9

“When W.T. comes he won’t like this,” sighed Christine putting off the letter and looking at Peter. “You remember a month ago,” Christine said, “– the man who was walking on Carondelet Street when a bottle dropped from above. His head was cut quite badly.”

Peter nodded. “The bottle came from one of our rooms, no question of that. But we couldn’t find the guest who did it.”

“He’s suing the hotel for ten thousand dollars. He charges shock, bodily harm, loss of earnings and says we were negligent.”

Peter said flatly, “He hasn’t a chance.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there’s a whole range of cases where the same kind of thing has happened. It gives defending lawyers all kinds of precedents they can quote in court. For example, there was a classic case in Pittsburgh – at the William Penn. A man was hit by a bottle which was thrown from a guest room and went through the roof of his car. He sued the hotel.”

“And he didn’t win?”

“No. The court said that a hotel – any hotel – is not responsible for the acts of its guests.”

“Are you saying that a hotel isn’t responsible legally for anything its guests may do – even to other guests?”

“A lot of our law, in fact, goes back to the English beginning with the fourteenth century. The English inns had one great hall, warmed and lighted by a fire, and everyone slept there. While they slept it was the landlord’s business to protect his guests from thieves and murderers. And the same thing was expected of the landlord when smaller chambers began to be used.”

“It wasn’t much of an age for privacy.”

“That came later when there were individual rooms, and guests had keys. After that the innkeeper was obliged to protect his guests from being broken in upon. But beyond that he had no responsibility, either for what happened to them in their rooms or what they did.”

“So the key made the difference.”

“It still does.”

“I didn’t know you were so encyclopedic.”

“I didn’t mean to sound that way,” Peter said.

“You like all this, don’t you? Running a hotel; the other things that go with it.”

He answered frankly, “Yes, I do. Though I’d like it more if we could rearrange a few things here. But right now I’m more interested in my own dinner plan – involving you, which is why I’m here.”

“If that’s an invitation for tonight, I’m free and hungry.”

“I’ll collect you at seven. Your apartment.”

At half-past two, leaving word with one of the secretaries in the outer office, Christine left to visit Albert Wells and met Sam Jakubiec, the credit manager, on her way. Seeing Christine, he stopped. “I’ve been to see your invalid friend, Mr. Wells. I got this out of him, but lord knows how good it is.”

Christine accepted the paper the credit manager had been holding. On the sheet Albert Wells had written and signed an order on a Montreal bank for two hundred dollars.

“Is this legal?”

“It’s legal if there’s money in the bank to meet it. I’m going to invest in a phone call to Montreal to find out if this is a good check. If it isn’t, he’ll have to leave.”

“I’d appreciate it if you told me before you do anything.”

“I’d be glad to, Miss Francis.” The credit manager nodded, then continued down the corridor.

The door of room 1410 was opened by a uniformed, middle-aged and serious-faced nurse. Christine identified herself and asked if she could see Mr. Wells. “If you want to have a few minutes off, I can stay until you come back,” she added.

The voice from inside said, “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.

Albert Wells beamed as Christine came in.

“I wanted to know how you were.”

“Thanks to you, miss, much better.”

“The doctor said yesterday you had bronchitis. How did you get it?” she asked.

“I was a miner once. For more years than I like to think about, miss. The stories about my past are long and boring.”

“I’d like to hear about what you did. I don’t believe it is boring.”

He chuckled. “There are some in Montreal who’d argue that.”

“I’ve often wondered about Montreal.”

“It’s in some ways a lot like New Orleans.”

“Is that why you come here every year? Because it seems the same?”

“I never thought about that. 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. I hate chain hotels. They’re all the same, when you’re in them, it’s like living in a factory.”

“I’m afraid the St. Gregory may be part of a chain soon.”

“If it happens I’ll be sorry,” Albert Wells said. “Though I figured you people were in money trouble here. 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. This hotel needs changes, but not his kind.”

“What kind of changes, Mr. Wells?”

“I do know one thing, in time the public will get tired and want to come back to older things – like real hospitality and a bit of character and atmosphere. Only trouble is, by the time they get around to knowing it, most of the good places – including this one maybe – will have gone.”

