Henry Osborne turned out to be tall and good-looking, with dark eyes and a mop of dark hair turning grey around the temples, and an easy, congenial manner. He had little to add to what Lieutenant O’Malley had told Abel. The Great Western Casualty Insurance Company had no intention of paying any part of the claim while the police were pressing for a charge of arson against Desmond Pacey, and until it was proved that Abel himself was in no way involved. Despite the blunt statement, Osborne seemed to be very understanding about the whole problem.
‘Has the Richmond Group enough money to rebuild the hotel?’ he asked.
‘Not a red cent,’ said Abel. ‘The rest of the group is mortgaged up to the hilt, and the bank is pressing me to sell.’
‘Why you?’ said Osborne.
Abel explained how he had come to own the group’s shares without actually owning the hotels.
‘Surely the bank can see for themselves how well you ran this hotel? Every businessman in Chicago knows that you were the first manager ever to make a profit for Davis Leroy. I realize the banks are going through hard times, but even they ought to know when to make an exception, especially when it’s in their own interest.’
‘Not this bank.’
‘Continental Trust?’ said Osborne. ‘I’ve always found old Curtis Fenton a bit starchy, but amenable enough.’
‘It’s not Continental any more. The hotels are now owned by a Boston outfit called Kane and Cabot.’
Henry Osborne went white and sank back in his chair.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Abel.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Have you had dealings with Kane and Cabot in the past?’
‘Off the record?’ said Henry Osborne.
‘Sure.’
‘Yes, my company came up against them once before, and we ended up losing every penny.’
‘How come?’
‘I can’t reveal the details. A messy business - let’s just say one of the directors took advantage of a carefully worded contract.’
‘Which one?’ asked Abel.
‘Which one have you been dealing with?’
‘William Kane.’
Osborne didn’t regain his colour. ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘He’s the world’s meanest son of a bitch. I could give you the lowdown on him, but it would have to be in the strictest confidence because he’s not a man to cross.’
‘I intend to cross him,’ said Abel, ‘so I may well be in touch. I have a score to settle with Mr Kane.’
‘Well, you can count on me to help in any way I can if William Kane is involved,’ said Osborne, rising from behind his desk, ‘but that must be strictly between us. And if the court finds that Desmond Pacey set fire to the Richmond and no one else was involved, the company will pay your claim in full the same day.’ He opened the door for Abel. ‘Then perhaps we can do some additional business with your other hotels.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Abel.
Abel walked back to the Stevens, to find another message awaiting him. A Mr David Maxton wondered if he was free to join him for lunch at one.
‘David Maxton,’ he said out loud, and the receptionist looked up. ‘Why do I know that name?’
‘He owns this hotel, Mr Rosnovski.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Please let Mr Maxton know that I shall be delighted to have lunch with him.’ Abel glanced at his watch. ‘And would you tell him that I may be a few minutes late?’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the receptionist.
Abel went up to his room and changed into a new white shirt, wondering what David Maxton could possibly want.
The dining room was already packed when he walked in. The headwaiter showed him to a private table in an alcove where the owner of the Stevens was sitting alone. He rose to greet his guest.
‘Abel Rosnovski, sir.’
‘Yes, I know you,’ said Maxton. ‘Or, to be more accurate, I know you by reputation. Do sit down, and let’s eat.’
Abel was compelled to admire the Stevens. The food and the service were every bit as good as the Plaza. If he was to run the best hotel in Chicago, this would be the one he’d be measured against.
The headwaiter reappeared with menus. Abel studied his carefully, politely declined a first course and selected the beef, the quickest way to tell if a restaurant is dealing with the right butcher. David Maxton did not look at his menu, but simply ordered the salmon.
‘You must be wondering why I invited you to join me for lunch, Mr Rosnovski,’ said Maxton.
‘I assumed,’ said Abel, laughing, ‘you were going to ask me to take over the Stevens.’
‘You’re absolutely right, Mr Rosnovski.’
