"You don't hafta worry," Ogilvie said. But Peter's instinct told him that for some reason the fat man was worried himself as he heaved his great body upward and lumbered out.
After a moment or two Peter followed, stopping only to give instructions about notifying the hotel's insurers of the robbery, along with the inventory of stolen items which Ogilvie had supplied.
Peter walked the short distance to Christine's office. He was disappointed to discover that she was not there. He would come back, he decided, immediately after lunch.
He descended to the lobby and strolled to the main dining room. As he entered he observed that today's luncheon business was brisk, reflecting the hotel's present high occupancy.
Peter nodded agreeably to Max, the head waiter, who hurried forward.
"Good day, Mr. McDermott. A table by yourself?"
"No, I'll join the penal colony." Peter seldom exercised his privilege, as assistant general manager, of occupying a table of his own in the dining room. Most days he preferred to join other executive staff members at the large circular table reserved for their use near the kitchen door.
The St. Gregory's controller, Royall Edwards, and Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, were already at lunch as Peter joined them. Doc Vickery, the chief engineer, who had arrived a few minutes earlier, was studying a menu. Slipping into the chair which Max held out, Peter inquired, "What looks good?"
"Try the watercress soup," Jakubiec advised between sips of his own.
"It's not like any mother made; it's a damn sight better."
Royall Edwards added in his precise accountant's voice, "The special today is fried chicken. We have that coming."
As the head waiter left, a young table waiter appeared swiftly beside them. Despite standing instructions to the contrary, the executives' self-styled penal colony invariably received the best service in the dining room. It was hard as Peter and others had discovered in the past - to persuade employees that the hotel's paying customers were more important than the executives who ran the hotel.
The chief engineer closed his menu, peering over his thick-rimmed spectacles which had slipped, as usual, to the tip of his nose. "The same'll do for me, sonny."
"I'll make it unanimous."' Peter handed back the menu which he had not opened.
The waiter hesitated. "I'm not sure about the fried chicken, sir. You might prefer something else."
"Well," Jakubiec said, "now's a fine time to tell us that."
"I can change your order easily, Mr. Jakubiec. Yours too, Mr. Edwards."
Peter asked, "What's wrong with the fried chicken?"
"Maybe I shouldn't have said." The waiter shifted uncomfortably. "Fact is, we've been getting complaints. People don't seem to like it."
Momentarily he turned his head, eyes ranging the busy dining room.
"In that case," Peter told him, "I'm curious to know why. So leave my order the way it is." A shade reluctantly, the others nodded agreement.
When the waiter had gone, Jakubiec asked, "What's this rumor I hear - that our dentists' convention may walk out?"
"Your hearing's good, Sam. This afternoon I'll know whether it remains a rumor." Peter began his soup, which had appeared like magic, then described the lobby fracas of an hour earlier. The faces of the others grew serious as they listened.
Royall Edwards remarked, "It has been my observation on disasters that they seldom occur singly. Judging by our financial results lately - which you gentlemen are aware of - this could merely be one more."
"If it turns out that way," the chief engineer observed, "no doubt the first thing you'll do is lop some more from engineering's budget."
"Either that," the comptroller rejoined, "or eliminate it entirely."
The chief grunted, unamused.
"Maybe we'll all be eliminated," Sam Jakubiec said. "If the O'Keefe crowd takes over." He looked inquiringly at Peter, but Royall Edwards gave a cautioning nod as their waiter returned. The group remained silent as the young man deftly served the comptroller and credit manager while, around them, the hum of the dining room, a subdued clatter of plates and the passage of waiters through the kitchen door, continued.
When the waiter had gone, Jakubiec asked pointedly, "Well, what is the news?"
Peter shook his head. "Don't know a thing, Sam. Except that was dam good soup."
"If you remember," Royall Edwards said, "we recommended it, and I will now offer you some more wellfounded advice - quit while you're ahead." He had been sampling the fried chicken served to himself and Jakubiec a moment earlier. Now he put down his knife and fork. "Another time I suggest we listen more respectfully to our waiter."
Peter asked, "Is it really that bad?"
"I suppose not," the comptroller said. "If you happen to be partial to rancid food."
Dubiously, Jakubiec sampled his own serving as the others watched. At length he informed them: "Put it this way. If I were paying for this meal - I wouldn't."
