An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  “I’ve lost count of the number of years I’ve been contributing to Wonders of the World,” she told me. “I suppose it was all I could do when accompanying my husband on his long voyages. He was an archaeologist and geographer.”

  “Have you travelled a great deal?”

  “I used to. When my husband was alive, he mapped the area between the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. After that we travelled to Cairo, Jerusalem and Constantinople, among other places. I’ve written several books about my experiences.”

  “I’m trying to write a book at the moment, but it’s not proving to be an easy undertaking,” I said.

  “What are you writing about?”

  “My father. He was working as a plant-hunter when he vanished in Colombia nine years ago. He left a number of letters and diaries, which I have been transcribing into a book about his life.”

  “How fascinating, and yet terribly sad at the same time. What’s his name?”

  “Frederick Brinsley Green. An acquaintance of mine has recently left these shores in search of him.”

  She gave a knowing nod. “I think I recall reading about your father now. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were to be found? It must be dreadful not knowing what has happened to him.”

  “We feared the worst when he was first reported missing, and as time passed I began to convince myself that it was unlikely he was still alive.”

  “How awful.”

  “Strangely enough, it was easier to think that way because I couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which he might be alive and not write to us. It was easier to consider that he had died some years ago than to think of him spending all this time imprisoned somewhere.”

  “But why should he have been imprisoned?”

  “I don’t know. Explorers aren’t always popular in the countries they explore, are they? Perhaps he upset some of the native people.”

  A long-faced man with languid eyes and black whiskers joined us. “It’s Miss Green, isn’t it? From the Morning Express? I believe we recently met while reporting on the murder of Mr Forster.”

  “Yes, I remember. It’s Mr Blackstone, isn’t it?” I said. “Am I right in thinking that you write for The Times?”

  “That’s correct.” He glanced around the room. “Mr Gallo has done a grand job with this place, hasn’t he? I didn’t think the hotel would ever reopen.”

  “I suppose it simply needed the right person to purchase it,” I said.

  “I stayed here before the fire,” said Mrs Mortimer, “back when it was the Corinthian. It was once a marvellous place, but the atmosphere was never quite the same after it was rebuilt. It will be interesting to see what Mr Gallo manages to do with it.”

  “The chap knows what he’s doing,” said Mr Blackstone. “The Hotel Maganza in New York speaks for itself.”

  “Have you stayed there?” I asked.

  He nodded and sipped his drink.

  “When in New York, there can be no other place to stay!” added Mrs Mortimer with a self-satisfied laugh.

  The tinkle of a bell put an end to the conversation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I please have your attention?” requested Mr Gallo.

  By his side stood a fashionably dressed lady of around forty-five. She had auburn hair, which appeared to be artificially coloured, and wore a black gown made from fine silk. Her lips and face had been reddened with rouge.

  “Please allow me to introduce you to Mrs Mirabeau,” he continued. “She is the general manager here at the Hotel Tempesta, and this evening was all her idea. Mrs Mirabeau has enjoyed a long career within the hotel industry.”

  “Less of the long, thank you, Nathaniel,” she said with a good-humoured pout.

  “All right, then. A distinguished career in the hotel industry, having worked in Switzerland, France and the United States of America. Anything she doesn’t know about hotels isn’t worth knowing!”

  We all gave a polite laugh and Mrs Mirabeau smiled.

  “When Mrs Mirabeau first suggested this idea to me, I told her the fine ladies and gentlemen of Fleet Street would be far too busy to consider spending the night at my hotel. She convinced me otherwise, and here we all are.” He surveyed us with a broad smile. “Please join Mrs Mirabeau, Captain and me for the grand tour. I’ll try not to bore you too much, and I promise to provide more liquor at the end of it!”

  We followed Mr Gallo into the grand foyer, where he paused at the foot of the staircase.

  “Now, I know what you’re all thinking,” he said. “You’re wondering why anyone would want to buy this place. I can’t pretend that it’s had a great history.”