Abel was speechless. It was Maxton’s turn to laugh. Even the arrival of the waiter wheeling a trolley of the finest beef did not help. The carver sharpened his knife. Maxton squeezed a slice of lemon over his salmon and continued.
‘My manager is due to retire in five months, after twenty-two years of loyal service, and the assistant manager will also be leaving soon afterwards, so I’m looking for a new broom.’
‘Place looks pretty clean to me,’ said Abel.
‘That doesn’t mean it can’t be improved, Mr Rosnovski. Never be satisfied with standing still,’ added Maxton. ‘I’ve been watching your activities carefully for the past two years. It wasn’t until you took the Richmond over that it could even be classified as a hotel. It was a huge motel before that. In another two or three years it would have been a rival to the Stevens if some idiot hadn’t burned the place down.’
‘Potatoes, sir?’
Abel looked up at an attractive junior waitress. She smiled at him.
‘No, thank you. Well, I’m very flattered, Mr Maxton, both by your comments and by the offer.’
‘I think you’d be happy here, Mr Rosnovski. The Stevens is a well-run hotel, and I would be willing to start you off at fifty dollars a week and two per cent of the profits. And you could begin as soon as it suited you.’
‘I’ll need a few days to think it over, Mr Maxton,’ said Abel, ‘although I confess I’m tempted. But I still have a few problems to deal with at the Richmond.’
‘Peas or cabbage, sir?’ The same waitress, the same smile.
The face looked familiar. Abel felt sure he had seen her somewhere before. Perhaps she had once worked at the Richmond.
‘Cabbage, please.’
He watched her walk away. There was definitely something familiar about her.
‘Why don’t you stay on at the hotel as my guest for a few days,’ Maxton said, ‘and see how we run the place? It may help you come to a decision.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Maxton. After only one day as a guest I knew how well the hotel is run. My problem is that I own the Richmond Group.’
David Maxton’s face registered surprise. ‘I had no idea,’ he said. ‘I assumed old Davis Leroy’s daughter would have inherited his stock.’
‘It’s a long story,’ said Abel, and he spent the next twenty minutes explaining to Maxton how he had come into the ownership of the group’s stock, and the position in which he now found himself. ‘What I really want to do is raise the two million dollars myself and build the group up into something worthwhile, so I could give the Stevens a good run for its money.’
‘I see,’ said Maxton as a waiter removed his empty plate.
A waitress arrived with their coffee. The same waitress. The same familiar look. It was beginning to bother Abel.
‘And you say Curtis Fenton of Continental Trust is looking for a buyer on your behalf?’
‘He has been for almost a month,’ said Abel. ‘In fact, I’ll know later this afternoon if they’ve had any success, but I’m not optimistic.’
‘Well, that’s all most interesting. I had no idea the Richmond Group was looking for a buyer. Will you please keep me informed either way?’
‘Certainly,’ said Abel.
‘How much time is the bank giving you to find the two million?’
‘Only
a few more days, so it shouldn’t be long before I can let you know my decision.’
‘Thank you,’ said Maxton, rising from his place. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Rosnovski. I’m sure I’d enjoy working with you.’ He shook Abel’s hand warmly.
The waitress smiled at Abel again as he passed her on his way out of the dining room. When he reached the headwaiter, he stopped and asked what her name was.
‘I’m sorry, sir, we’re not allowed to give the names of any of the staff to our customers - it’s strictly against company policy. If you have a complaint, perhaps you’d be kind enough to make it to me, sir.’
‘No complaint,’ said Abel. ‘On the contrary, an excellent lunch.’
With a job offer under his belt, Abel felt more confident about facing Curtis Fenton. He was certain the banker would not have found a buyer, but nonetheless he strolled over to the Continental Trust with a spring in his heels. He liked the idea of being the manager of the best hotel in Chicago. Perhaps he could turn it into the best hotel in America. As soon as he arrived at the bank he was ushered into Curtis Fenton’s office. The tall, thin banker - did he wear the same suit every day or did he have three identical ones? - offered Abel a seat, a large smile appearing across his usually solemn face.
