Hotel

Peter's eyebrows went up. "He has recovered."

"Not enough to leave the hotel, which is why we're dining here. If you work late, why not join us afterward?"

"If I can, I will." He indicated the closed double doors of the hotel proprietor's office. "Is W.T. available?"

"You can go in. I hope it isn't problems, though. He seems depressed this morning."

"I've some news may cheer him. The dentists just voted against canceling out." He said more soberly, "I suppose you saw the New York papers."

"Yes, I did. I'd say we got what we deserved."

He nodded agreement.

"I also saw the local papers," Christine said. "There's nothing new on that awful hit-and-run. I keep thinking about it."

Peter said sympathetically, "I have too." Once more the scene of three nights earlier - the roped-off, floodlighted road, with police searching grimly for clues - came sharply back into focus. He wondered if the police investigation would uncover the offending car and driver. Perhaps by now both were safely clear and past detection, though he hoped not. The thought of one crime was a reminder of another. He must remember to ask Ogilvie if there had been any developments overnight in the hotel robbery investigation. He was surprised, come to think of it, that he had not heard from the chief house officer before now.

With a final smile for Christine, he knocked at the door of Warren Trent's office and went in.

The news which Peter brought seemed to make little impression. The hotel proprietor nodded absently, as if reluctant to switch his thoughts from whatever private reverie he had been immersed in. He seemed about to speak - on another subject, Peter sensed - then, as abruptly, changed his mind. After only the briefest of conversation, Peter left.

Albert Wells had been right, Christine thought, in predicting Peter McDermott's invitation for tonight. She had a momentary regret at having arranged - deliberately - to be unavailable.

The exchange reminded her of the stratagem she had thought of yesterday to make the evening inexpensive for Albert Wells. She telephoned Max, head waiter of the main dining room.

"Max," Christine said, "your evening dinner prices are outrageous."

"I don't set them, Miss Francis. Sometimes I wish I did."

"You haven't been crowded lately?"

"Some nights," the head waiter replied, "I feel like I'm Livingstone waiting for Stanley. I'll tell you, Miss Francis, people are getting smarter. They know that hotels like this have one central kitchen, and whichever of our restaurants they eat in, they'll get the same kind of food, cooked the same way by the same chefs. So why not sit where prices are lower, even if the service isn't as fancy?"

"I've a friend," Christine said, "who likes dining-room service - an elderly gentleman named Mr. Wells. We'll be in for dinner tonight. I want you to make sure that his bin is light, though not so small that he'll notice. The difference you can put on my account."

The head waiter chuckled. "Say! You are the kind of girl I'd like to know myself."

She retorted, "With you I wouldn't do it, Max. Everybody knows you're one of the two wealthiest people in the hotel."

"Who's supposed to be the other?"

"Isn't it Herbie Chandler?"

"You do me no favor in linking my name with that one." "But you'll take care of Mr. Wells?"

"Miss Francis, when we present his bill he'll think he ate in the automat."

She hung up, laughing, aware that Max would handle the situation with tact and good sense.

With incredulous, seething anger, Peter McDermott read Ogilvie's memo, slowly, for the second time.

The memo had been waiting on his desk when he returned from the brief meeting with Warren Trent.

Dated and time-stamped last night, it had presumably been left in Ogilvie's office for collection with this morning's interoffice mail.

Equally clear was that both the timing and method of delivery were planned so that when he received the memo it would be impossible to take any action - at least for the time being - concerning its contents.

It read:

Mr. P. McDermott

Subject. Vacation

The undersigned begs to report I am taking four days leave commencing immediately. From the seven that is due, for personal urgent reasons.

W. Finegan, dep. chief house officer, is advised concerning robbery, steps taken, etc. etc. Also can act with all other matters.

Undersigned will return to duty Monday next.

Yours truly,

T. L. Ogilvie

Chief House Officer.

Peter remembered indignantly that it was less than twenty-four hours since Ogilvie conceded that a professional hotel thief was most likely operating within the St. Gregory. At the time, Peter had urged the house officer to move into the hotel for a few days, a suggestion the fat man had rejected. Even then, Ogilvie must have known of his intention to leave within a few hours, but had kept silent. Why? Obviously, because he realized Peter would object strongly, and he had no stomach for argument and perhaps delay.