Forsyte's Retreat — Story, Setting & Ideas

There was a brief silence, then: "In the first place _I am_ your service manager, or all you got at the present. In the second damned place, you tell me where I can lay my hands on ten more boys before you go canning any more. I'm rehiring Jerry as of now!" He banged the receiver in Sextus' ear.

Unperturbed, Sextus finished his shower, dressed in a lighter weight suit and picked up the phone. The house switchboard apparently was jammed. It took a full minute to get an operator. "Forsyte here. Your new manager, that is. Instruct all department heads to be in my office in seven minutes. General conference."

Another short nip at the bottle served nicely to quiet a small hunger pang. He went in search of his office. He found it on the mezzanine, suitably lavish, clean and well-furnished.

He adjusted the fragrant carnation on his lapel in the large wall mirror, not entirely displeased with what it reflected. Except for the suitcase wrinkles in his morning coat, he should pass inspection. His thinning hair, square jaw and wide-set eyes radiated a quiet dignity. The slight pink of his cheeks and nose was a bit more prominent than he liked. He should have had some breakfast.

The phone rang and he let it. He was not yet ready to assume his duties. But as time passed and none of his staff appeared, the ring became more significant. He gave in.

"Sorry, Mr. Forsyte," it was the operator, "but none of your staff can join you just now. They send their regrets."

"Regrets?" Sextus said icily. "Did you explain who called this meeting, young lady?"

Her voice dropped the synthetic sweetness and became a throaty rasp. "Look, Buster, we're short-handed enough without you should call meetings at eleven A. M. Plug the hole in your head. It's suckin' air." He broke the connection. The place was busy, he'd grant, but this was rank insubordination. His whole staff! Everyone seemed keyed to the _boingg!_ point.

He decided to mull it over breakfast. The spacious, well-appointed coffee-shop served his juice gelid and his coffee hot, his egg tender and his toast crisp. The bit of tension vanished as he ate with relish. He signed the check with his tight, little introverted signature.

Now for a quick inspection tour to see just how rough things really were. He told the boy on the service elevator, "To the bottom." His stomach writhed as the cage plummeted four floors below the street level. The kitchens, laundry, warehouse, baggage-room, switchboard room, ice-plant and personnel spaces sprawled through an acre of underground levels. They boiled with sweating men and dishevelled women engaged in the intricate business of housing, feeding, clothing, liquoring and catering to a small city under one roof. Then he remembered how small the quarters were upstairs.

How could they _house_ enough guests to justify all this?

Returning to his office he called the employment bureau. "Mr. Crowson? Forsyte here! I'm at the hotel."

"Oh dear, what's wrong now?"

"You didn't tell me to whom I should report. This, ah, is my first experience with employment agencies. Usually there is a board of directors."

"Is that all?" Crowson sighed audibly. "You are in full charge, I assure you. Our little interview was quite satisfactory. I have certified you to your bookkeeping department, and you may draw upon your salary after a week. Anything else?"

"Where may I reach the owner or the chairman in an emergency?"

"The owner is a Dr. Bradford who is in Hanford, Washington. Top secret government work. He may not be contacted until he returns. Sorry, that's all I can tell you. Getting on all right, Mr. Forsyte?" he asked with obvious reluctance.

Sextus cut off. Two lights on the intercom were blinking at him. One call was from the kitchen. The first chef had just heaved a cleaver at the steward, and the head salad girl was in hysterics.

Sextus said he'd be right down. The second call was from the chief house-detective. He had caught a bell-hop peddling marijuana to the waitresses. What was the manager's new policy? Sextus told him to hold the boy in the locker room for him. Then one of the room clerks rang to say that Gary Gable, the movie star, was raising hell in the lobby because he couldn't get the bridal suite and demanded to see the manager.

Sextus smiled. These things were the routine of running a large hotel. He stopped at the bar for a quick one and then started for the kitchen.