So! Mr. Wenton had waited, coiled so to speak, at his table in the dim bar. He had plotted quickly and rather grandly: He would wait until they came in, chose a table, ordered, and then he would strike. Mr. Wenton’s scheme had been almost perfect. He had planned to go to their table and say simply, but elegantly, “Miss Street, you know that employees of your—um—echelon are not allowed to mingle with the guests or to frequent the public rooms of the hotel. For that reason I must ask you to leave now—and for good.” And then, with a shimmer of satin, he would have marched out of the bar in an aura of scent and wounded grandeur.
But Mr. Wenton’s scheme was stillborn, for Purcell and Mary Street did not come into the bar. Instead, they had walked quickly to the elevator. Aghast, Mr. Wenton watched the doors slide closed, watched the indicator move gradually to Seven, stop, and then move back down to Lobby.
Mr. Wenton had trembled so that he was unable to sign the bar check. Pummeled by a dozen conflicting emotions, his first instinct had been to reach for the telephone, call 711 and fire them both. Then he had thought better of it, got to his feet and made his way unsteadily out of the bar, too stunned even to say “Good evening” to Countess Alexandroff, to the McCannons or the Westburys.
Mr. Wenton’s petit-point slippers had been sibilant on the fire stairs as he tiptoed upward, past the mezzanine floor, past the darkened offices on One. He had gone steadily up, up, up, his knees quivering, until he arrived outside Purcell’s door. There he had paused, straining to hear above the thunder of his beating heart. They had been in there, together. Mr. Wenton could see the crack of light beneath Purcell’s door, hear their murmurs, their quiet laughter. Then the light went out and Mr. Wenton heard no more.
Yes, it had been a bad night, a restless night, a vicious night, but now Mr. Wenton had everything fairly well planned. By Christmas Mary Street would be gone and Purcell would be glad she had or his name wasn’t Justus Arthur Wenton.
Bathed, shaved and scented, Mr. Wenton began his day at seven-thirty. Picking up the telephone, he spoke smoothly, politely to the astonished operator, putting his plans to work. “Please ask Mr. Purcell to be on duty early. This is a big day. Tell him that I want to see him. And please ask Miss Street to come up here the moment she arrives. No dawdling. And now may I have Room Service?”
Mr. Wenton ordered and ate a vast breakfast—Spanish melon, two baked eggs, sausages, croissants, guava jelly and the Epicure Blend of coffee. He timed Room Service—thirteen minutes. Ernie would have delivered the order in eleven. Briefly he regretted firing Ernie, but Right was Right. He ate the entire meal, vomited, took two tranquilizers and sat staring down at the teeming mass of cars and taxicabs oozing up the hotel’s driveway. That was a terrible, terrible thing that had happened with that hateful little strumpet Mary Street, and Mr. Purcell—his Dave. But Mr. Wenton felt reasonably sure that his plan would work without a hitch. He thanked God that all this was happening on the busiest week of the hotel year. The pressures of business would make it even easier.
Yes, Mr. Wenton felt confident that this crisis could be surmounted. Gathering his Japanese dressing gown about him, he stretched out on the chaise longue to think about Mr. Cantrill and to wait for Mr. Purcell.
818
Mr. Mather lay in bed, smoking contentedly and trying once again to compose a letter to his wife on the tablet of his mind.
“My dear ah-Violet,” it began. “This ah-letter will come as something of a ah-surprise—possibly ah-even a shock—to you. So I ah-hope that you will sit down ah-quietly and think about the ah-problem at hand rather than ah-clothes or your ah-guru or ah-Violetta’s recital. The fact of the ah-matter is, I want to be ah-Free.”
Free. What a beautiful four-letter word! To be forever free from Violet’s tongue.
Violet Peabody Mc.C. Mather was both a little deaf and a woman to whom communication was the highest good. Her volubility enmeshed the unwary listener in gusty spirals of sound, locked him to her, transfixed him with an inept phrase, wound gauzy tentacles of syllables around him.
Will was a good listener. That was what had attracted her to him in the first place. Violet could talk unflaggingly under almost any circumstances, but for the satisfaction concomitant with doing her best, Violet liked soft, running murmurs of assent, a receptive expression, little affirmative nods, brief rippling ejaculations of concurrence.
