The Last Express

by Baynard Kendrick

  “Certainly, Mr. Fralinger. Please go on. I’m a busy man!”

  “The clipping was sent to me by our society scout. Mr. Winslow will be in San Francisco for two weeks, according to the paper—er—which you read. He’s been out of this country for over twenty years, Mr. Bleucher. In Australia. If he can afford the Golden Regent in Frisco—”

  “I understood you to say he was in San Francisco, Mr. Fralinger.” Bleucher’s heavy eyebrows met in a V of disapproval. “Is that not so?”

  “Frisco is a nickname for San Francisco.”

  “Then please confine yourself to English, Mr. Fralinger. Is that quite understood?”

  “Quite. I felt that Mr. Winslow would like Doncaster House. I quoted him a rate on 1510—”

  “That I saw in your letter. Have you anything more?”

  “Nothing, sir. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Fralinger.” Bleucher watched the office door close behind his assistant before he turned to Mrs. Sands. “Sometimes, Mrs. Sands,” he told her, “I have the feeling that man is terribly dumb!”

  Mrs. Sands gave a weary sigh. “I have that feeling about so many people. I think you wanted to speak with me.”

  “About the preparation we are using to wash the carpets.” The manager consulted a leather-covered notebook on his desk. “It is most unsatisfactory to me, Mrs. Sands. The twelfth floor is a sight—spotty and dark and streaky.”

  “I’m glad you think so, too, Mr. Bleucher.” Mrs. Sands glanced eagerly toward the door. “I discontinued that preparation three days ago. What else, sir?”

  He leaned back in his chair, watching her under his heavy lids. Deep-lined from responsibility, his dark, stern face had moments when the lines became kindly. There were rarer moments, too, when the mask of sternness lifted to give a glimpse of hidden friendly humor.

  “You have a fault, Mrs. Colling-Sands. You worry too much. There is something troubling you now. It cannot be the bedspread spoiled in 712. Too many times you have seen that happen—too many times you have had to deal with maids like the one who caused 620 to complain. Some of the troubles of this hotel—just a few perhaps—you might leave to me,”

  She smiled at his keenness, but her gaze roved restlessly about the office before she replied. Its ordered simplicity gave her comfort, for she thrived under neatness and routine. The furniture was rich in fabric and polish, but the touch of Rudolph Bleucher was present, scorning vases, pictures or any unnecessary decoration.

  To her it exemplified Doncaster House, durable and secure, and that was the source of her worry. She knew how finely balanced, how delicately poised, was the life of every hotel. Let the most staid, the most conservative, be touched with scandal or horror—with suicide or death—and its good-will melted away.

  “There was something in that press notice about Dryden Winslow, Mr. Bleucher. I was wondering if you considered it when you signed the letter quoting him a special rate while in New York.”

  “I know his history well, Mrs. Sands. The failure of his brokerage concern was more than twenty-five years ago. He has made a fortune since then—a great fortune. He has children in this country whom he has never seen since they were one or two years old. That is what’s worrying you, isn’t it? Any publicity we may get can do us nothing but good—like the Golden Regent in San Francisco.” He gave a short, guttural laugh. “As I said, Mrs. Sands, you take my worries too.”

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t thinking of Dryden Winslow’s bankruptcy, Mr. Bleucher. Nor of his long separation from his motherless children. Those are personal and family matters. It was something more grave than that.”

  “In the notice of his arrival which I—which Fralinger showed me?”

  “Yes.” She placed a slender hand on the desk-top. “The notice says that Dryden Winslow is incurably ill. He has been given but a short time by the world’s greatest surgeons, Mr. Bleucher. He’s coming home to die!”

  Chapter Two: Pathos and Sympathy

  Doncaster House is famous for its duplex apartments. With the skill of an expert musician—Mr. Fralinger tuned his letters of solicitation to a note of exclusive refinement. The one to Dryden Winslow played a delicate symphony on the theme of spaciousness, service and the location on East 54th Street—adjacent to the city homes of America’s foremost financiers.

