McGrave's Hotel by Steve Bryant Page A

Night
     
     
    The phone erupted in a loud shrill ring, startling James out of his dark reverie. If he resigned from McGrave’s, where would he live? He considered lingering with his own inner monologue and ignoring the device’s cry, but that would have been rude to the ladies at the telephone switchboards.
    It was Miss Frobish. “Hello, James,” she said. “It’s Mr. Nash calling. I’ll connect you.”
    “My goodness, Jim, boy,” Mr. Nash said over the line. “What are you doing in your room? I’ve been checking everywhere. Are you feeling well?”
    For a lost half hour, James had been concocting a speech about how fellows couldn’t be expected to represent a world-class hotel when little girls didn’t address them respectfully, and he had barely begun to convey his displeasure when Mr. Nash cut in again.
    “Never mind that,” he said. “We seem to have a bit of a problem in 3913. Mr. Lesley’s suite. Guests have been reporting screams. I could send one of the other lads up, but I trust you are more familiar with the situation.”
    Reluctantly, because a damsel in distress outranked a boy’s being flabbergasted by first love, James returned to the fold and commandeered the first available elevator. Why, he wondered during the elevator’s ascent, couldn’t a fellow be left alone with his own problems? When the doors finally opened on the thirty-ninth floor, he could hear the girl’s scream from all the way down the hall.
    “No!”
    Several guests were peeking out their doors as James strode down the hall to address the situation.
    With his hand closed into a fist, he gave door 3913 three sharp raps.
    Whatever was going on within suddenly stopped.
    “Yessss?” came Victor Lesley’s voice.
    The actor bristled as James marched in, while Miss Fields at the same time looked as if the cavalry had ridden to the rescue, its bugle announcing a full-out charge. A pair of scripts lay open on the coffee table.
    “I am taking my leave,” she said. “Good- bye , Mr. Lesley.”
    Then to James: “This old fool tried to kiss me. He should be ashamed of himself.”
    James looked askance at Mr. Lesley.
    “A total misunderstanding,” the actor said. “Dracula is supposed to bite Lucy’s throat. The kiss was an interpretation. Poetic license. It’s called acting.”
    He peered up at the posters, as if expecting confirmation from his fellow actors.
    But Dixie Ann Fields was already out the door, thank you very much.
    Mr. Lesley scurried after.
    “Thank you, Miss Fields,” he shouted. “We’ll be in touch.”
    The folks still curious in the hallway looked on in astonishment. It was like watching a show with a Broadway star—for free.
    “Just as well, Ace,” the actor said to James as he returned to the room. “The next one is due any minute. Well, off you go. Off you go. I shouldn’t need your services anymore tonight. Privacy is the watchword.”
    Victor Lesley, admiring himself in the mirror, reached up with both hands and seemed to give his hair a corrective wrench.
    Rolling his eyes as he passed through the door, James left the actor to his devices. He hoped that would be the end to the disturbances.
    He also hoped to be in time to warn the next young lady that a private session with Mr. Lesley might not be the best career move. Alas, when the doors opened on the Grand Lobby level, there stood Roderick with a lady who looked even younger than Miss Fields. She had blue eyes and a wholesome fresh-off-the-farm look, like Daisy Mae in that new Li’l Abner comic strip.
    Roderick glared, as though James might be offending his guest.
    “Roderick,” James blurted. “Who is this? Where are you taking her?”
    This outburst astonished even Roderick.
    “Sorry, sport,” he said. “Not that it’s any of your business, but this is Miss Pepper O’Toole, Broadway’s next big discovery. Her name will soon be up in lights. Miss O’Toole, this … is James.”
    “Delighted,” she said. “Gosh, you’re a