“Um-m-mmmm. Who would have thought. . . But naturally! I should think so. Well, for. . . Really! No! Did you ever! Um-m-m-mmmmm. U-mmmmm. But, of course I mean, after all. . .”
Violet enjoyed the little refinements of conversation but she did not really need them; gold is where you find it. Violet talked back to radio announcers, liked reading aloud and the society of children under two; as chairman, took and kept the floor at meetings of the Bhagavadgita Guild and held long, mysterious conversations with Geneva the cook, Mr. Duffy her Irish terrier, and even with Hamburger the cow and Bulbul the goat. To be free of Violet’s incessant monologues about her clothes, her guru, her family, her hairdresser. To be free to fly to the moon with his own adorable Millie. To be free!
“I hope you will ah-believe me when I tell you that I have ah-never once ah-deceived you in the twenty-five years of our marriage,” Mr. Mather went on with his free composition. “Nor did I come to Florida with any such ah-aberrations in mind. It is simply that I have met another woman and I am ah-hopelessly in love with her.”
Another woman indeed. Mrs. Dukemer was as perfect as a circle. Degno amore. She would take him young or old, rich or poor.
“I have ah-no wish to hurt you, Violet, If any ah-affection remained on ah-either side of our ah-marriage I would make every ah-effort towards a ah-reconciliation. I trust that no ah-obstacle of old affection will stand in the way of a ah-rapid divorce.”
Mr. Mather wondered now if any affection ever had existed between Violet and himself. He tried to recall the last time he had gone to her room, been locked in her rigid embrace. Certainly not for fifteen, sixteen—nearly seventeen years. Violet even drew a certain amount of pleasure from announcing to large groups that she and he were not fond of one another—just married.
“As the ah-wronged party, Violet, you will be entitled to whatever financial ah-considerations you feel are ah-fair . . .”
Violet was greedy at best, combing the Boston Herald for bargains in nylons and cleansing cream, snapping up seconds in sheets and bath towels at Filene’s, buying case lots of soap and toilet paper and tuna fish if a penny could be saved. Violet was tyrannical with the green grocer, haggling over every brussel sprout, each pea in each can. Litigious by nature, Violet had kept alive voluminous and vituperative correspondence with the laundry, with Accounts Receivable at Bonwit-Teller-Boston, with the circulation department of the National Geographic. Wronged, Violet would bleed him for every cent he owned. The house in Waltham, the place at the Cape, every stick of furniture, be it Mather or Peabody, would become Violet’s. She would snatch his every stock and bond, tie up his trust fund, put a lien on the Mather Block, place his shirts and suits and shoes under lock and key. He’d be lucky if he got away with the fillings in his teeth—damned lucky and grateful. If Millie would have him he’d be willing to work as a dishwasher; probably have to.
“All I ask, Violet, is that our marriage be ah-dissolved as quickly and quietly as possible. I am sorry to have to write this letter and I ah-feel sure that neither of us expected our ah-marriage to ah . . .”
Mr. Mather allowed his imaginary letter to dwindle away, unended. He thought tenderly once again of Mrs. Dukemer. In twenty-four hours she would give him her answer.
Executive Suite
“That you, Dave?” J. Arthurs voice fluted cheerily over the transom in response to Purcell’s knock. “Come in, dear boy. The door’s always open to you.”
Purcell pushed the door open and stood looking at the old bag of guts, curled up on the chaise longue like a malign Persian cat. “Good morning, sir,” Purcell said. “Well, I guess the season
’s open. Every nook and cranny sold out.”
“That’s right, Dave. Just like the old days. And I have you to thank for a great deal of it. Just look at those cars out there. The whole boulevard stopped dead on account of our traffic. And I hear that the lobby’s a perfect madhouse.”
“It wouldn’t be if I were down at the Desk,” Purcell said pointedly. “All the reservations are in order and it only takes a little—”
“I know, dear boy, I know. But why waste a young man of your talent, your charm, your intelligence, down at the Desk?”
“Well, that’s what I always thought you were paying me to—”
“Nonsense, Dave, nonsense. I’ll admit that you’ve brought an efficiency to this hotel that it’s never had before. But that’s only being half a great hotelier.”
