2

Now, today, number four elevator was starting and stopping jerkily at every floor. It was a little before ten a.m., when on Cy Lewin’s latest trip he noticed that the jerkiness had stopped. Well, whatever that trouble was, he guessed it had fixed itself.

He could not have been more wrong.

High above Cy Lewin was the elevator control room. There, in the mechanical heart of number four elevator, a small electrical relay had reached the limit of its useful life.

A maintenance crew had tried to trace the trouble, but had not succeeded. They could hardly be blamed. There were more than sixty relays to a single elevator, and twenty elevators in the entire hotel. Nor had anyone observed that two safety devices on the elevator car were partially defective.

At ten past ten on Friday morning, number four elevator was – in fact, and figuratively – hanging by a thread.

3

Mr. Dempster of Montreal checked in at half-past ten. Peter McDermott, notified of his arrival, went down to the lobby to extend official greetings.

The financial representative of Albert Wells responded to a comment of Peter’s about the speed of events being breathtaking with the remark, “Mr. Wells frequently has that effect.”

Twenty minutes later Mr. Dempster reappeared in Peter’s office. He had visited Mr. Wells and spoken on the telephone with Mr. Trent. Meanwhile, there were a few people whom Mr. Dempster wished to discuss the matters with, and Mr. Trent had invited him to make use of the executive suite.

Peter escorted him to Warren Trent’s office and introduced Christine. For the first time since his arrival, the man from Montreal smiled. “Oh yes, Miss Francis. Mr. Wells mentioned you. In fact, he spoke of you quite warmly.”

“I’m a little embarrassed,” Christine said, “about something which happened last night.”

“If you’re referring to the incident with the restaurant bill, Miss Francis, it’s unnecessary that you should be. Mr. Wells told me – and I quote his own words – that it was one of the sweetest, kindest things that had ever been done for him.”

There was a knock at the outer office door, which opened to reveal the credit manager, Sam Jakubiec. “Excuse me,” he said when he saw the group inside, and turned to go. Peter called him back.

“I came to check a rumor about Mr. Wells,” Jakubiec said.

“It isn’t rumor,” Peter said. “It’s fact.” He introduced the credit man to Mr. Dempster.

“My God! – I checked his credit. I doubted his check. I even phoned Montreal.”

For the second time Mr. Dempster smiled. “At the bank they were vastly amused.”

The next to arrive was Royall Edwards. The comptroller was armed with papers and a bulging brief case. Shaking hands, Mr. Dempster informed the comptroller, “We’ll have a brief talk in a moment, and I’d like you to remain for our eleven-thirty meeting. By the way – you too, Miss Francis.”

“As we have time, I might explain some matters concerning Mr. Wells.” Mr. Dempster removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses and polished them. “Despite Mr. Wells’ considerable wealth, he has remained a man of very simple tastes. For himself he prefers modest things, even in such matters as clothing, travel, and accommodation.”

Royall Edwards seemed amused. “It’s like something from the Brothers Grimm!”

“Perhaps. But don’t ever believe that Mr. Wells lives in a fairy tale world. I’ve known Mr. Wells a good many years. In that time I’ve come to respect his instincts both about business and people.”

“I suppose,” Royall Edwards said, “we can expect a good many changes around here.”

“The first change will be that I shall become president of the hotel company, an office I hold in most of Mr. Wells’ corporations. He has never cared to assume titles himself.”

Christine said, “So we’ll be seeing a good deal of you.”

“Actually very little, Miss Francis. I will be a figurehead, no more. The executive vice-president will have complete authority. That is Mr. Wells’ policy, and also mine.”

So, Peter’s future would depend on the executive vice-president, whoever that might be.

He suddenly discovered he wanted to remain at the St. Gregory very much indeed. Christine, of course, was one reason. Another was that the St. Gregory, with continued independence under new management, promised to be exciting.

“Mr. Dempster,” Peter said, “if it isn’t a great secret, who will the executive vice-president be?”

The man from Montreal looked at Peter strangely.

“Excuse me, I thought you knew. That’s you.”

4

Throughout last night Booker T. Graham had labored alone in the incinerator. It was time for him to quit and go home. The hotel objected to paying overtime. And yet, more than anything else, Booker T. wanted to stay and find the paper he had been looking for the whole night for Mr. McDermott. So, he decided he would go on searching.

He worked slowly, painstakingly. By mid-morning he was very tired and down to the last container but one.

He saw it almost at once when he emptied the bin – a ball of waxed paper, which looked like sandwich wrappings. When he opened them, inside was a crumpled sheet of stationery, matching the sample Mr. McDermott had left.