  Warily avoiding the commercial touch, he resorted to underwriting. The brochure of expensive engraving and printing enclosed with the letter carried the tale better than typewritten words. Professional models, always young and of proper allurement, posed at ease to show the comfort of furniture. They stood artistically arrayed on stairways leading to the balconies of cathedral-size rooms. Sunning themselves, at $5 per hour, they reclined in deck chairs on wind-swept terraces, photographed from every angle.

  “You forgot the bathrooms,” Mr. Fralinger told the advertising representative when the first batch of booklets arrived at the hotel. “You might have a couple of shots called ‘After the Shower.’ Our prospects would be interested in the decorative mermaids painted on the walls.”

  “Only the postal regulations stopped me,” the advertising genius admitted with a grin. “I’ve been striving for an impression.”

  “You’ve attained it,” said Fralinger. “If I was renting in Doncaster House I’d want my lease to guarantee a debutante in every duplex.”

  “Then you wouldn’t need me,” said the adman.

  Whatever the means of securing him, it threw the staff into pleasurable confusion the day Dryden Winslow’s telegram arrived. He wanted a duplex, and Bleucher with some misgiving assigned him 1510. It comprised a 40-foot living-room encompassed on three sides by a balcony. Opening from the balcony were two bedrooms, a dining-room, and a kitchenette. Outside the towering French windows, more than 20 feet high, was a flagstone terrace, delightful for enjoying cool breezes from the river on a summer’s night.

  Bleucher had not forgotten Mrs. Sands’s warning about the note on Dryden Winslow’s health, which later newspaper stories confirmed. The wealthy man, self-exiled for so many years to Australia, made no denial that his heart was seriously impaired—apt to end his life without notice, day or night.

  The single rental of 1510, a good stroke of business during the summer slackness, would hardly have swung the manager into knowingly inviting death into Doncaster House. Deeply sensitive to the pulse of both guests and help, he knew the inevitable upset when the undertaker called. Guests so inconsiderate as to die were smuggled downstairs via a service elevator, and always late at night. A death watch by the press was an event to view with abhorrence, and the press was interested in Dryden Winslow.

  There was more to Winslow’s telegram than the rental of a single suite. Bleucher, not trusting Fralinger’s interpretation, secured his spectacles and read it himself.

  “You see, Mr. Bleucher, it’s true.” The assistant manager complacently adjusted his stock. “Mr. Winslow wants six apartments—rented, you might say, from a single letter.”

  “I’ve been certain for some time you weren’t doing your best!” Bleucher adroitly punctured Fralinger’s bubble of self-esteem before he grunted and studied the message again. “Who are these people, Mr. Fralinger? I expect my assistant to be more helpful. Kindly give me the facts.”

  Fralinger consulted a list. Men such as Rudolph Bleucher ran successful hotels, but they did it at the expense of all who helped them. He regarded his superior with concealed disfavor, and there was irritation in his calm gray eyes as he answered.

  “Baxter Winslow is his son and Gertrude his daughter. They arrive today from Connecticut with their guardians, Miss Marcia Forrest and Miss Purcella Forrest—maiden aunts, I understand—”

  “I’ve seen them in the society news. The girl is engaged, isn’t she?” Bleucher tapped idly on the desk-top with a pencil point, already working out a problem of assigning suites.

  “Gertrude Winslow? To the Honorable Paul Holden, O.B.E.” Fralinger rolled the syllables from his tongue with ho
tel zest for savoring titles and orders. “Mr. Holden has also reserved a suite for today. In addition a niece and a nephew, Rose and Emmet Black, arrive from England this noon.”

  Bleucher turned from his desk and began placing small red-topped pins in a room chart which hung beside him. “Gertrude Winslow in 1610, Mr. Fralinger. Her brother in 1612, and their aunts in 1614. Rose and Emmett Black I will give 1616 and 1618, and—”

  “Three of those suites are occupied.”

  “By transients, whom a tactful assistant manager can move—to keep a party together at a higher rate. For Mr. Winslow, who desires quiet, I have already reserved 1510. Mr. Holden we will place in 1509, across the hall on the same floor.” He terminated the interview by rising and saying, “I expect you to give the details to Mrs. Colling-Sands.”