“I don’t—”
“No, dear boy, you’ve served your apprenticeship as a mere mechanic. Served it well. Now what I want you to master is the other half of the hotel business. Look at César Ritz. Look at—”
“Just what do you mean?”
“Very simple, Dave. The point is this: You’re an attractive, intelligent young man. Well set-up. Personable. Unmarried and, I feel sure, unattached. You’re the sort of person our guests would like to see more of, mix with, get to know socially.”
“I—”
“Oh, don’t chide me, Dave. I know that it’s all my fault. I realize that I’ve kept you too busy handling the details for you to get out and shine in public. But from now on things are going to be different, dear boy. Starting today—right now—you’re going to be seeing a lot more of our guests. It’s part of my new approach—The Personal Touch.”
“That’s fine. Just great. But don’t you think the guests would be more touched if they could have rooms and baths and get their luggage sorted out? They’re stampeding around in the lobby like—”
“Faugh! Let Daniels and the others see to those trivial details. Purely clerical. Right now, I have bigger plans for you.”
“Such as?”
“Such as planning the Christmas games with Mrs. Furman. She’s a dear little thing, to the manor born and all that, but a delicate Southern flower like our Mrs. Furman can’t really cope on a grand scale. She—”
“Furman and I are meeting in the Banquet Office at nine. We—”
“That’s just what I mean, Dave. Why have a couple of perfect gems like you and Mrs. Furman and then hide them away in a vault? Put on your bathing suits and hold your little conference out at the pool. Let the guests see what attractive people we have on hand to make their visits pleasant. You’re looking a little pale anyhow, sunshine would do wonders for you.”
“Well, I—”
“And speaking of jewels, I’m giving a small luncheon today, out by the edge of the pool. Just the Browne-Smythes, the Westburys, dear old Jane Tewksberry, and the Countess Alexandroff. I’d be most obliged if you’d squire the Countess for me—round out the table.”
“Who? Maggie Alexandroff?”
“The very one. Charming woman. Charming.” “Kind of a nymph isn’t she?”
“Affectionate, Dave. Affectionate to a fault perhaps. But charming. And with the De Burke Cabochon and all those millions she might. . .”
“Well, yes. I’d be very glad to have lunch with you. All in the line of duty, I suppose.”
“Just so, dear boy. Just so. Oh, and then the Westburys are having a big do in the DuBarry Suite this afternoon. Cocktails. I—um—more or less promised them that you and I would be there. Terrible shortage of desirable men in the hotel.”
If so, you’ve created it, Purcell thought. He said, “Well, yes, I could stop in for a drink if it would help them out.” He reached into his inside pocket, felt for the note he had scrawled hastily to Mary.
“I knew I could count on you, Dave. And if you could manage to be charming enough to Countess Alexandroff and possibly bring her to the Westburys’ party, I know that Mrs. Westbury would be most grateful. Well, you know what I mean. The Westburys are a lit-tle nouveau, although I always say ‘better nouveau than never.’ Heheheheheh!”
“Well, I’m not sure I can stay very late. I sort of have—”
“I knew I could count on you, dear boy. And don’t think I’m going to forget this. Now run along and get into your swimming suit. I want to look out of that window in half an hour’s time and see a stunning tableau vivant of you and Mrs. Furman at play. Excuse me, dear boy, I must dress.” He rose and padded softly toward his bedroom, allowing his robe to drop seductively over one mottled shoulder.
“Very well, sir,” Purcell said, edging toward Mary’s empty desk. “And I’ll see you at luncheon. Maybe even before. There’s something I want to take up with Miss Street.” With a flick of the hand he dropped the note on Mary’s covered typewriter.
Purcell’s gesture had been fast, but not fast enough for Mr. Wenton to miss seeing it reflected in the great gilded mirror that hung above his mantel.
“Certainly, Dave. You’re always welcome in this office. Now be off with you. And when you get out to the pool with Mrs. Furman, shine, boy. Shine!”
The door had hardly closed behind Purcell before Mr. Wenton was across the room. He snatched up the note, took it to his bedroom, locked the door and then, shivering with anticipation, sat down heavily to read it.
The note had been short but telling. It read:
DARLING, DARLING, DARLING—
This is it.
I love you more than anything else in the world. I’m not much good, but if you’ll only marry me I’ll try to be better. Please say Yes.
