The woman spat at Flora and at Jason. Then she ran from the room, muttering threats under her breath.
Flora flung herself on her pillows, crying with exhaustion and release from terror. Jason watched her cry for a few minutes. When she sat up, he said, “There may be some mention—you can’t tell—of Theo being here, anyway. You took him to the dining room, didn’t you? Of course. You’d better make up a good story to tell your husband.”
She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles and frowned in concentration. Then she brightened. “I know! I’ll tell him the actor husband of a friend stopped in to give me some messages from … let me see … Clara! He was on his way to join her in … where? Pittsburgh. Rehearsing, both of them, for a play. James doesn’t like stage people. That’s the truth, Mr. Garrity. I’ve talked about Clara to him; he never met her, though. I’ll write to Clara—”
“Oh, no you won’t! You’ll just be getting yourself into more complications and lies. Don’t write. Just tell him that simple story, then change the subject. As fast as you can, as if it isn’t important. And pray hard.”
She nodded solemnly. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am for what you’ve done, Mr. Garrity.”
His voice became cold. “I did it for the reputation of the hotel, and to save two innocent people from your accusations. Two innocent people, Mrs. Bristol. I bet you never gave a thought to the possibility that they might have gone to prison.”
She stared at him, blank-faced. Then she bowed her head. “No. I didn’t think.”
“You’d better start to think. I know it’ll be hard for you, Flora, but it’ll help you in the future.”
He left the room. He found Mrs. Gruber on the next floor and tried to smile at her cheerily. “It’s all settled, Annie.”
“Oh? She found her jewelry, then?”
“Not exactly. But she thinks she knows where she left it. In New York.”
The housekeeper regarded him shrewdly. “She does, eh? And her brother?”
Jason kept his face very straight. “He really is her brother, dear.”
“Hah!” Mrs. Gruber looked at him with a very slight smile. “Well, I guess you can call anyone your brother, can’t you? Says so in the Bible.”
Jason grinned. He patted her shoulder. “And I can call you sister, can’t I?” He held out his hand, and she shook it with a warmth that would have astonished her underlings. Then she sobered. “What about poor Hattie and Herman? They’ve already heard about the fuss.”
“They’ll get something extra in their pay envelopes on Friday.”
Mrs. Gruber inclined her head, satisfied. “Well, they do say that money heals all things. Better’n love anytime.” She paused. “You’re a good man, Mr. Garrity.” She left him abruptly.
Jason went to his office. He found Lionel waiting for him with a gleeful smile. “Jase, you’ve got trouble again.”
“Again? I’ve just gotten rid of one trouble. What’s it this time?”
Lionel spread eloquent hands. “Ordinarily, this would be my business. But you hired the man, he’s all yours.”
“Patterson? I thought everything was just peachy. We’re getting compliments from people who know good food. Our menu has even been noted in New York. What is the damned trouble anyway?”
“It’s a matter of béarnaise sause.”
Jason looked stupefied. “Béarnaise sauce? Are you serious?”
“Yes indeed. Very serious.” Lionel chuckled. “You see, it got spilled all over Horace, Patterson’s assistant. A whole big kettleful.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Medium, I’d say. His feelings are hurt worse, and the men are with him, to a man. Two of them took him to a doctor.”
“I don’t understand. How is it Patterson’s fault?”
“Well, it seems that Patterson thought the sauce was an insult to him, seeing it’s his recipe. He dumped the whole kettleful over Horace. Churlish, I think.” Lionel stood up, laughing. “I’ll send him in to you. The kitchen’s in an uproar. I’ll have to calm the men down. There are hints of lynching our Edmund. Worse still, of drawing and quartering him. Messy.”
Edmund Patterson entered the office like a stately African king, all black burnished skin and noble expression. Jason surveyed him in silence for a moment or two, then said, “All right. Sit down.”
Edmund obeyed, sitting stiffly in the chair, his lustrous eyes revealing cold affront.
“Why did you pour a boiling kettle of sauce over Horace, your assistant?”
“He committed a sacrilege, sir. Besides, it wasn’t hot; it was just warm in a large double boiler.”
“Sacrilege?”
