Winter at Death's Hotel (4 page)

“You okay, Miz Doyle?” He had a hard voice and a manner she didn't like. Maybe it was the “okay,” a word neither she nor anybody she knew would use.

“I'm perfectly fine, thank you.”

“We don't want you suing the hotel.” He laughed. His
want
you
had come out as
wonchew
. “I'll tell Carver to see to that rug.”
Tuh
see
tuh
dat
rug.

She didn't know who Carver was, didn't care. “That's hardly necessary. It was my fault.”

Again, he laughed. “Accidents in the hotel're never the guest's fault. Ask any shyster.”

He swung around behind Reception and disappeared. She realized she was holding the pink
Police
Gazette
in her hand. Could he have read the name? It would hardly have mattered; he'd undoubtedly be the type who read such a rag and would recognize it by the color of the paper.

And what was a shyster? Something Jewish, from the sound of it.

She folded the newspaper and held it against her dress as she crossed the lobby to the lift. She was very formal with the boy who drove the lift up to her floor.

Arthur was exercising with his chest expander. It had handles and springs and was supposed to give him the chest of a circus strongman, but so far she hadn't noticed any change; not that she cared, as she liked Arthur exactly as he was.

“
Where
have you been?” he said as he pulled the handles apart as far as his arms could open. He was wearing trousers and a shirt, but no collar, and his braces were hanging down from his waist. He let the springs pull his hands back almost together and he exhaled.

“I was in the lobby, having a cup of tea.” She made herself sound very bright and happy.

“Oh, Louisa…” He pulled his hands wide apart again, and the springs twanged across his chest. He brought his hands back together. “…is that wise?”

“It seemed perfectly respectable to me. They offered me the tea; I didn't ask for it.” (That was not quite true; it was the elevator boy who had offered it, and she
had
asked.
Oh, well
.) “And toasted bread. I was the only one there.”

He pulled his expander apart again, was standing with his head thrown back and his large but soft chest thrown out. “I don't think…” The expander twanged as his hands almost hit each other in front of him. “…that we should risk doing the wrong thing until we know the local mores. ‘When in Rome…'”

“I've brought you a newspaper.”

He threw the expander in a tangle on the bed. “Why is it pink?” He took the newspaper from her.

“I've no idea.” She kissed his cheek. “I think it means to be rather daring.”

Arthur was frowning at the
Police
Gazette
and trying to get his wind back. “Where did you get such a thing?”

She knew that tone, so she lied. “I found it in the lobby.”

He stared at the front page, opened it to the second, stared at page two, then started to stare at page three and quickly closed it. “I'm shocked that they would allow such a thing in a hotel of this reputation. I shall have a word with Carver.” He balled the
Gazette
in both fists and rather ostentatiously pushed it into a wastebasket.

“Who is Carver?”

“The manager. His father built this place. It's all in the brochure.”

“Oh, please don't say anything to him, Arthur.”

“Why not?”

“Well—suppose it had been left by one of the boys. Or that house detective. We might get someone into trouble.”

“Serve them right.” He thrust his arms over his head and bent down to touch his toes, or almost so.

She sat on the bed and watched him. “Arthur.”

“Yes, my dove?”

“What does it mean when they say a woman has been ‘mutilated'? I know what the word means, of course, but only in a general way. This sounds to me like some sort of secret code—the kind of thing men say to each other when they don't want the rest of us to understand.”

“Where did you hear such a thing?”

“In that perfectly inoffensive paper you threw away. There's been a murder.”

“So I saw! Louisa, I forbid you to read such trash!”

“It was the only thing
to
read.”

“We have a perfectly good newspaper in the sitting room! The
New
York
Times
, quite a good newspaper, I believe.”

“But I wasn't in the sitting room.”

He stopped trying to touch his toes. “Louisa, you're being obdurate.”

“And you're making mountains out of molehills! All I asked was, what does ‘mutilated' mean!”

