tales of the hotel st crispian, chapter 10: "Olaf, or Fifty Million Frenchmen"

by Horace P.Sternwall

edited by Dan Leo*

illustrated by rhoda penmarq and roy dismas

*Ass’t Professor of Classics, Phys. Ed., and Civics, Olney Community College; editor of The World Is My Oyster: The Memoirs of Horace P. Sternwall, Vol. 1.

Carol knew she was being foolish, but, no matter, she couldn’t go back to Estelle’s, she would rather die, simply die. She went up the steps of the Hotel St Crispian. An aged doorman opened the door for her. “Good evening, Miss.” “What?” I said, ‘Good evening, miss.’” “Oh. Yes. Quite. Tell me, sir -- may I ask you a personal question.” “I am an open book, ma’am.” “Have you been working here long?” “I have had the honor of working at the St Crispian for -- oh, my, let me just do the maths for a moment --” “Take your time.” “Minus nine -- um, let me see, that would make it thirty-, no, forty-, forty-one years. Yes, forty one-years this autumn.” “Oh my, that is a long time.” “A lifetime, madame. But a rich lifetime.” “I admire your attitude.” “My attitude?” “Your outlook, shall we say.” “Oh. Yes. My -- my Weltanschauung.” “Yeah. I would go mad if I had your job.” “Perhaps I have gone mad.” “Yes, perhaps. But let me ask you since you’ve been working here so long, do you happen to know a man named Stanley Slade?”

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