“Yes. The béarnaise sauce, for which I am famous. I have a variation on it, my own. It was greatly admired and acclaimed in London, Paris, and New York. I taught it carefully to Horace. Then today he omitted the vital ingredient—white Graves. He now claims that ‘alcoholic beverages’ are against his religion and that his vicar exhorted him not to touch them even for cooking purposes. So he omitted the wine.” Edmund’s eyes dropped as at a blasphemy, and he shuddered visibly. “We have several orders for lobster dinners tonight, and for filet of sole, and more for steak. Yes, it is quite amusing for steak, though pale and made with a white wine. Many gentlemen relish it. Think if those dishes were served without my famous béarnaise! There would be a small riot.”
Jason bit his lips to keep from laughing.
“The orders, sir, for fish, have increased tremendously lately. The most expensive dishes, too. All because of my sauce, which is incomparable.”
He speaks, thought Jason, as if mentioning the Host. “Yes. I’ve tasted it myself.”
Edmund regarded him with suspicion. “And you found it good, sir?” The tone was condescending.
“Yes indeed.” Jason’s eyes were watering, and he wiped them. “Makes even filet of sole edible. In fact, I’d prefer the sauce without the fish.”
The stern black face relaxed. “Thank you, sir. It is a sauce for connoisseurs only.”
“And thank you, Edmund.” Jason appreciated the fact that chefs considered their art somewhat holy. He said, “I hope you have time to make more sauce.”
“Indeed, sir. If I am permitted back into that kitchen of … of barbarians, who seem somewhat annoyed at present.”
Jason recalled some phrases from an English guest. He said, “Edmund, it was hardly cricket to pour sauce over Horace. Not done, you know.”
“It is done regularly, sir, in England and France! No one dares to tamper with a head chef’s recipes! It is outrageous, unconscionable! Not to be countenanced for a moment!”
“I understand that. But, there are Horace’s feelings to consider.”
“Really, sir. Such a hullaballoo. A bit of butter and tarragon essence on his face and neck, and only what he deserved for his sacrilege. I talked with a policeman who was summoned by the ignorant wretches in the kitchen. Assault, they said. I explained to the policeman, who was quite understanding, though he did seem to have difficulty with his voice.”
“I can imagine,” said Jason.
“I will also pay for the physician who is seeing to Horace’s complaints, Mr. Garrity. Horace should be grateful.”
“I’m sure he will be—eventually,” said Jason.
“You seem to comprehend, yourself, sir.”
“Oh, I do, I do. Quite.”
“And I will recompense Horace for his inconvenience. I think twenty dollars should do it.”
“You’ll make him happy.”
Edmund was now prepared to be charitable. “It really is not his fault, Mr. Garrity. Where, in this town, could he have learned to cook? Such dishes as the others prepare! It is—pardon me—vomitous.”
Jason knew that since Edmund had arrived, diners came in droves, even on the railroad, and that Patrick had asked for the services of Edmund occasionally in the Inn-Tavern on special occasions, and that Mrs. Lindon had indeed called Edmund “incomparable.” It was rumored that she had tried to l
ure him away for her own table. He said, “Is there anyone in the kitchen you’d prefer to have instead of Horace, who may still feel indignant?”
Edmund hesitated, like a king considering the merits of a new courtier. Then he shook his head. “But I have a friend, a former assistant, in Delmonico’s, quite a talented white man, who yearns for the rural life, which is natural, I suppose, for a New Yorker born and bred. If you would care—”
“Another perfectionist like you, Edmund?”
“No, sir. But amenable and appreciative and eager to learn.”
“Well, write to him, and perhaps we’ll have peace in this establishment.” He added, “Better get back to the kitchen and that sacred sauce.”
Edmund rose. “Thank you, sir.”
“Wait a minute, Edmund. What are you doing about accommodations for your family when they arrive?”
Edmund looked down his nose in contempt. “I have studied the Negro families here, sir. Pure Ivory Coast. Not Bantus, and certainly not Zulus. One would not associate with them, except to employ them as servants.”
“I’m afraid you’re still very intolerant, Edmund.”