  To Mrs. Sands, at post in the lobby to greet an important party, the entrance of Marcia and Purcella Forrest marked an epoch. The housekeeper numbered among her friends the finest families of five countries. She had served tea at Doncaster House for a visiting duchess, and in one emergency had sat up all night putting cold compresses on the stately brow of an Indian potentate. Her bookshelves contained autographed first editions, tokens of appreciation from top names of the literary world.

  She had seen too much of surface refinement to use lightly the term patrician. Yet she bestowed it on the Forrest sisters without demur. They were a type seldom seen in any New York hotel—a trifle shy, unquestionably small-town New England, but gentle and assured with their own good breeding.

  Gertrude Winslow, a lithe, rounded girl, vivid as a Van Gogh, asked for their rooms at the desk. She was very much alive and laughed quickly, a habit which won Mrs. Sands. Baxter Winslow had much of the same quality in his grin—kidding those inclined to think life a serious thing—but he seldom threw back his head and actually gave way.

  Bleucher accused his housekeeper of being able to tell how many times people had been in a hotel by the way they entered the lobby. It was not quite true, but she did know instantly when guests were nervous or ill at ease. She accompanied the Forrest sisters upstairs with Tim Bolt the bell captain to relieve them of the embarrassment at entering their suite with a strange man.

  Everything had been checked two hours before. Fresh flowers were on the bedroom and sitting-room tables. The silk spreads were arranged to a nicety and the shades properly drawn to avoid glare upon entering and to enhance the cheerfulness of the room when they were raised.

  Assured the rooms were perfect, Mrs. Sands turned her attention to the guests and decided if she told about one, she described the other. Miss Marcia led the team; that is, she was usually just a shade ahead of her sister, whether it was in placing the twinkling pince-nez on her slightly snub nose or returning them to their case, to close it with a snap.

  Tim Bolt, grown grizzled in the service, grinned at her behind their backs as he placed the suitcases. Mrs. Sands knew he would have later remarks to make about chaperonage and the fact that the Forrest sisters were in no danger from him.

  “I’m Mrs. Colling-Sands,” she introduced herself when Tim had gone. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here—and please don’t hesitate to call on me if there’s anything you need.”

  They smiled almost in unison,’ expressing a dual appreciation of the flowers.

  “It’s just like home.” said Miss Marcia.

  “And the flowers look as though they came from our own garden,” said Miss Purcella.

  “We’ll enjoy it here, I know,” said Miss Marcia.

  “Indeed we shall,” echoed her sister.

  It was all most casual and friendly, and Mrs. Colling-Sands departed with a glow to pay her respects to Miss Winslow. Praise of flowers in the room was a short cut to her liking of guests. Yet on her way down the short foyer to the door she felt distinctly that the Forrest sisters were watching her departure with a question in their gaze.

  Outside, in the wide green-carpeted hall, she attempted to dismiss it, only to find that it grew stronger. Together they had turned and watched her leave as though drawn by a magnet, following her with unmoving glances until she closed the door behind her. The lack of reason made it more apparent. She had never seen them before and probably would see them only in the line of duty while they were at Doncaster House. Sisters as gentle as Marcia and Purcella did not carelessly stare.

  “Perhaps they are diffident about Dryden Winslow’s approaching death,” she thought and, still unsatisfied, knocked on Gertrude Winslow’s door.

  Gertrude was seated on the edge of her bed enjoying a cigarette. Mrs. Sands went through her introduction again.

  “Your aunts seem to like it here,” she told her.

  “They’re dears,” Gertrude said quickly, “and they like everything. They have really traveled a lot with Baxter and me since we were children, but every hotel they step into is a new adventure. I’ll bet they adored the flowers!”

  “They did,” Mrs. Sands admitted, smiling.

  Gertrude walked to the table and brought her soft cheeks close to the roses, inhaling their fragrance. “They’re terribly excited too,” she continued with heightened color. “We’re all excited. My father’s coming tomorrow, and I’ve never seen him. That is—to remember.” She stopped, fixing the housekeeper with candid hazel eyes. Then impulsively: “Won’t you have a cigarette and sit down a minute? I simply have to talk.”