They looked at each other. Like any couple who mean to make it work, they feared each other's anger, she his more than the other way around—until, that is, she got really angry. He looked into her eyes, she into his. He broke the contact. “I suppose it means that some atrocity was committed on the victim's body. Such things can't be talked about in detail, dear.”

“Your Sherlock Holmes would talk about them.”

“Only with Watson, because he's a doctor, and a fictional invention shouldn't be taken as an example of how we're meant to behave. Please do let's drop the subject.”

He was standing now with his back to her, ready to start jumping up and down or something of the sort, but they could see each other's eyes in a mirror. She went to him and put her arms around him from behind. “I miss the children,” she said.

He put his hands over hers on his satisfyingly large abdomen. “So do I. But we're here, and we knew there'd be a separation, and we shall see them again in six weeks. Eh?”

“I know.” She kissed the back of his shirt. “I shall leave you to your muscles.”

“Don't be ironical, Louisa.”

She repaired her costume—meaning mostly that she struggled into a corset without anybody's help, felt quite righteous for having done so—and selected a hat.

“I'm going to buy something for the babies.” She was almost out the door when she said it.

“Don't leave the hotel, Louisa! Louisa—I forbid—”

Louisa went downstairs again, really to see whether nice people were using the lobby, as Arthur feared they wouldn't, but they were. Still, because she had another reason for going downstairs, she ascended a wide marble staircase to what was called the “mezzanine,” which seemed to be an extra floor that wasn't counted in the number of stories. (“Mezzo” meant half, like the singer, she thought, so perhaps a mezzanine was half a story.) The mezzanine had a number of things on it—the ballroom, some offices, an elaborate ladies' convenience with a separate room for dressing or simply resting—but what she particularly wanted to see was what was called The Arcade. It wasn't really an arcade, as for example the Burlington Arcade was, but it was like a little street of shops, quite tiny things, really, but with windows on the corridor as if it were a street. The shops were just opening. She bought a picture-book for the younger child, foolishly because she'd have another five weeks of America in which to buy gifts, and she bought two shirts for Arthur at a price she wouldn't dare tell him, but they would come out of her allowance, and anyway he'd be pleased because they were of excellent quality and came from something called Brooks Brothers, which sounded to her like Bond Street.

When she was done she went down to the lobby again and wandered among the tables and chairs, which were rather like the furniture in somebody's drawing room, if not in a style she'd care to have in a house, and she sat at an empty table and again ordered tea.

She was halfway through her first cup when a shrunken yet fat woman came hobbling toward her on two canes. The woman was old, her face doughy, her clothes expensive but far too young for her. Louisa thought,
Oh, don't come here
, but on the old woman came, even though half the tables were empty, until she was standing next to Louisa's chair, breathing like a blown horse.

“You're sitting at my table,” the old woman said. “You're the wife of Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Yes, I…” Louisa was flustered and embarrassed; she tried to get up, sending Arthur's shirts cascading to the floor, half angry because no one had told her it was the woman's table—whatever that meant.

“Don't get up, dear; I'll sit down. I hate to sit alone.” Her voice was very American, the consonants hard and the vowels nasal. The woman clattered her canes together in one hand and pulled a chair out. Louisa was already on her feet, so tried to help her. “I can manage alone, thanks very much; it's easier if I do for myself, you see?” The woman fell backward into a leather chair, her face red from the exertion, panting. She said, “I'm Mrs. Amos Simmons.”

Louisa murmured something apologetic, but it was ignored because a servant had put a dish of ice cream and a plate of biscuits in front of the old woman without, so far as Louisa could see, any order's having been placed. The old woman said, “I live here.” She started spooning up vanilla ice cream. “I've lived here since the New Britannic was built. In fact, I was here before it was finished. They were still painting the rooms on the second floor when I moved in. I was the first guest, and I've been here ever since. Mr. Simmons and I lived in Syracuse for years and years, I'd hate to tell you how many. He was in salt, that's why Syracuse. Why don't you sit down?”

