"Esther M. Friesner - At These Prices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

At These Prices
by Esther M. Friesner

Esther Friesner’s last story to appear in our pages was “Helen Remembers the
Stork Club” (Oct/Nov. 2005). She kicks off this month’s issue on a light note.
****
The timing could have been better, Bixby thought as he knocked smartly at the
door of one of the Hotel Tiernan’s rooms. Still, this shouldn’t take too long. I’ve
only to inform Ms. Franklin that our other guests have been complaining about
the noise since eight this morning. No doubt she’ll be happy to cooperate.
From the far side of the door came a monstrous squeaking of bedsprings
accompanied by a hostile, exasperated, “Oh, what now?”
Or not. Bixby knocked again, more insistently. This produced “Who is it?”
demanded in a tone of voice that added, GO AWAY!
Going away was not an option, not with the ease of so many other hotel
guests at stake. He knocked a third time and in a crisp, no-nonsense voice
announced, “Management, ma’am!”
“Management?” There was a moment’s hesitation, then: “Come in!”
Bixby paused only long enough to check the pocket mirror he always carried.
The gratifying reflection of a portly, presentable, fiftyish man, round-faced and
ruddy-cheeked, dark of hair and eye, looked back at him. This was no vanity issue.
Hotel Tiernan policy dictated that looks did matter, especially for face-to-face work
with the public. Satisfied that his appearance was a credit to his beloved employer,
Bixby pocketed the mirror, touched his master key into the lock, and entered the
room.
He was immediately confronted by the spectacle of Ms. Bella Franklin, clad in
a tatty blue robe and nightgown, fluffy bunny-slippers on her feet, sprawled prone
across the large, unlatched valise teetering on the bed. It took a mere instant for
Bixby to deduce what was going on. Obviously the lady had been struggling with the
unruly piece of luggage for quite some time, using every trick in the veteran
suitcase-packer’s handbook. Finally she’d pulled out the big guns, holding on tight
and body-slamming it repeatedly, which caused the mattress and box spring beneath
to evoke a torrid bout of romantic rapture. She looked to be in no mood for
uninvited callers, but too bad about that. He had a job to do, and quickly. Time was
passing, and some things couldn’t—daren’t—wait.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “My name is Bixby.” He tapped the silver
name badge pinned to the lapel of his trim gray suit. “There have been four calls to
the front desk concerning the untoward level of noise coming from this room. I am
here to inquire whether I might be of some assistance in resolving matters to the
satisfaction of all our valued guests.”
Bella gasped, all the while keeping her starfished hold on the green valise. “Are
you implying what I think you are?”
“Ma’am?” Bixby raised one impeccable eyebrow.
“You thought I was canoodling! Well, I never!” (Bixby wondered if that were
entirely true.) “You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
“Ma’am, I assure you, I made no such conjecture,” Bixby replied in his most
soothing voice. “I merely came to look into the source of the complaints from—”
“The source happens to be this suitcase,” Bella exclaimed, her drab brown
hair bedraggled, her sallow cheeks dappled with splotches of red as she bounced on
the recalcitrant luggage. “And if this hotel were worth even one tenth the outrageous