'Well… well,' he murmured, feebly. 'I'll, uh, see you, then.'
He drove to the hotel, downcast, feeling that he had acted like a suspicious fool. He decided – half-decided – -to give her the satchel when she came that night. Why not? Either she was completely trustworthy or she was not to be trusted at all. If Tug's money could be trusted to her, then so could his own.
Or couldn't it? Why couldn't it be?
Frowning, he buttoned his uniform jacket, adjusted the wing tips of his shirt collar. Why? Well, there was one reason. One hideous, heart-wrenching reason. She might not be finished with Tug after the pay-off, nor he with her. She might be much more to Tug then she pretended to be. And if she was – well, she had pointed it out herself. A hundred and sixteen thousand dollars wouldn't last forever; it would be gone in a few years. But with two hundred and thirty-two thousand…
Furiously, Dusty pushed the terrible thought out of his mind. No! A thousand times no; she couldn't be Tug's woman. She was his. She liked to be, and she was. And just to prove it – to prove his complete faith in her – he would give her me satchel tonight.
Maybe. Probably. Surely. Unless he thought of some really good reason for not doing it.
He finished dressing and left the locker room. Tolliver, the superintendent of service, and Steelman, the manager, were waiting for him in the latter's office. Tolliver called to the two photographers in the reception room. They sauntered in and set up their equipment.
The first pose was of Dusty shaking hands with the manager, while Tolliver looked on beaming. Then he posed between the two men, each with a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he was photographed by himself, arms folded in the traditional manner of bellboys 'standing post.'
Repeatedly, he had to be reminded to smile. Toward the last, the photographers became quite sharp with him, and the two executives were showing signs of annoyance.
Dusty returned to the locker room for a brief, pre-work smoke. His lips twisted in silent mimicry, Lets see a smile Rhodes – a SMILE DAMMIT – don't you know how to smile? And scowling he hurled away the cigarette, and started up the steps. To hell with them. To hell with the hotel. She would take his dough out tonight with Tug's, and the sooner they fired him after that, the better. The money would be waiting for him when he got home in the morning – she and the money. And as soon as he figured out an angle on the old man, how to shake the old bastard without causing trouble…
That was the way it would be. It would – could – be that way if he was sure of her.
Preoccupied, now and then frowning unconsciously, he began the night's duties. A few minutes before midnight, he went behind the keyrack and manipulated a series of light switches.
'And just what,' said a chilly voice at his elbow, 'do you think you are doing?'
Dusty jumped, startled. It was Mr. Fillmore, the night clerk hired to replace Bascom. He had come from a smaller, second-rate hotel, and the Manton was a big step upward for him. Unsure of himself, fearful mat his authority might be infringed upon, he made a point of appearing the opposite? He knew his job, by golly. He was in charge here, not some smart-alecky bellboy.
'I asked you what you were doing,' he repeated. 'Who told you to fool around with those lights?'
Dusty explained curtly; he had taken an immediate dislike to the clerk. 'We always do this at midnight, dim the lobby and light up The-' –
'But it's not midnight yet. Won't be for five minutes. You put those lights, back on, understand? When I want them off, I'll tell you,'
'I've got a better idea than that,' said Dusty. 'Do it yourself.'
Turning on his, heel, he left the desk area. He kept his back turned as the clerk emerged from behind the key-rack and spoke to him sharply across the counter.
'We may as well get this clear right now, Rhodes. The hotel appreciates what you did, and they've shown that appreciation, but you're still a bellboy. While you're at work you have no more rights or privileges than any other bellboy. It – uh – it has to be that way, understand? I'm sure that Mr. Tolliver or Mr. Steelman will bear me out. I hope – I'm certain, of course – that it will never be necessary for me to report-' –
'Go ahead,' Dusty grunted, still not looking around. 'Go ahead and report me and see what they say.'