As she left, he winked at her.

A note on her office desk requested Christine to call Sam Jakubiec.

“I phoned that bank at Montreal”, he said. “They wouldn’t tell me anything about a credit rating. I told them the amount, though, and they didn’t seem worried, so I guess he’s got it.”

10

After a careful inspection of the magnificent basket of fruit, which Peter McDermott had ordered delivered to the suite, Dodo selected an apple and was slicing it as the telephone at O’Keefe’s elbow rang twice within a few minutes.

The first call was a polite welcome from Warren Trent. Curtis O’Keefe accepted an invitation for himself and Dodo to dine privately with the St. Gregory’s proprietor that evening. “We’ll be truly delighted,” the hotelier affirmed him, “and, by the way, I admire your house.”

“That is what I’ve been afraid of.”

The second call, which followed immediately, was from a pay telephone in the hotel lobby. “Hello, Ogden,” Curtis O’Keefe said when the caller identified himself, “I’m reading your report now. Give me fifteen minutes, then come to see me.”

Hanging up, Curtis O’Keefe said amusedly to Dodo, “I’m glad you enjoy the fruit. If it weren’t for you, I’d put a stop to all these harvest festivals.”

“My mom’d go crazy with a basket like this.”

“Why not send her one?” Lifting the telephone once more, he asked for the hotel florist. “This is Mr. O’Keefe. I believe you delivered some fruit to my suite. I would like an identical fruit basket telegraphed to Akron, Ohio, and charged to my bill.” He handed the telephone to Dodo. “Give them the address and a message for your mother.”

When she had finished, she flung her arms around him. “Curtie, you’re the sweetest!”

It was strange, he reflected, that while Dodo loved expensive gifts as much as any of her predecessors, it was the small things – such as at this moment – which seemed to please her most.

In fifteen minutes precisely, there was a knock on the door which Dodo answered. She showed in two men, both carrying briefcases – Ogden Bailey who had telephoned, and the second man, Sean Hall, who was a younger edition of his superior. Ogden Bailey was an experienced key figure in the O’Keefe organization. As well as having the usual qualifications of an accountant, he possessed an extraordinary ability to enter any hotel and, after a week or two of discreet observation – usually unknown to the hotel’s management – produce a financial analysis, which later would prove close to the hotel’s own figures. Hall, whom Bailey himself had discovered and trained, showed every promise of developing the same kind of talent.

“Now, gentlemen, how much am I going to have to pay for this hotel?”

Ogden Bailey began respectfully, “The two-million-dollar mortgage due on Friday should make bargaining a good deal easier. No one in the financial community will touch the hotel now, mostly because of its operating losses coupled with the poor management situation.”

“It isn’t necessary to give me all the details. I rely on you gentlemen to take care of those eventually. What I want at these sessions is the broad picture.”

Hall flushed and, from across the room, Dodo shot him a sympathetic glance.

In his own brief experience Sean Hall knew that the procedure for acquiring a new link in the O’Keefe hotel chain followed the same general pattern. First a “spy team” – usually headed by Ogden Bailey – moved into the hotel, its members registering as normal guests. By systematic observation and bribery, the team compiled a financial and operating study, revealing weaknesses and estimating potential.

Next, armed with this accumulated knowledge, Curtis O’Keefe directed negotiations, which, more often than not, were successful.

Then the wrecking crew moved in. It was a group of management experts. It converted any hotel to the standard O’Keefe pattern within a remarkably short time. A team member once described their work in two sentences: “The first thing we announce is that there will be no staff changes. Then we get on with the firings.”

Sean Hall supposed the same thing would happen soon in the St. Gregory Hotel.

The process saddened Hall. He had uneasy moments, too, about the ethics, by which some tasks were accomplished. But personal ambition and the fact that Curtis O’Keefe paid generously for services rendered were cause for satisfaction.

“But there are also a few good people,” Sean Hall continued, “There is one man – the assistant general manager, McDermott – who seems extremely competent. He’s thirty-two, a Cornell-Statler graduate. Unfortunately, there’s a flaw in his record. There are others in lesser posts.”

The hotel magnate returned the sheet without comment. A decision about McDermott and others would be the business of the wrecking crew.