It showed two room-service charges – one for $1.50, the other for two dollars. In each case a two-dollar tip had been added and signed for.

“People who don’t intend to pay often write the biggest tips,” Jakubiec said. “Anyway, it’s one to check out.”

“Now,” he said, “what can I do?”

“We’ve hired a private duty nurse for 1410.” Briefly Christine reported the previous night’s crisis concerning Albert Wells. “I’m a little worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it,” she said, though she was more concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.

They crossed the lobby to the credit manager’s office. A dumpy brunette secretary was working inside.

“Madge,” Sam Jakubiec said, “see what we have on Wells, Albert.”

Without answering, she opened a drawer and flipped over cards. Pausing, she said in a single breath, “Albuquerque, Coon Rapids, Montreal, take your pick.”

“It’s Montreal,” Christine said, and Jakubiec took the card the secretary offered him. Scanning it, he observed, “He looks all right. Stayed with us six times. Paid cash. One small query, which seems to have been settled.”

“It was our fault.”

The credit man nodded. “I’d say there’s nothing to worry about.” He handed the card back to the secretary.

“I’ll look into it, though. If he has a cash problem, we could maybe help out, give him a little time to pay.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Back in her own office in the executive suite she decided first to complete the matter which had taken her downstairs. Lifting the telephone, she asked for room 1410.

“Mr. Wells passed a comfortable night,” the nurse informed her, “and his condition is improved.”

Wondering why some nurses felt they had to sound like official bulletins, Christine replied, “Please, tell Mr. Wells I called and that I’ll see him this afternoon.”

The inconclusive conference in the hotel owner’s suite left Peter McDermott in a mood of frustration. As he had on other occasions, he wished fervently that he could have six months and a free hand to manage the hotel himself.

Near the elevators he stopped to use a house phone, inquiring from Reception what accommodation had been reserved for Mr. Curtis O’Keefe’s party. There were two adjoining suites on the twelfth floor.

As he approached, he saw that all four doors to the suites were open and, from within, the whine of a vacuum cleaner was audible. Inside, two maids were working industriously under the critical eye of Mrs. Blanche du Quesnay, the St. Gregory’s sharp-tongued but highly competent housekeeper.

She turned as Peter came in, “I might have known that one of you men would be checking up to see if I’m capable of doing my own job.”

Peter grinned. “Relax, Mrs. Q. Mr. Trent asked me to drop in. If only he had known you were giving this your personal attention!” He then inquired, “Have flowers and a basket of fruit been ordered?”

“They’re on the way up. Have a look around. There’s no charge.”

Both suites, Peter saw as he walked through them, had been gone over thoroughly. The furnishings were dustless and orderly. In bedrooms and bathrooms the linen was spotless and correctly folded, hand basins and baths were dry and shining. Mirrors and windows gleamed. There was nothing else to be done, Peter thought, as he stood in the center of the second suite.

Then a thought struck him. Curtis O’Keefe was notably religious. The hotelier prayed frequently, sometimes in public. The thought prompted Peter to check the Gideon Bibles – one in each room.

He was glad he did.

As usually happened when they had been in use for any length of time, the Bibles’ front pages were dotted with call girls’ phone numbers, since a Gideon Bible – as experienced travelers knew – was the first place to seek that kind of information. Peter showed the books silently to Mrs. du Quesnay. “I’ll have new ones sent up. I suppose what Mr. O’Keefe likes or doesn’t is going to make a difference to people keeping their jobs around here.”

He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know, Mrs. Q. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Peter supposed that most of the younger and brighter staff members would have an opportunity to stay on. Older employees though had a good deal more to worry about.

As Peter McDermott approached the executive suite, the chief engineer, Doc Vickery, was leaving it. Stopping, Peter said, “Number four elevator was giving some trouble last night, chief. Is it really that bad?”

“If you mean shall we have a big accident, the answer’s no. But we’ve had small breakdowns and sometime there’ll be a bigger one.”