'Well, uh-' Fillmore cleared his throat-'well, now, I wouldn't want to do that. Not at all. Sure we're going to get along fine, now that this little misunderstanding is cleared up, and…'
He left the sentence unfinished, moving up the counter to the room-clerk section. He busied himself there, coldly furious, angry as only the self-fearful can be when character and circumstance conspire to make them ridiculous… He'd been in the right, hadn't he? But that smart-aleck – he'd acted snooty from the minute he stepped on the floor tonight – had gotten gay with him. Crowded him into saying things that he hadn't meant to say. Well, maybe, certainly, he couldn't do anything about this. He'd look foolish if he tried. But just wait! Something else would come up. He'd put that young punk in his place yet!
There was a squeal of brakes at the side entrance. Instantly, Fillmore arose from his stool, stood briskly alert as a woman got out of the cab and came through the double doors to the lobby. She ascended the three steps from the foyer, paused for a moment in the muted glow of one of the huge chandeliers. Fillmore gaped, his fearful fussy old heart missing a beat. He'd never seen a woman who looked like that. She was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at her. He hoped she didn't want a room. He'd have to turn her down, of course, a woman alone at this time of night, and he could see that she was a lady. As much a lady as she was beautiful.
Gratefully, he noted that the cab was waiting for her. (She didn't want a room, then.) Jealously, he watched as she started across the lobby and Rhodes stepped forward to meet her. Now there was presumption for you. There was sheer gall. Accosting a lady – asking if he could help her – instead of allowing her to proceed to the desk!
Fillmore's eyes glinted. He moved down the desk quickly, leaned over the counter.
'Yes, madam?' he called. 'Can I be of service to you?' Rhodes whirled around, frowning. That would show him, by golly! The lady looked momentarily surprised, then smiled at him warmly.
'Could you, please? I left a bag here recently when I checked out of the hotel. I see that your checkroom's closed, but I wonder if-'
'Certainly. The boy will get it for you.' Fillmore snapped his fingers. 'Front, boy! Get the lady's bag out of the checkroom.'
He slapped the key upon the counter. Rhodes snatched it up, tight-lipped, strode down the lobby and rounded the corner of the corridor to the checkroom window. The lady followed him after a gracious smile at Fillmore.
The clerk grinned to himself. He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his suit, silently crying down the small voice of his conscience. Petty? A show-off? Nonsense. This was a smart hotel – a real swell place. And its executives, and, by golly, he was an executive!, were supposed to conduct themselves accordingly. Maybe it wasn't absolutely necessary here at night, so much spit and polish, but he would never be criticized for it. It was a kind of bonus. He was giving more than was expected of him.
Fillmore's bony hands clenched and unclenched, exultantly. So perhaps' he couldn't complain about Rhodes… not unless he did something completely out of the way. But neither could Rhodes complain about him. He wouldn't get very far, by golly, if he tried. He could keep that smart-aleck on his toes all night long, make him toe the line. And Rhodes would have to take it or else. If he rebelled, refused to do as he was told –
Well, discipline, the chain of command, had to be maintained, didn't it? The' management would have to uphold a clerk against a bellboy. They, would have to do it or fire him, and how could you fire a man for being utterly correct? So…
'Fillmore glanced up at the lobby clock. He straightened his shoulders, and his. head reassumed its imperious tilt… Three minutes, no, now ft was four minutes. Four minutes to get a bag out of the checkroom, and he hadn't done it yet! Now that was fine service for.you. That was certainly a fine way to run a hotel.
He waited until the big hand of the clock jerked again, marking off another minute. Then, easing open the door of the desk area, he moved silently down the lobby. Perhaps, he thought, Rhodes was sneaking a. smoke, loitering along the baggage racks while the lady waited. Or perhaps… perhaps he was trying to pull something funny. Trying to flirt with her. He was a good-looking punk – too darned good-looking to be trustworthy! Probably had the idea that he could crook a finger at a woman, and she'd come a-running.
Fillmore paused at the corner of the areaway, straining his ears to listen. He could hear them – what sounded like an argument – but he couldn't hear what they were saying. The bellboy's voice was strained. The lady's was softly insistent, faintly wheedling.