Without waiting to dispose of the remaining garbage, Booker T. headed to McDermott’s office.

5

While the members of the eleven-thirty meeting were gathering in Warren Trent’s office, Peter still could not recover from the shock administered by the man from Montreal.

Executive vice-president. To run the St. Gregory with absolute control was like fulfillment of a vision. Peter knew that the St. Gregory could become a fine hotel.

When he had learned of the purchase of the hotel by Albert Wells, and its continued independence, Peter hoped that the new proprietor would have the insight to make progressive changes. Now, he was to be given the opportunity himself. The prospect was exhilarating. And a little frightening.

Peter’s thoughts raced on. Still stunned, he joined the others now taking their places at a long board table near the center of the room.

Albert Wells was last to arrive. He came in shyly, escorted by Christine.

As he did, those already in the room rose to their feet. The little man waved them down. “No, no! Please!”

Warren Trent stepped forward, smiling. “Mr. Wells, I welcome you to my house.” They shook hands. “When it becomes your house, it will be my heartfelt wish that these old walls will bring to you as great a happiness and satisfaction as, at times, they have to me.”

Warren Trent took his arm and personally performed the introductions.

The terms of sale had already been substantially agreed. The purpose of the meeting was to decide upon procedures, including a date for takeover. There appeared to be no difficulties. The mortgage on the hotel, due to be foreclosed today, had been paid already.

Then Peter McDermott and Royall Edwards answered questions, as they arose, affecting administration and finance. On two occasions Christine left the meeting and returned, bringing documents from the hotel files.

Within less than half an hour, the principal business bad been disposed of. The official transfer date was set for Tuesday. Other minor details were left for the lawyers to arrange between them.

Mr. Dempster spoke again addressing Warren Trent, “Now our first business will be to propose your election, Mr. Trent, as chairman of the board.”

“I shall be honored to accept.”

“It is Mr. Wells’ further wish that I should assume the presidency with Mr. Peter McDermott as executive vice-president.”

A chorus of congratulations was directed at Peter from around the table.

Christine was smiling. With the others, Warren Trent shook Peter’s hand.

Mr. Dempster waited until the conversation died. “There remains one further point. This week I was in New York when the unfortunate publicity occurred concerning this hotel. I would like an assurance that there will be no repetition. I am not suggesting that there be any basic change in hotel policy. My opinion, as a businessman, is that local viewpoints and customs must be respected. What I am concerned with is that, if such a situation arises, it should not produce a similar result.”

Peter answered, “It’s true. A delegate to a convention in this hotel, with a confirmed reservation, was refused accommodation. He was a dentist – a distinguished one – and incidentally a Negro. I regret to say that I was the one who turned him away. I have since made a personal decision that the same thing will never happen again.”

“Gentlemen.” Mr. Dempster replaced his glasses. “I made it clear, I thought, that I was not suggesting any fundamental change.”

“But I am, Mr. Dempster.” If there was to be a showdown, Peter thought, better to have it now, and done with. Either he would run the hotel or not.

The man from Montreal leaned forward. “Let me be sure I understand your position.”

“My position is quite simple. I would insist on complete desegregation of the hotel as a condition of my employment. Hasty or not, I think it’s fair to let you know where I stand.”

Christine, Peter observed, had her eyes intently on his face. He wondered what she was thinking.

Mr. Dempster addressed the room at large. “I imagine we all respect a firmly held conviction. But this is a serious change. If Mr. McDermott agrees, we can postpone a firm decision now. In a month or two, the subject can be reconsidered.”

It was not the best time. To wait, perhaps, would be the wisest choice. But then, the time for drastic change was never right. There were always reasons for not doing things.

“Mr. Dempster,” Peter said, “the law on civil rights is perfectly clear.”

Warren Trent snorted. “I warn you! You will run this hotel into the ground.”

“Mr. McDermott, in view of your attitude, we may have to reconsider…” For the first time, the man from Montreal seemed uncertain. He glanced at Albert Wells.

The little man’s eyes met Mr. Dempster’s.

“Charlie,” Albert Wells said, “I reckon we should let the young fellow do it his way.” He nodded toward Peter.

Mr. Dempster announced, “Mr. McDermott, your conditions are met.”

The meeting was breaking up. Christine went to the door first. A moment later she returned, saying that his secretary was waiting in the outer office. At the doorway, she slipped a folded piece of paper into Peter’s hand, whispering, “Read it later.”

“Mr. McDermott,” Flora said, “I wouldn’t have disturbed you… But there’s a man in your office. He says he works in the incinerator and has something important that you want. He won’t give it to me or away.”

“I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

“Please hurry! The fact is… well, he smells.”