“One has to draw lines, sir, or life becomes intolerable.” He sighed. “If only my wife … But she has a very strong mind and is insistent on coming here, and when a woman is insistent, it is time to capitulate.”
“Women can be difficult, Edmund.”
Edmund sighed again.
“And you found no decent house for your family?”
“None to which I would bring them.”
Jason considered. “Well, Edmund, you are living in the hotel. There is a suite which doesn’t have a view of the mountains and the valley, but does look out on the gardens. Four somewhat modest rooms, but very comfortable. The only problem is your children. We don’t encourage children here, as you know.”
The stern thin face suddenly split in a wide smile. “Sir, my children are not American children. They are disciplined, respectful, do not speak unless spoken to, and never romp in the house. Very studious, even at their small ages. Are you offering me that suite, sir?”
“Yes.”
Edmund considered. “But only if you permit me to pay the regular rental.”
“Done.”
Jason stood up and offered his hand, which Edmund took with gratitude. “I suggest,” said Jason, “that if another … sacrilege happens in the kitchen, you consult me or Mr. Nolan, and not take action yourself.”
Edmund frowned. “But one needs discipline in the kitchens, sir.”
“One doesn’t need mayhem. We don’t do those things in America. The police frown on it.”
“Sad,” said Edmund. “A most unruly country, I am afraid.”
“Let us hope it will improve.” Jason thought of Holy Cross cemetery, and his face became harsh. He told Edmund of the vandalism, and Edmund listened in horror. “But you are a white man, sir!”
“Just try to persuade most people here of that, Edmund. Well, good luck.” He walked to the door with Edmund. Then he smiled. “I enjoy having you here. The only comic relief I have in my life is you and my little daughter, Nicole. Thank you.”
Edmund was not certain this was a compliment, but he bowed with ceremony and departed as if accompanied by a train of attendants.
Still smiling, Jason sat down at his desk and saw a pile of paper heaped with troubles on his desk. The life of a hotel manager was no paradise. He summoned his secretary.
Three days later he was forced to intervene between Mr. Bristol and Flora. Mr. Bristol was administering a beating to his wife, and her screams had aroused the whole hotel at midnight. Jason had been called, and found Mr. Bristol purple-faced with rage and full of blasphemies. He shouted at Jason, who had forced himself between the bruised and bleeding girl and her husband, “What would you do with a stupid careless cunt who lost her jewelry ‘somewhere’ in New York? Give her a medal, Garrity?”
“I’d remember she was young and careless. I’d behave as a gentleman, and get in touch with my insurance company. Look at the poor girl! On the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig. You ought to be ashamed. I must ask you to leave at once. We don’t stand for things like that here, Bristol. We detest wife-beaters. In fact,” said Jason, raising his fists, “I think I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine.”
Mr. Bristol stepped back. “You wouldn’t dare.” But he looked with apprehension at the big young Irishman.
“I would. I’m just aching to give you a beating. And the police, who’ve been called, would agree with me. Now, pack and get out. Both of you, if your wife can walk.” He looked at the sobbing girl. “Mrs. Bristol, I advise you to talk to a lawyer in New York. Immediately.”
The girl wept, “Yes, Mr. Garrity, I will! Right away! And I’ll get a divorce, too!”
Mr. Bristol had suddenly became a middle-aged man, rumpled and subdued. He bent over his wife. “Now, Flora, I’m sorry I lost my temper, even if you deserved it. Let me help you up, darling. And you can’t get a divorce in New York State, except for adultery, so be a good sensible girl.”
She flung off his hands. Her blackened eyes sparkled furiously. “What about Linnie Merrill? I know all about her!”
“Flora, dear.”
“Aw, shut up. You ain’t even good in bed, you dirty old man!”
Jason decided it was time to leave. The Bristols left within two hours, but to where, he did not know or care. The first train was at six in the morning.
At least, he said to himself, Bristol had not uncovered anything about “Theo.” Jason hoped that Flora would be prudent and get that threatened divorce quickly, before her husband discovered the naughty fact and denied her a settlement. She was really very beautiful. And she did have a gutter wisdom, under all that delicious flesh.
