, "Ma'am, are you still there?"

"Yes." She forced her mind to function.

"About a statement, what we'd like . . ."

"At the moment," the Duchess injected, "my husband has no statement, nor will he have unless and until the appointment is officially confirmed."

"In that case . . ."

"The same applies to photography."

The voice sounded disappointed. "We'll run what we have, of course, in the next edition."

"That is your privilege."

"Meanwhile, if there's an official announcement we'd like to be in touch."

"Should that occur, I'm sure my husband will be glad to meet the press."

"Then we may telephone again?"

"Please do."

After replacing the telephone, the Duchess of Croydon sat upright and unmoving. At length, a slight smile hovering around her lips, she said,

"It's happened. Geoffrey has succeeded."

Her husband stared incredulously. He moistened his lips. "Washington?"

She repeated the gist of the AP bulletin. "The leak was probably deliberate, to test reaction. It's favorable."

"I wouldn't have believed that even your brother.

"His influence helped. Undoubtedly there were other reasons. Timing.

Someone with your kind of background was needed. Politics fitted. Don't forget either that we knew the possibility existed. Fortunately, everything chanced to fall together."

"Now that it's happened . He stopped, unwilling to complete the thought.

"Now that it's happened - what?"

"I wonder ... can I carry it through?"

"You can and you will. We will."

He moved his head doubtfully. "There was a time

"There is still a time." The Duchess's voice sharpened with authority.

"Later today you will be obliged to meet the press. There will be other things. It will be necessary for you to be coherent and remain so."

He nodded slowly. Do best I can." He lifted his glass to sip.

"No!" The Duchess rose. She removed the tumbler from her husband's fingers and walked to the bathroom. He heard the contents of the glass being poured into the sink. Returning, she announced, "There will be no more. You understand? No more whatever."

He seemed about to protest, then acknowledged, "Suppose ... only way."

"If you'd like me to take away the bottles, pour out this one ..."

He shook his head. "I'll manage." Perceptibly, with an effort of will, he brought his thoughts to focus. With the same chameleon quality he had exhibited the day before, there seemed more strength in his features than a moment earlier. His voice was steady as he observed, "It's very good news."

"Yes," the Duchess said. "It can mean a new beginning.

He took a half step toward her, then changed his mind. Whatever the new beginning, he was well aware it would not include that.

His wife was already reasoning aloud. "It will be necessary to revise our plans about Chicago. From now on your movements will be the subject of close attention. If we go there together it will be reported prominently in the Chicago press. It could arouse curiosity when the car is taken for repair."

"One of us must go."

The Duchess said decisively, "I shall go alone. I can change my appearance a little, wear glasses. If I'm careful I can escape attention." Her eyes went to a small attache case beside the secretaire.

"I will take the remainder of the money and do whatever else is needed."

"You're assuming . . . that man will get to Chicago safely. He hasn't yet."

Her eyes widened as if remembering a forgotten nightmare. She whispered,

"Oh God! Now, above all else . . . he must! He must!"

12

Shortly after lunch, Peter McDermott managed to slip away to his apartment where he changed, from the formal business suit he wore most of the time in the hotel, to linen slacks and a lightweight jacket. He returned briefly to his office to sign letters which, on the way out, he deposited on Flora's desk.

"I'll be back late this afternoon," he told her. Then, as an afterthought: "Did you discover anything about Ogilvie?"

His secretary shook her head. "Not really. You asked me to find out if Mr. Ogilvie told anyone where he was going. Well, he didn't."

Peter grunted. "I didn't really expect he would."

"There's just one thing." Flora hesitated. "It's probably not important, but it seemed a little strange."

"'What?"

"The car Mr. Ogilvie used - you said it was a Jaguar?"

"Yes."

"It belongs to the Duke and Duchess of Croydon."

"Are you sure someone hasn't made a mistake?"

"I wondered about that," Flora said, "so I asked the garage to double check. They told me to talk to a man named Kulgmer who's the garage night checker."

"Yes, I know him."

"He was on duty last night and I phoned him at home. He says Mr. Ogilvie had written authority from the Duchess of Croydon to take the car."

Peter shrugged. "Then I guess there's nothing wrong." It was strange, though, to think of Ogilvie using the Croydons' car, even stranger that there should be any kind of rapport between the Duke and Duchess and the uncouth house officer. Obviously, Flora had been considering the same thing.

He inquired, "Has the car come back?"

Flora shook her head negatively. "I wondered if I should check with the Duchess of Croydon. Then I thought I'd ask you first."

"I'm glad you did." He supposed it would be simple enough to ask the Croydons if they knew Ogilvie's destination. Since Ogilvie had their car, it seemed probable they would. All the same, he hesitated. After his own skirmish with the Duchess on Monday night, Peter was reluctant to risk another misunderstanding, especially since any kind of inquiry might be resented as a personal intrusion. There was also the embarrassing admission to be made that the hotel had no knowledge of the whereabouts of its chief house officer.