  “But it’s a beautiful hotel,” said a slick-haired man with a thin black moustache. “And you’ve done a splendid job with it.”

  “Everything I’ve done is merely superficial. But you’re right, it is a beautiful building and I’ve been on the lookout for a place like this for a long time. I remember hearing about the devastating fire, and we all wondered then whether the hotel would be salvageable. The Corinthian had quite a reputation back then, didn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, quite the reputation indeed,” replied the moustachioed man. “Members of various European royal families stayed here, as well as famous bankers and industrialists. Are you confident that you will be able to entice them back?”

  “I’ll do my best, Mr Hardy. As a writer for The Hotelier I’m sure you’ll have some first-rate ideas on how to pull it off. I’ll need all the tips I can get!”

  His comment was met with gentle laughter.

  “Surely not, Mr Gallo,” said Mr Blackstone. “You have more experience than anybody else. It’s as clear as day that if anyone can make this hotel a success, you can.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence,” replied the hotelier with a smile. “Let’s go and have a look around, shall we?”

  He led us around the hotel with great enthusiasm, pointing out his favourite paintings and elaborating on various items in the display cabinets. I couldn’t help warming to Mr Gallo, who had an effortless charm about him. He remembered every person’s name and had learned a little about each of our publications.

  “We were able to recover some of the items that weren’t destroyed in the fire and put them to good use. I’ve shipped over a few of my favourite items from the Maganza, too. There were a few pieces there that were no longer needed.”

  “How many bedchambers do you have here?” asked a young man with red hair and freckles.

  “Three hundred and eighteen, Mr White.”

  The young man wrote this down in his notebook.

  “Any other questions before we view the Palm Room?” asked Mrs Mirabeau.

  “Can Mr Gallo please tell us how he has succeeded so well in the hotel industry?” asked Mr White.

  “Succeeded?” Mr Gallo gave a laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve succeeded quite yet.”

  “I’d say that you have!” said Mr Hardy.

  “I suppose it depends on your definition of success. My story isn’t terribly interesting, really. I’m almost as European as you, because my father originally came from Italy. My mother was born in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and I grew up in a town called Lewistown in Mifflin County. You won’t have heard of it, I’m sure, but it’s a place that has undergone a great deal of change. We have the Pennsylvania Canal running through it, and the Pennsylvania Railroad arrived when I was still a boy.

  “After the war we had railroads linking us up with all sorts of places, and what with the coal and lumber industries – iron and limestone – all sorts of folk were busy coming and going. My father ran an inn and decided to add a few rooms to it so he could put more of the workers and travellers up. A few rooms turned into ten, then twenty and – well, you get the picture – he was running a few places after a while. We’re talking cheap rooms, of course. My father never would have run a place like this. But I helped him run those places, and when I got tired of Lewistown I moved to Philadelphia, and then to New York.”


  “You have quite a talent for running hotels,” said Mr Blackstone. The Times reporter seemed keen to compliment the hotelier at every opportunity.

  “I merely credit myself with having been in the right place at the right time, Mr Blackstone. It’s little more than luck. Come on, let me show you the Palm Room. I’m very excited about this room, as I know it’ll be my wife’s favourite. She and my daughters are in Paris right now. They’ve been spending a little time there while I’ve been overseeing things here. They’ll be arriving at Dover this Saturday, and I’m sure looking forward to seeing them.”

  Chapter 4

  The Palm Room was a large conservatory with a domed glass ceiling. The foggy evening ensured once again that there was nothing to see beyond the glass, but the arching green fronds of the palm trees were spectacularly lit by small electric lights.

  “What do you think of the fish?” asked Mr Gallo, striding over to a large glass tank supported by an elaborate wrought-iron frame. “Captain adores them.”

  The dog leaned up against the tank, standing on his hind legs and tapping the glass with his paw.

  “How marvellous,” said Mr Hardy, peering over at the darting, colourful fish. “Quite spellbinding, in fact.”

  “Try out one of these seats,” said Mr Gallo, gesturing toward the wicker chairs.