‘Mr Rosnovski, how good to see you again. If you’d come this morning, I would have had no news for you, but only a few moments ago I received a call from an interested party.’
Abel’s heart leaped with surprise and pleasure. ‘Can you tell me who it is?’
‘I’m afraid not. The party concerned has given me strict instructions that he must remain anonymous, as the transaction would be a private investment which would be in potential conflict with his own business.’
‘David Maxton,’ Abel murmured. ‘God bless him.’
‘As I said, Mr Rosnovski, I’m not in a position—’
‘Quite, quite,’ mimicked Abel. ‘How long do you think it will be before you’re in a position to let me know the gentleman’s decision one way or the other?’
‘I may have more news for you by Monday,’ said Fenton, ‘so if you happen to be passing by—’
‘Happen to be passing by?’ said Abel. ‘You’re talking about my whole future.’
‘Then perhaps we should make a firm appointment for ten o’clock on Monday morning.’
Abel whistled ‘Stardust’ as he walked down Michigan Avenue on his way back to the Stevens. He took the elevator up to his room and called William Kane to ask for an extension until the following Monday, telling him he might have found a buyer. Kane agreed without comment.
‘You win either way, don’t you?’ Abel said as he put the receiver back on its cradle.
Abel sat on the bed, his fingers tapping the footboard, and wondered how he could pass the time until Monday. He wandered down into the hotel lobby. There she was again, the waitress who had served him at lunch, now on tea duty in the Tropical Garden. Abel’s curiosity got the better of him. He walked over and took a seat at the far end of the room.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like some tea?’ The same familiar smile again.
‘We know each other, don’t we?’
‘Yes, we do, Wladek.’
Abel cringed at the sound of the name, and reddened slightly, remembering how the short, fair hair had once been long and curly, and the lips so inviting. ‘Zaphia. We came to America together on the Black Arrow. Of course, you went to Chicago. What are you doing here?’
‘I work here, as you can see. Would you like some tea, sir?’ Her Polish accent warmed him.
‘Have dinner with me tonight.’
‘I can’t, Wladek. We’re not allowed to go out with the customers. If we do, we automatically lose our jobs.’
‘I’m not a customer,’ said Abel. ‘I’m an old friend.’
‘An old friend who was going to come and visit me in Chicago as soon as he had settled down in New York,’ said Zaphia. ‘And when he finally did come, he didn’t even remember I was here.’
‘I know, I know. Forgive me. Zaphia, please have dinner with me tonight. Just this once.’
‘Just this once,’ she repeated.
‘Meet me at Brundage’s at seven o’clock. Would that suit you?’
Zaphia flushed at the name. It was the classiest restaurant in town, and she would have been out of her depth there as a waitress, let alone as a customer.
‘No, let’s go somewhere less grand, Wladek.’
‘Where?’
‘Do you know the Sausage, on the corner of Forty-Third?’
‘No, but I’ll find it. Seven o’clock.’
‘Seven o’clock, Wladek. By the way, do you want any tea?’
‘No, I think I’ll skip it.’
She smiled and walked away. She was much prettier than he remembered. Perhaps killing time until Monday wasn’t going to be quite so difficult after all.
The Sausage brought back all of Abel’s worst memories of his first days in America. He sipped a cold ginger beer while he waited for Zaphia and watched with professional disapproval as the waiters went about their work. He was unable to decide which was worse - the service or the food.
Abel swivelled round and saw Zaphia standing in the doorway looking nervous and unsure. She was wearing a long yellow dress that looked as if it had recently been let down a few inches to conform to the latest fashion, but still revealed how shapely her figure was. She searched the tables for a moment, and her cheeks reddened as she became aware that the eyes of several men suggested that she wasn’t a customer but looking for a customer.
She walked quickly over to Abel. ‘Good evening, Wladek,’ she said in Polish as she took the seat beside him.
‘I’m so glad you could make it,’ Abel said in English.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she replied in English after a moment’s hesitation.
