Отель / Hotel. Артур Хейли

strong arms, son,” the little man said.

      Peter smiled. Then, as easily, as if his burden were a child[3], he strode down the corridor and into the new room.

      Fifteen minutes later all was functioning. The oxygen equipment had been successfully transferred, the air conditioning made the air sweeter. The resident physician, Dr. Aarons, had arrived, and accepted Dr. Uxbridge’s offer to drop in the following day. A private duty nurse had been telephoned was on the way. Albert Wells was sleeping gently.

      Walking with Peter toward the elevators, Christine said, “I’m glad we let him stay. Some places wouldn’t. All they want is people to check in, check out, and pay the bill.”

      “A real hotel is for hospitality if a guest needs it. Unfortunately, too many people in hotel business have forgotten it.”

      “You think we’ve forgotten here?”

      “You’re damn right we have! A lot of the time, anyway. If I had my way there’d be a good many changes…” He stopped, embarrassed. The St. Gregory was inefficient in many ways. Currently the hotel was facing a financial crisis. “But W.T. isn’t keen on new ideas.”

      “That’s no reason for giving up.”

      He laughed. “You sound like a woman.”

      “I am a woman.”

      “I know,” Peter said. “I’ve just begun to notice.”

      For most of the time he had known Christine – since his own arrival at the St. Gregory – he had taken her for granted. Recently, though, he had started to notice how attractive she was.

      “I didn’t have dinner tonight; too much going on. If you feel like it, how about joining me for a late supper?”

      Christine said, “I love late suppers.”

      “There’s one more thing I want to check. I sent Herbie Chandler to look into that trouble on the eleventh but I don’t trust him. Will you wait on the main mezzanine?”

      His hands were surprisingly gentle for his size. It was an interesting face as well, with a hint of determination, she thought.

      “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll wait.”

      7

      Marsha Preyscott wished she had spent her nineteenth birthday some other way. It had been a mistake to come here. But as always, and rebelliously, she had sought something different, which was what Lyle Dumaire had promised.

      She had known that boy for years and dated occasionally. His father was president of one of the city’s banks as well as a close friend of her own father. Without thinking about it, she said yes, when he asked whether she wanted to come with him upstairs to the small, crowded suite 1126-7. There were more people than she expected, and some of the boys were already very drunk. One of the girls had passed out.

      Something was happening in the adjoining room, to which the door was closed, though a group of boys, whom Lyle Dumaire had joined – leaving Marsha alone – was there. She heard a question, “What was it like?” but the answer was lost in a shout of laughter. When she realized, or at least suspected, what was happening, disgust made her want to leave.

      If her father had come home as he promised, she would not have been here now[4]. Instead, there would have been a birthday celebration at home. But he had not come home. Instead, he had telephoned from Rome. Perhaps, there were some things in Rome, which he wouldn’t tell her about, just as she would never tell him what was happening in room 1126 now.

      Youth was a dull time, Marsha often thought, especially when you had to share it with others the same age as yourself. There were moments – and this was one – when she longed for companionship that was more mature. She would not find it though in Lyle Dumaire.

      Others were beginning to leave the suite. One of the older boys whom she knew as Stanley Dixon came out from the other room, “… girls said they’re going.”

      “Why not somebody from here?” It was Lyle Dumaire’s voice, much less under control than it had been earlier.

      “Yeah, but who?”

      Marsha ignored them. The suite was almost cleared. If Lyle planned to escort her, Marsha thought, she would turn him down.

      Then she heard the outer door close. Stanley Dixon was standing in front of it, his hands behind him. The lock clicked.

      “Hey, Marsha,” Lyle Dumaire said. “What’s the big rush?”

      Marsha had known Lyle since childhood, but now there was a difference.

      “I’m going home.”

      “Aw, come on. Have a drink.”

      “No, thank you.”

      “You’re going to be a good girl, aren’t you?”

      “Some of us have had a good time already. It’s made us want more of the same,” said Dixon. The other two, whose names she didn’t know, were grinning.

      “I’m not interested in what you want.” Though her voice was firm, she was aware of an underlying note of fear.

      “Listen, Marsha,” Lyle blustered. “We know you want to. All girls want to. Eh, fellas?”

      They began to move closer.

      “If you touch me I shall scream.”

      Suddenly, without seeming to move, Dixon was behind her, clapping a big sweaty hand across her mouth, another holding her arms. She struggled, and tried to bite the hand, but without success.