Concierge Watson sneers at an unclean traveler and denies him a room at the opulent Grand Lumière Hotel. When the traveler returns looking handsome, Watson knows that his blunder may cost him more than just his job.
Rain battered the Grand Lumière Hotel’s windows, yet the chandeliers in the lobby shone brightly. The weather could never compete with the luxurious mood.
Mr. Watson, the hotel’s concierge, stood straight behind the polished marble reception desk.
His keen eyes surveyed the foyer, ensuring that every detail met the high requirements of the five-star hotel. Nothing seemed out of place… until…
The doors flew open, bringing a gust of wind and a few pelts of rain onto the wooden floors. The bedraggled figure, however, caused Mr. Watson to wrinkle his nose.
A man lurched toward the desk, leaving muddy footprints in his path.
His clothing were drenched through and hung limply on his frame. The concierge could tell he hadn’t washed in days based on his scraggly beard and the stench of wet dog and stale cigarettes.
Mr. Watson’s nose furrowed more. “May I help you?” he said, his tone clipped and cold.
The man looked up. “Please,” he said faintly, “I need a room for the night. My car broke down a few miles back, and I’ve been walking in this downpour for hours.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, sir,” Mr. Watson shook his head. “We have no vacancies at the moment.”
“But surely there must be something. I can pay whatever the rate is. I just need a place to sleep and dry off.”
“As I said,” Mr. Watson repeated, his lip curling, “we have no rooms available for someone in your… condition. Perhaps you might try the motel down by the highway. I’m sure their standards would be more… accommodating.”
The man’s face dropped, and his shoulders sank. But for a brief moment, wrath flashed across his eyes. “I see,” he replied calmly. “Thank you for your time.”
He turned and trudged back to the entrance.
Mr. Watson watched him leave before calling for a bellhop. “Call maintenance to clean this up,” he said, gesturing to the muddy footprints. “We can’t have the lobby looking like a pigsty.”
As the young bellhop raced to comply, Mr. Watson smiled, pleased to have kept that filthy man away from his hotel.
But his actions would eventually come back to haunt him.
An hour later, the lobby doors opened once more. Mr. Watson looked up, prepared to greet another guest with his practiced smile.
To his amazement, a well-dressed man walked confidently to the desk. His outfit was perfectly fitted, his shoes had a mirror-like brilliance, and his salt-and-pepper hair was nicely styled.
It took Mr. Watson a moment to recognize the face under the neatly groomed beard. His eyes widened with surprise when he realized it was the same man he had turned away earlier.
The man approached the desk, a faint smile on his lips. “Good evening,” he said calmly. “I’d like a room for the night, please.”
Mr. Watson gulped hard. “Of course, sir,” he finally said. “May I ask what happened to… your previous attire?”
“Ah, yes,” the man chuckled. “I found a truck stop down the road with showers and a small clothing shop. Amazing what a little soap and a clean suit can do, isn’t it?”
Mr. Watson nodded stiffly, looked aside, and tapped on his computer to find a vacant room. “We have a standard room on the third floor,” he told me.
“That will do nicely,” the man replied.
As Mr. Watson processed the reservation, he couldn’t help but comment, “I must admit, sir, you clean up rather well. “It’s like night and day.”
“Yes, well, appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?”
Mr. Watson handed him the key card, nodding and pursing his lips. “Indeed they can. Enjoy your stay, Mr…?”
“Bloomington,” the man supplied. “Thank you, I’m sure I will.”
Mr. Bloomington went away, while Mr. Watson observed. He felt a constriction in his chest and couldn’t explain it. As if he’d made a mistake.
But he refused to apologize. His job was to maintain the hotel’s cleanliness, status, and reputation, therefore all of their guests had to look the part.
Throughout Mr. Bloomington’s stay, Mr. Watson makes an effort to avoid him. When compelled to interact, he was abrupt and contemptuous.
On the third day of Mr. Bloomington’s stay, Mr. Watson was in charge of the hotel’s exquisite dining room for breakfast.
He proceeded from table to table, ensuring that each visitor was happy with their meal and experience. As he approached Mr. Bloomington’s table, he overheard a conversation that made his blood turn cold.
“Yes, that’s right,” Mr. Bloomington said into his phone. I’ve been here for three days now, observing operations incognito. I think I’ve seen enough to make some necessary changes.”
Mr. Watson froze. Incognito? Changes? Who exactly was Mr. Bloomington?
Mr. Bloomington looked up, as if sensing his presence, and met Mr. Watson’s astonished expression. He smiled, but his eyes lacked warmth.
“Ah, Mr. Watson,” he said smoothly. “Just the man I wanted to see. Would you join me for a moment?”
His heart started beating at the request. It was spoken with such authority that his chest tightened and a flash of intuition entered his mind.
Was Mr. Bloomington more important than the concierge thought?
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