‘It’s not important. Would you like something to drink, Zaphia?’
‘Just a coke, please.’
Neither of them spoke for a moment, then they both started to talk at once.
‘I’d forgotten how pretty …’ said Abel.
‘How have you … ?’ said Zaphia.
She smiled shyly. Abel found himself wanting to touch her. He remembered experiencing the same feeling the first time he had seen her, more than eight years ago.
‘How’s George?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of years,’ admitted Abel, feeling guilty. ‘I’ve been working at a hotel here in Chicago, and then—’
‘I know,’ said Zaphia. ‘Somebody burned it down.’
‘Why didn’t you ever come over and say hello?’
‘I didn’t think you’d remember, Wladek. And I was right.’
‘How did you recognize me?’ said Abel. ‘I’ve put on so much weight.’
‘The silver band,’ she said simply.
Abel looked down at his wrist and laughed. ‘I already have a lot to thank this band for, and now I can add that it’s brought us together again.’
She avoided his eyes. ‘What are you doing now you no longer have a hotel to run?’
‘I’m looking for a job,’ said Abel, not wanting to intimidate her with the possibility that he might be her boss in a few weeks’ time.
‘There’s a big job coming up at the Stevens. My boyfriend told me.’
‘Your boyfriend?’ said Abel, repeating the unwelcome word.
‘Yes. The hotel will soon be looking for a new assistant manager. Why don’t you apply for it? I’m sure you’d have a good chance of getting it, Wladek. I always knew you would be a success in America.’
‘I might,’ Abel said. ‘It was kind of you to let me know. Will your boyfriend be applying?’
‘Oh, no, he’s far too junior to be considered - he’s only a waiter in the dining room.’
Abel smiled. ‘Shall we have dinner?’ he said.
‘I’m not used to eating out,’ Zaphia admitted, gazing helplessly at the
menu. Abel wondered if she still couldn’t read English, and ordered for both of them.
She ate everything put in front of her, and kept saying thank you, even when a waiter spilled gravy on her dress. Abel found her uncritical enthusiasm a tonic after Melanie’s bored sophistication. They exchanged stories of what had happened to them since they arrived in America. Zaphia had found a job in domestic service and progressed to being a waitress at the Stevens, where she had been working for the past six years. Abel continued to talk of his own experiences, until finally she glanced at her watch.
‘Look at the time, Wladek. It’s past eleven, and I’m on first breakfast call at six tomorrow.’
Abel had not noticed the hours slip by. He would happily have sat there talking to Zaphia for the rest of the night, soothed by her admiration, which she expressed so artlessly.
‘Can we see each other again, Zaphia?’ he asked as they walked back to the Stevens arm in arm.
‘If you’d like to, Wladek.’
They stopped at the servants’ entrance at the back of the hotel.
‘This is where I have to leave you,’ she said. ‘If you were to become the assistant manager, Wladek, you’d be allowed to go in by the front entrance.’
‘Would you mind calling me Abel?’ he asked her.
‘Abel?’ she said as if she were trying the name on like a new glove. ‘But your name is Wladek.’
‘It was, but it isn’t any longer. My name is Abel Rosnovski.’
‘Abel,’ she repeated, and seemed to hesitate. ‘I can’t remember if it was Abel who killed Cain, or Cain who killed Abel.’
Abel could remember.
‘Thank you for dinner. It was lovely to see you again. Good night … Abel.’
‘Good night, Zaphia,’ he said, and she was gone.
Abel walked slowly around the block and into the hotel by the front entrance.
He spent the weekend thinking about Zaphia and the memories associated with her - the stench of the steerage quarters, the confused queues of immigrants on Ellis Island and, above all, their brief but passionate encounter in the lifeboat. He began to take all his meals in the hotel dining room to be near her while keeping an eye on the boyfriend, who, he concluded, must be the young, pimply one. He thought he had pimples. He hoped he had pimples. Yes, he did have pimples. He was also, Abel had to admit the best looking of all the waiters, with or without pimples.