  Mrs. Sands liked the girl on sight and broke a self-made rule of never becoming too friendly on short notice. She lighted the cigarette offered her and took a chair.

  Gertrude lay back on the bed, rumpling her curly hair and watching her visitor. Mrs. Colling-Sands, wise and composed, inspired a desire to confide.

  “Baxter—that’s my brother—and I have lived a strange life. My mother died when we were tiny children. I don’t remember her at all. My father’s been in Australia ever since.” She saw Mrs. Sands’s expression and hastened to add, “He’s been good to us though. Wonderfully good. We were raised by Aunt Marcia and Aunt Purcella. We’ve always had everything in the world we needed. He’s taken care of my cousins too—Emmett and Rose Black. They’re coming later this afternoon—but I suppose you know that Joo.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Sands nodded, not wishing to interrupt the girl’s eager defense of her father.

  “You’ll hear stories, Mrs. Sands. That’s why I’m telling you this—taking up your time.” She sat up on the edge of the bed and closed one small hand around the edge of the silken spread. “My father’s brokerage business failed before he left this country, but he paid back everything he could. He was under no obligation to do so. All my life I’ve wanted to see him, but he’s been just a shadow—just a faint figure in one or two snapshots taken in the bush of Australia.”

  Official rectitude deserted Mrs. Sands for a moment. She had known loneliness herself—loneliness for someone close as only a father or a husband can be.

  “But he’s coming back now,” she reminded Gertrude softly.

  “Yes.” The single word was hopeless. “He’s coming back to die. The best specialists in the world have given him only days or hours of life. I hope I won’t be disappointed. Almost I’d rather remember him as someone who ’d been good to me. Aunt Marcia can’t understand why at first I said I didn’t want to see him. Is it fair, Mrs. Sands, to come home to your children to die?”

  “Doctors have been wrong, child, many times,” said Mrs. Sands, not knowing how quickly death would strike at Dryden Winslow.

  Chapter Three: A most Desirable Guest

  The main dining-room of Doncaster House, with mural scenes of early New York, is more select than large. Its soft lights are carefully calculated to bring out the best points of make-up and modish attire.

  Mrs. Sands’s table was in a secluded corner of the room, but it really was a point of vantage. Apparently engrossed in her meal, she kept a watchful eye out for defects in food and service, no matter how slight. Bleucher dined in his own apartment, depending on Mr. Fralinger for much o
f the detail supervision. There were always many small but important things better noticed by a woman than a man.

  Mrs. Colling-Sands was responsible for the unique folding of napkins, although the compliments went to Hans, the maitre d’hotel. It was her suggestion that flowers be placed so as not to interfere with conversation. She also had a hand in the subdued lighting effects, ruthlessly fighting against the glaring chandeliers which, she insisted, made every woman feel a painted 60.

  On Friday evening she watched the Winslow family assemble at a round table prepared for them not far from her own. The Misses Forrest were dressed for evening with the severity of titled English women, but they drank their martinis with relish and smoked with the grace of habit.

  Emmett and Rose Black had arrived during the afternoon, somewhat after the Winslows. Mrs. Sands judged them to be almost the same age as their cousins. Emmett, quiet with Oxfordian reserve, sat at Gertrude’s right. He was a wavy-haired product of English education. The sparkle of good humor in his eyes belied his sober expression, as did his seriously uttered remarks which kept renewing Gertrude’s laughter.

  The appearance of the two automatically aroused a latent matchmaking instinct in Mrs. Sands. The idea collapsed when she recognized the impeccably groomed form of the Hon. Paul Holden, O.B.E., at Gertrude’s left.

  He was a well-known figure about New York, and Mrs. Sands recalled society rumors which foretold his pursuit of Gertrude’s hand. The notes covering his week-ends spent with the Forrests at their home in Greenwich were too numerous to ignore.

  She was never able to state accurately her reasons for disliking Paul Holden, except that he wore his title and his clothes with detestable self-assurance. His manners also annoyed her. They were too perfect. He divided his attention among the four women present, as one might slice a pie.

  Mr. Fralinger joined her shortly after the soup was served, and followed her glances toward the party.