  Mr Hardy sat down. “Very agreeable indeed.”

  Mr Blackstone joined him, while Mr White scribbled in his notebook.

  “Simply remarkable,” whispered a large man standing next to me. He had heavy jowls and dark eyes, and was flamboyantly dressed in a red velvet jacket and a gold brocade waistcoat.

  “It’s all very impressive,” I said in return.

  “It must have cost a pretty penny,” he added, “and this is just one room! He must have spent a fortune on this place altogether.”

  An older gentleman with a walking stick overheard this last remark and stepped closer to us. “It will have cost him every penny he had, and the rest will have been loaned to him,” he said. “Let’s hope he makes his money back.”

  “Oh, I intend to earn every penny back and more, Mr Wentworth!” said Mr Gallo with a grin.

  The older man scowled, irritated that his comment had been overheard.

  “I’m sure you will, Nathaniel!” interjected the large, flamboyant man. “After all, you have this wonderful Palm Room. It will surely become the talk of the town!”

  Two waiters entered, bearing trays laden with glasses of champagne.

  “Enjoy a drink in here, everyone,” said Mr Gallo, “and then I’ll show you the suites upstairs.”

  I introduced myself to the interestingly attired man.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Green,” he replied. “I’m Mr Philip Somers of The City Journal.”

  “Do you know Mr Gallo well?” I asked, having noticed that he had addressed the hotelier by his forename.

  “Yes. I spent some time in New York writing for The Manhattan Review, and I met him while I was there. I’m delighted he’s finally come to London. I told him to many years ago, of course, and he has finally listened to me! He’ll tell you he was waiting for the right hotel to become available, but I can assure you that he was spending far too much time twiddling his thumbs.”

  “What of the curse, Mr Gallo?” called out a square-faced man with brown whiskers. He had hard, grey eyes, and he folded his arms defiantly as he waited for the hotelier’s reply.

  “I’ve been asked that one countless times, Mr Bolton,” replied Mr Gallo with a grin, “and I always reply with: ‘Curse? What curse?’” Light laughter followed. “Yes the place burned down,” he continued, “but I think the same has happened to a great many other buildings. And what happens then? They get rebuilt! It happens everywhere. Those fires we had in Chicago, Boston and Michigan… There were scores of buildings gone, and many homes and lives were lost. All that carnage makes a blaze in a hotel seem like nothing at all! I’ve never been in a fire myself, and neither have any of my hotels. Besides, I have great confidence in the new electric lighting we’re installing now. Hopefully there’ll be no need for gas or candles in this building at all before long, and that thought fills me with confidence.”

  “But what of the legacy of the fire?” asked Mr Bolton, his arms still resolutely folded. “People say there are ghosts in the hotel. Thirty-six people died, after all.”

  Mr Gallo nodded solemnly. “It was indeed a tragic event, but all I can say is that over the past six months I’ve spent more time in this place than anybody else. When I first set eyes on it, and it was sitting empty, I walked right in and took a look around. I can’t deny that it gave me a shiver or two, but empty buildings have that effect, don’t they? It was properly rebuilt after the fire, and I can assure you that I have seen nothing of a supernatural nature in this place whatsoever. Now, that’s probably to do with the fact that I don’t believe in the supernatural. It’s interesting, don’t you think, that the people who see ghosts are always the ones who believe in them in the first place? I think they’re just seeing what they want to see. Captain and I have walked around this building as the only living, breathing man and dog inside it, and we’ve heard and seen nothing that had us worried. And some say that animals are especially receptive to spirits.” He gave his dog an affectionate pat on the head.

  “I’ve never seen anything or anyone unnatural here either,” said Mrs Mirabeau.

  “Apart from me,” added Mr Gallo with a laugh.

  “Yes, Mr Gallo, I think it’s fairly safe to say that you haunt the place,” she replied with a smile.