The business about salt meant nothing to Louisa.

“Then we went into chemicals. Still in Syracuse. We made a pile of money and then my husband died and I came back home. Sit down, dear!”

Louisa picked up the shirts. “My husband will be wondering where I am. I didn't know that this is your table.”

“I've sat here every morning for ten years, so I've staked a claim, but I like company, if it's the right kind, if you know what I mean.” She grabbed Louisa's wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and pulled her down. “Now
sit
down
and tell me who you are.”

“Well, really…” Louisa wanted to be angry but found she was laughing. The old woman was like somebody out of Tocqueville or Vigne, whose books she'd read to prepare for America. She said, “You know who I am.”

“I know who you're the wife of but I don't know
you.
” She was spooning ice cream into her tiny mouth all the time she talked. “Have a chocolate cookie. But don't eat them all; they're my favorite.” She swallowed. “There's Henry Irving, the actor. He always bows.” And indeed Irving, heading for the front door, was bowing, then giving a smile to Louisa, who waved. “And there's that man who calls himself Buffalo Bill, which is about as asinine a name as I ever heard—like calling yourself Cow Willie. Oh! And
her
.”

Louisa turned her head to see.

“Don't look! Every day, she waves at me and I don't wave back and she goes right on! You see?”

Louisa saw an impressively buxom woman, corseted to within an inch of asphyxiation, who looked fairly harmless to her. Becoming aware that Louisa was looking at her, she cocked her head and smiled the sort of smile that shows interest but also restraint, and Louisa smiled back. “Who is she?”

Mrs. Simmons dropped her voice to a whisper. “That's
Marie
Corelli!
”

“Oh, my husband mentioned her. She's a novelist.”

“She's a Roman Catholic, is what she is, if you ask me!”

Louisa decided to be wicked. “Have you read her books?”

“Certainly not! I don't read fiction, anyway, except for dear Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Fiction is usually unpleasant. Life is unpleasant enough without reading about it. There's that nephew of mine. He thinks he's English.” To Louisa's surprise, she began to recite: “Little Boy Blue, Come blow your horn, The cow's in the meadow, The sheep's in the corn.” She put the empty spoon in her mouth, licked, and then began to scrape the inside of the glass for anything she'd missed. “Well, here you are, Alexander.”

“Indeed, Aunt.” A very handsome man removed his bowler and smiled at Louisa. He was wearing a very blue suit—hence the poetry, Louisa decided.

As soon as he had been pointed out, Louisa had looked at him and agreed about his seeming English—the clothes, maybe, and his thinness—but what really rang in her head was a word that hadn't been spoken—“safe.”
Safe!
What did that mean? What was a
safe
man? Especially such a good-looking one?

“This is Mrs. Arthur Conan Doyle, Alexander. Her husband writes. My nephew, Alexander Newcome. He was born here but he chooses to live in London, so he's got to be more English than the English.” She eyed him. “That suit's too tight.”

He smiled and bowed. “Mrs. Doyle. I am honored.”

“Alexander, I want you to take me to Macy's,” Mrs. Simmons said while he was still talking. “Mrs. Doyle, I'll say goodbye for now. They'll put all this on my bill. No, I insist; I'm sure I have lots more money than the wife of an author.” She laughed again. “Anyways, I ate all the ice cream. And the cookies.” She tried to struggle out of the chair and managed to do so only with the help of both Newcome and Louisa. Panting, she stood there and stared at the bronze doors. “Alexander, ring upstairs for my maid and tell her to bring me the winter cloak with the fur hood. I'm sure it's as cold as your stepmother's breath out there.”

Newcome smiled at Louisa over his aunt's head, making her his fellow-conspirator in tolerating the old woman. Again, he bowed, said, “Mrs. Doyle, I hope we meet again,” and he went off. She tried to say,
But
we're leaving soon
, but the old woman was rattling on about the house detective, whom she seemed to dislike as much as Marie Corelli. Louisa excused herself and hurried toward the lift.