Winter at Death's Hotel by Kenneth Cameron Page B

bedroom and corraled Ethel. Ethel swore that the satchel had already been taken. “They grab the easy things first, the wretches! They hope I’ll take the heavy ones myself.”
    â€œIt’s quite all right, Ethel; don’t let them upset you.”
    â€œOne of them called me ‘honey.’”
    â€œWell, that’s probably a compliment, isn’t it?”
    She ran back to Arthur to tell him that the satchel was safe, but he was already fulminating about something else. “The tickets! What in hell has happened to the tickets! They’re not in that satchel, I hope. Dear God, if they’re in that satchel and it goes into the baggage car—no, not in the baggage car, I want the satchel with me!”
    He was carrying his overcoat on his arm; she lifted it and felt in the inside pocket. “There are the tickets, dear. Right where you put them.”
    â€œWell, thank God for small favors.” He kissed her. “You are a large favor. I shouldn’t get so exercised, should I.”
    â€œWell, you don’t want to risk apoplexy. Why don’t we go downstairs? Ethel will take care of everything.”
    â€œYou trust Ethel?”
    â€œEntirely.”
    â€œIf I had that damned valet, we wouldn’t be having all this trouble!”
    She led him toward the lift. It was her view that they weren’t having any trouble. On the other hand, to be fair, he was a public man with obligations for every minute of the next month, so he had every right to be nervous. She looked at her watch, a little thing pinned above her left breast. They had two whole hours before the train left.
    Arthur recoiled from the lift and trotted back toward the suite. “I’d best tell Ethel to hurry.”
    Downstairs, a number of parties were leaving, perhaps taking the same train, she thought. That would be an odd and fantastic thing, if they kept meeting the same people all across America. But how exciting it was going to be, even without anything fantastic! Cleveland, Ohio, sounded as romantic to her as Timbuktoo. What places she was about to see—and what remarkable people she would meet!
    â€œLeaving already, Mrs. Doyle? It seems unkind, that we should meet one day and part the next.” It was Mrs. Simmons’s nephew, Mr. Newcome. He looked extraordinarily slender and stylish and glossy, as if somebody had gone over him with a tool and burnished him.
    â€œPerhaps we shall meet in London,” she said.
    â€œPerhaps we shall.” It was idle chat, meaningless; they both knew it.
    Arthur came up then and she introduced them, and Newcome murmured something about “your wonderful books” (even though he didn’t say which ones), but Arthur was distracted because he had to wait behind several other people at Reception. He said, “Yes, yes,” a couple of times, and then excused himself and said rather loudly that he had to catch a train, and would anyone who was not on a schedule please stand aside?
    Nobody stood aside.
    â€œThis is infamous!”
    Newcome touched his arm and smiled. “Allow me.” He went behind Reception and through a door, appeared seconds later to wave Arthur to him. Louisa was left standing alone. She looked about, saw Ethel with the luggage, waved. Over the shoulder of one of the men waiting near Reception she saw part of a newspaper page, a small headline, “Has Jack the Ripper Come to New York?” That would be more about that poor woman, she thought. Did she have time to run to the newsstand? No, Arthur would be furious. Perhaps there would be newspapers on the train. Not that she deeply cared, surely not; she was leaving it behind; perhaps she would never hear of it again…
    Newcome came back and said, smiling down at Louisa, “One gets special privileges, being the nephew of the oldest resident. I’ve put your husband with the awful Carver.”
    â€œWho is that?”
    â€œThe manager—a