"The rest of what?"
"Jenny LaMarsh." Hank Lemnitzer sounded puzzled. "You hadn't forgotten?"
"No." O'Keefe had certainly not forgotten the witty and beautiful Vassar brunette who had so impressed him a month or two ago. But after yesterday's talk with Lemnitzer he had shelved thoughts of Jenny LaMarsh for the time being.
"Everything's fixed, Mr. O'Keefe. Jenny flies to New York tonight, she'll join you there tomorrow. We'll switch Dodo's Naples reservations to Jenny, then Dodo can fly here direct from New Orleans. Simple, eh?"
It was indeed simple. So simple, in fact, that O'Keefe could find no flaw in the plan. He wondered why he wanted to.
"You assure me positively that Miss Lash will get the part?"
"Mr. O'Keefe, I swear it on my mother's grave."
"Your mother isn't dead."
"Then my grandmother's." There was a pause, then, as if with sudden perception, Lemnitzer said, "If you're worried about telling Dodo, why don't I do it? You just go out for a couple of hours. I'll call her, fix everything. That way - no fuss, no farewells."
"Thank you. I'm quite capable of handling the matter personally."
"Suit yourself, Mr. O'Keefe. Just trying to help."
"Miss Lash will telegraph you the time of her arrival in Los Angeles.
You'll meet the flight?"
"Sure thing. It'll be great to see Dodo. Well, Mr. O'Keefe, have a swell time in Naples. I envy you having Jenny."
Without acknowledgment, O'Keefe hung up.
Dodo returned breathlessly, loaded with packages and followed by a grinning bellboy, similarly burdened.
"I have to go back, Curtie. There's more."
O'Keefe said gruffly, "You could have had all this delivered."
"Oh, this is more exciting! Like Christmas." She told the bellboy, "We're going to Naples. That's in Italy."
O'Keefe gave the bellboy a dollar and waited until he had gone.
Disentangling herself from packages, Dodo flung her arms impulsively around O'Keefe's neck. She kissed him on both cheeks. "Did you miss me?
Gee, Curtie, I'm happy!"
O'Keefe disengaged her arms gently. "Let's sit down. I want to tell you about some changes in plan. I also have some good news."
"We're going sooner!"
He shook his head. "It concerns you more than me. The fact is, my dear, you're being given a movie role. It's something I've been working on. I heard this morning it's all arranged."
He was aware of Dodo's innocent blue eyes regarding him.
"I'm assured it's a very good part; in fact, I insisted that it should be.
If things go well, as I expect them to, it could be the beginning of something very big for you." Curtis O'Keefe stopped, conscious of a hollowness to his own words.
Dodo said slowly, "I guess it means . . . I have to go away."
"Unfortunately, my dear, it does."
"Soon?"
"I'm afraid - tomorrow morning. You'll fly directly to Los Angeles. Hank Lemnitzer will meet you."
Dodo moved her head slowly in assent. The slim fingers of one hand went absently to her face, brushing back a strand of ash-blond hair. It was a simple movement yet, like so many of Dodo's, profoundly sensuous. Unreasonably, O'Keefe experienced a jealous twinge at the thought of Hank Lemnitzer with Dodo. Lemnitzer, who had managed the ground work for most of his employer's liaisons in the past, would never dare to trifle with a chosen favorite in advance. But afterward . . . Afterward was something else again. He thrust the thought away.
"I want you to know, my dear, that losing you is a great blow to me. But we have to think of your future."
"Curtie, it's all right." Dodo's eyes were still upon him. Despite their innocence, he had an absurd notion they had penetrated to the truth. "It's all right. You don't have to worry:"
"I'd hoped - about the movie role - you might be more pleased."
"I am, Curtie! Gee, I really am! I think it's swell the way you always do the sweetest things."
The reaction bolstered his own confidence. "It's really a tremendous opportunity. I'm sure you'll do well, and of course I shall follow your career closely." He resolved to concentrate his thoughts on Jenny LaMarsh.
"I guess . . ." There was the slightest catch in Dodo's voice. "I guess you'll go tonight. Before me."
Making an instantaneous decision, he answered, "No, I'll cancel my flight and leave tomorrow morning. Tonight will be a special evening for us both."
As Dodo looked up gratefully, the telephone rang. With a sense of relief for something else to do, he answered it.
"Mr. O'Keefe?" a pleasant woman's voice inquired.
"Yes.
"This is Christine Francis - Mr. Warren Trent's assistant. Mr. Trent wondered if it would be convenient for him to come to see you now."
O'Keefe glanced at his watch. It showed a few minutes before noon.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "I'll see Mr. Trent. Tell him to come."
Replacing the telephone, he smiled at Dodo "It seems, my dear, we each have something to celebrate - you a glittering future, and me - a new hotel."
8
An hour or so earlier Warren Trent sat brooding behind the closed double doors of his office in the executive suite. Several times already this morning he had reached out for the telephone with the intention of calling Curtis O'Keefe, accepting the latter's terms for take-over of the hotel. There no longer seemed any cause for delay. The Journeymen's Union had been the final hope of alternate financing. The brusque rejection from that source had crumbled Warren Trent's last resistance against absorption by the O'Keefe behemoth.
Yet on each occasion, after the initial motion of his hand, Warren Trent held back. He was like a prisoner, he mused, condemned to death at a specific hour but with the choice of suicide beforehand. He accepted the inevitable. He realized that he would end his own tenure because there was no alternative. Yet human nature urged him to cling to each remaining moment until all were gone and the need for decision ended.
He had been closest to capitulation when the arrival of Peter McDermott forestalled him. McDermott reported the decision of the Congress of American Dentistry to continue its convention, a fact which did not surprise Warren Trent since he had predicted it the day before. But now the entire affair seemed remote and unimportant. He was glad when McDermott left.
Afterward, for a while, he fell into a reverie, remembering past triumphs and the satisfactions they had brought. That had been the time - not so long ago, really - when his house was sought by the great and near-great-presidents, crowned heads, nobility, resplendent women and distinguished men, the nabobs of power and wealth, famous and infamous - all with one distinction: they commanded attention and received it. And where these elite led, others followed, until the St. Gregory was both a mecca and a machine for making gold.
When memories were all one had - or seemed likely to have - it was wise to savor them. Warren Trent hoped that for the hour or so which remained of his proprietorship he would be undisturbed.
The hope proved vain.
Christine Francis came in quietly, as usual sensing his mood. "Mr. Emile Dumaire would like to speak with you. I wouldn't have disturbed you, but he insisted it's urgent."
Trent grunted. The vultures were gathering, he thought. Though on second thoughts, perhaps the simile was hardly fair. A good deal of money from the Industrial Merchants Bank, of which Emile Dumaire was president, was tied up in the St. Gregory Hotel. It was also Industrial Merchants which, months earlier, had refused an extension of credit as well as a larger loan for refinancing. Well, Dumaire and his fellow directors had nothing to worry about now. With the impending deal their money would be forthcoming. Warren Trent supposed he should give that reassurance.
He reached for the telephone.
"No," Christine said. "Mr. Dumaire is here, waiting outside."
Warren Trent stopped, surprised. It was highly unusual for Emile Dumaire to leave the fastness of his bank to make a personal call on anyone.