“I do not require chambermaid service today,” he says, then he slams the door.
Same thing happens twice more. ’Tis as Mrs. Evans warned. Our guests stumble through the hotel, pale as the dead. The Crash has gutted so many, and ’tis painful to see their grief. While I’m cleaning, I fill my eyes with headlines from newspapers tossed in the garbage, and I’m near knocked over by what I read. ’Tisn’t only happening in Toronto. Not even just Canada. Seems this Crash has torn the whole world apart.
SELLING AVALANCHE TOPPLES MARKET PRICES, Toronto’sEvening Telegramsays.
MILLIONS IN PAPER PROFITS ARE SWEPT AWAY AS PRICES CRASH, says theManitoba Free Press.
SELLING PANIC WRECKS STOCK EXCHANGE: NEW YORK FRENZIED, shoutsThe Pittsburgh Press.
I see another,The Klamath News. I have no idea where that is, but its message is unbelievable:STOCKS LOSE 10 BILLION IN A DAY.
Mother of God. I have never heard of a “billion.” I’d no idea that number existed, let alone ten of them.
I’m frightened to go to Mr. Carboni’s suite, since I’ve no idea how he’ll be.
I’ll tell you this much. I did not expect to see him jolly.
“Miss Ryan!” he sings from the suite’s washroom. I hear bathwater sloshing when he moves. Dear Lord. Isn’t he calling to me from his bath.
“Yes, sir,” I call back, but I do not take a step closer. Sure, and I’m braced to flee.
“Come and have some champagne with me, Rosie! These bubbles are much more fun with company.”
I blink. Champagne? He’s celebrating? Well now, doesn’t it all make sense. That black book with all the buying and selling to beat the band. Seems Mrs. Evans was right, saying the man knew a lot of things about a lot of things. From the delight in his voice, it appears Mr. Carboni knew the Crash was coming, and he’d taken good care of himself before it happened.
“Thank you, sir, but no. I will come back later.”
’Tis a lie. I will not go back later that day. The hotel feels upside down.The flashy guests who spent evenings in the piano bar, waving martinis and sparkling with diamonds, they’re all curled up like beaten dogs or hidden in their rooms. Folks like me who never had much to lose, we’re walking around on eggshells, aren’t we? At the end of my day, I escape out the staff door, quick as a rabbit. I cannot get home quick enough.
Soon as I’m outside, though, don’t I hear Damien laughing. I peek around the corner, and he’s on his way out, tossing a word back over his shoulder. He walks like a cock of the block, so confident, like. His cheeks are pink with good health. Never mind the Crash. All my thoughts fly to Damien. How I adore this man.
He grins when he sees me. “Ah, my lovely Rosie. You’re looking fierce well. How’s your day?”
“Strange. Damien, tell me plain. Did you lose money today?”
His arm curls around my waist, and we start walking home. “I did not.”
“But you bought stocks!”
“You recall when I saw you in the hall and I was going to see Mr. Carboni? ’Twas a great talk we had, to be sure. He was in a grand mood. He told me to cash out my stocks and tell the other lads to do it as well. And didn’t I do just that.” He grins at me. “I got every penny back and then some.”
chapterTWENTY–NINE
Everything feels different as Damien and I walk to work the next day. The street’s clear of cars, and any faces I see are grim. How long before the world goes back to normal? Listen now, the truth is I’ve lost nothing, but the grief in the air is a wet wool blanket I can’t take off. I think of the little box of coins under my bed and am glad, for once, that I am poor. When you’re poor, you’ve got less to lose.
When Damien and I reach the hotel, we slow, bewildered. Police cars are parked all across the front entrance. My stomach rolls with nerves.
“What’s happening now?” I ask.
Damien’s taking in the sight, concerned. “They say folks are jumping off buildings and the like. They’ve lost it all, so they’ve nothing to live for. For God’s sake, I hope no one jumped here.”
Stan loiters in the doorway, and he brightens when he sees us. When we are almost to the staff entrance, he hops down the stairs to greet us.
“What in God’s name is happening here?” Damien asks.
“There’s been a murder in the hotel,” he whispers, trying to hide his glee at being the first to tell us.
“What?!” we exclaim together. “Who?”