I love you,
DAVE
“Caught in the nick of time,” Mr. Wenton said. “In the very nick of time.”
Mr. Wenton was dressed and perfumed by the time Mary reached the Executive Suite.
“G-good morning,” she said a little breathlessly.
“Can’t you ever get any place on time?” the Old Man growled.
“On time? It isn’t even—”
“Well, no matter. Don’t sit down. Don’t even take your hat off. I have an errand you’ll have to do for me. Most important. The holly Mr. Pappadopolos got is all wrong. Dreadful, tatty, picked-over stuff. Wouldn’t hang it in a cat house, let alone the smartest hotel in Florida. Now I’ve located this, um, man does nothing but raise holly. Has a place up near Loxahatchee. You’re to take the Palm Beach bus up there and he’ll send in for you at the Greyhound depot. You can pick up a little lunch on the way. This man’s name is . . .”
Mary’s face fell. “Yes, Mr. Wenton. But I did have to see Mr. Purcell about something. I could—”
“Hah! A fat lot you’ll see of Purcell today. Just look at him out cavorting there at the pool. Fine figger of a man, I must say.”
Triumphantly Mr. Wenton snatched back the curtains and pointed. Mary gazed out over the lemon trees, the formal gardens, to the Trianon Club des Bains. Considering the early hour, there was quite a crowd at the pool. She recognized Mrs. Furman squealing and don’t-you-push-me-in-you-alling to T. J. Sturt, III, who was finally out of the pink Lastex girdle and into blue Lastex trunks. She could see that Mrs. Westbury and that obscene old Mrs. Tewksberry and a strange, ravishing blonde all making fools of themselves over David.
“Wh-y is he out at the pool?” Mary said in spite of trying not to say anything.
“I didn’t want to let him off the Desk, but Countess Alexandres insisted on it. My darling Maggie. She’s that radiant blonde who’s making such a play for our David. I told Maggie that I run a hotel and not a stud farm, heheheheh, but how could I refuse Maggie anything? The angel. You know she was the daughter of—”
“I know all about her,” Mary said.
“Well, from where I sit it looks as though she may be just plain Mrs. David Purcell,” Mr. Wenton said suavely. He paused, let it sink in and then went glibly on. “Just can’t seem to see enough of our David. Giving a big luncheon party for him today. Been asking me what she can buy him for Christmas.
Yes, it looks as though we might be losing our boy. I don’t know what it is he has, but young Purcell can just about take his pick. Women seem to flock to him like—” “I’d better be going, Mr. Wenton,” Mary said. “So you had. Ask the cashier to give you something out of petty cash.”
The Bus
Bouncing northward on the Palm Beach bus Mary couldn’t help feeling depressed. It was bad enough to have to work for a man like Mr. Wenton, but to have to go out to a place miles from nowhere with the incredible name of Holly-by-Golly and pick out Christmas decorations was just too much.
She tried not to think about David, practically naked himself and splashing around with a lot of spoiled, idle women, each so rich that she could just pick up the telephone and say “Send me a good-looking man. Something about six-one and exciting in bed. Do you have anything in medium dark?” What did they think David was, Room Service?
And that Countess was somebody David had never mentioned. Well, she wouldn’t think about it any more. Mr. Wenton was such a catty person—more like a mean, spiteful girl, really. Like Althea Schmidlap who’d sat next to her in algebra class. David loved her. Hadn’t he said so? Why would he lie to her? He hadn’t had to say anything. She hadn’t asked him. He’d volunteered the information. Just like that. No, Mr. Wenton was just trying to hurt her a little more. He was an old cat. A bitch! Mary blushed hotly. That was a word she’d never used in her whole life.
Clutching the slip with the address of Holly-by-Golly on it, Mary thought about Christmas. It was almost here and she considered again the blouse she’d sent Mother; the live baby alligator for her brother Bud, if Mother didn’t order the thing out of the house; the straw sandals for Dad to wear in his den. “If I had a million,” she told herself, “if I had a million I’d buy David one of those thin platinum watches with diamonds set in the chain so that they hardly look like anything. And a gold cigarette case and a new suit—not that he needs one. And I’d send him about five dozen American beauty roses and bake him the biggest devil’s food cake with caramel icing in the world.”
The Pink Hotel Page 19