  “I must say, though, that I’m not about to disregard the ghost stories,” continued the hotelier. “We should encourage them, in fact! I think a resident ghost or two is good for business. People want to come and see for themselves, don’t they? Nine times out of ten they won’t see anything, and for those who do, well, it’ll just be something in their minds that they wanted to happen. I’ll tell you what, why don’t we invent something for your readers right now, Mr Bolton?” He laughed. “Let’s come up with a headless lady in a grey dress and say that you all witnessed her in the Chinese Dining Room! She’d be like one of those ghosts that supposedly haunt British castles, carrying her head under her arm because she’s been beheaded by the king. I think that would be a great tale to tell. I’m relying on you all to come up with something entertaining for your readers; something that’ll encourage them to stay here. What do you say, Mr Bolton?”

  The square-faced man shrugged. “Can’t say that I go in for ghost stories myself.”

  “But you can’t deny the fact that they’re good for business, can you?” said the slick-haired Mr Hardy. “I think it makes perfect sense to spread rumours of strange hauntings.”

  “Rumour and gossip are powerful tools indeed,” said Mr Bolton. “What of Mr Thompson’s suicide, Mr Gallo?”

  “What of it, Mr Bolton?” replied the hotelier. His smile failed to reach as far as his eyes this time, and I suspected that he was growing tired of the square-faced man’s challenging questions. There was little doubt that Mr Bolton’s manner was deliberately confrontational.

  “Some say that his death was related to the curse.”

  “You claim not to be interested in ghost stories, yet you insist on asking about this nonsensical curse business.”

  “I’m asking on behalf of the readers of the South London Reporter.”

  “I see. Let me say this, then. There’s a well-established claim that Mr Thompson faced financial ruin, and for some people that seems like the end of the world. When everything you’ve worked so hard for goes wrong it feels like there’s nothing left for you. I feel great sympathy for the chap. After all, I know what it’s like to put so much into your work, sometimes at the expense of other responsibilities in life, such as spending time with your family. Work of this kind can take over your life, and failure often feels like the end of all your hopes and dreams.

  “I actually met the man a few times
. He was a rather dour fellow, and he took his work extremely seriously. I’m quite sure that his act of self-destruction was carried out during a moment of madness. Perhaps if someone had been able to talk him out of it he would have found the capacity to pick himself up, dust himself off and get back to it again. The same could surely be said for many suicides, couldn’t it? It usually occurs during a despondent moment all alone, when it feels like the world has come to an end. It’s terribly sad, and a dreadful waste of a life.”

  “I agree that it’s extremely tragic,” said Mr Blackstone. “He died in this very hotel, did he not?”

  “Yes, he hanged himself in the room that is now the Venetian Suite.”

  “Does the room have a strange feel to it now?” I asked.

  “No, why should it?” Mr Gallo replied. “It’s quite different these days.”

  “You’ve never seen him lurking around in there, then?” asked Mr Hardy.

  Mr Gallo laughed. “Of course not! We’re back to ghost stories again, are we?”

  “And the curse!” laughed Mrs Mirabeau.

  “Oh, and the curse!” echoed Mr Gallo. “This hotel is supposedly cursed because it once burned down in a fire and then the next fellow who bought it hanged himself here. A good many hotels have experienced similar events in their histories, and countless people have died in hotels. Perhaps none of you realise how common it is. It all has to be dealt with rather tactfully, of course. The undertakers usually bring a coffin shell up the back stairs and take the bodies out that way. It’s important that the other guests don’t experience any inconvenience or distress during their stay. We simply have to get on with things when the death of a guest occurs. It has to be business as usual.”

  I noticed the red-haired Mr White scribbling everything down enthusiastically in his notebook.

  “I appreciate that similar things have happened in other hotels,” ventured old Mr Wentworth, leaning wearily on his stick, “but this one seems to be talked about more than the others. Why do you think that is?”

  “Because it’s such a beautiful building,” replied Mr Gallo. “There’s something rather alluring about the combination of beauty and tragedy, isn’t there? Something seductive.” He gave a suggestive wink and Mrs Mirabeau giggled.