23
Old Bernard had once said, “When a politician, anxious for office, talks of ‘reforms,’ it’s time for citizens to inspect their guns. Something dirty is afoot, and dangerous.”
“Well,” young Jason had asked, “what politician would you trust, Da?”
“None, and that’s the truth. But I would be less suspicious of a man who talked of the ‘ancient verities,’ such as patriotism, honor, sobriety, hard work, respect for authority, constituted law, decency, manhood—if there’s any of that left in this country. But I would be afraid if a man were too pious; I’d investigate him, and that I would.” He had added, “And beware of the rich man who cries for the poor! He is a cannibal. Like the tearful walrus who ate all the trusting oysters in that book Alice in Wonderland.”
Bernard had puffed at his cheap cigar for a moment, then had said, “But the worst of all is the rich politician who ‘suffers’ for the common man. No, you can’t trust a politician. You can’t trust a government.”
“You don’t trust anyone, Da.”
“Sure, and that’s true. Humanity can’t be trusted, boyo.”
Jason was remembering that conversation of long ago. He was also reading the newspapers with some alarm. One prophesied, with enthusiasm, that Teddy Roosevelt would be elected president this autumn. Another acclaimed Woodrow Wilson. And a third declared that Mr. Taft was sure that he would be elected.
Jason felt impatience for all three candidates, but he feared Wilson, the professor with the grim pale face of fanaticism. Why the Democratic party, which had a reputation for common sense, had nominated such a man was bewildering. Unless … And Jason remembered Bernard’s belief that evil and invisible forces often were in command of governments, and politicians. Da certainly was convinced that the “powers of darkness” existed, but not the powers of light. And he, Jason, was becoming convinced of that also.
Jason had bought a few shares in the past year. He turned to the stockmarket report from Wall Street. The Dow Jones average was mysteriously “down,” except for the manufacturers of steel—and munitions. Jason focused sharply on the rise of Barbour-Bouchard, the great American munitions industrialist, who had interlocking European cartels and subsidiar
ies. They showed a heavy rise. Why? There was another small item that caught Jason’s eye. The munitions factories in Europe were extremely active just now. “Chimneys are smoking in every country,” said the report. Why?
Jason restlessly turned the pages of the newspapers. Hell! thought Jason. What can I, as a single individual, do to prevent calamity? Nothing. Taft is the safest man. He is not an imperialist, like Roosevelt. Nor a social fanatic like Wilson. I’ll vote for Taft. At least he has some reason in his rhetoric, some steadfastness.
But Jason had more immediate troubles, all baffling. Coal for the hotel furnaces was unaccountably delayed. It was August, and the furnaces would need fuel by the end of September, when the cool mountain days would arrive, and the cooler nights. Usually supplies were delivered no later than the early part of July; now there were only vague promises that “deliveries will be made in the near future.” Edmund Patterson was complaining that lately the gas stoves seemed unable to produce steady flame and often failed in the late afternoon. This complaint was not simply at Ipswich House. As Jason had noted earlier in the summer, it was reported from many of the larger Northern cities. State governments “explained” that “there seem to be some shortages.” The cause of this was unknown, and the shortages seemed confined to the large oil-, coal-, and gas-producing states. To add to the puzzle, the steel mills had suddenly become active again, but what they were producing was not explained. It was all very vague, but Jason’s uneasiness was growing.
There was nothing vague about the reports concerning the new hotel. Delays in the deliveries of bricks, mortar, wood, stone, marble, and equipment had been lengthening over the past months. Angry calls to contractors either brought no replies or weak apologies that they had been too optimistic concerning dates of delivery, but “hoped” to have the situation resolved very shortly. “What the hell?” Patrick had asked. “This never happened before. Is everybody becoming too lazy to work?”
That spring there had been the mysterious “shortage” of sugar and wheat, “due to unseasonable frosts,” said the newspapers. Dark sugar appeared in the markets, full of impurities, and dark flour, which customers did not like. The newspapers appeared equally baffled and annoyed. Odd to say, Mr. Roosevelt, usually the first to explode during national events which did not please him, was silent. The cost of living began to rise, and, as was customary, the poor and the low-paid working class suffered.
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